Jim and Blair belong to PetFly and I'm not making money with them.

Eternal gratitude and kudos to out to Pumpkin, Destina Fortunato, Lapis Lazuli, Keelywolfe, Cedara, Graculus, April Valentine, BlackRose, LadyBD, Sheltie, Aaboe, Legion, AMD, and many others for consultation, support, and other assistance above and beyond the call of duty.
Previously published in *Warriors* by In Person Press.

Regarding the interior workings of Hoover Dam: research resources on the topic are astonishingly limited. In that and in other cases where I've been unable to verify details without taking expensive vacations, I've been forced to fall back on artistic license of the sort that dictates that Vancouver can be located at Seattle and called Cascade. To paraphrase MST3K, "If you're wondering 'bout the Hoover Dam and other science facts, repeat to yourself it's just a fic; I should really just relax."

"Sandburg, will you drop it already?" Jim Ellison snatched off the opaque goggles his partner had put on him. Underneath them he was wearing his most mulish look, the one he reserved for special occasions when he was determined to get his way: like Simon telling him to drop a case for lack of evidence, or his dad giving him grief. Or... well, any time Blair wanted his cooperation for empirical tests, like right now.

Blair pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose with an unconscious sigh, dropping his notebook and tossing his pen down on it with a frustrated snap of his wrist. There was nothing more frustrating than James Joseph Ellison in one of his obstinate moods. "Jim, we've been through this a thousand times, man. These tests don't just benefit me; they aren't some abstract thing that you never get anything out of. If it weren't for things like this, you'd have, like, zero control of your senses, you realize that?"

Jim set his chin stubbornly and Blair could see he wasn't getting anywhere. Picking up his pen, he rapped it against the tabletop irritably. "I designed this battery especially to hone your control, to challenge your limits and maybe extend them..." every word bounced right back at him off the Ellison Wall. "Never mind, whatever, you're the boss. Wanna go home? Let's just go home." Blair sighed and squirmed out of his borrowed lab coat, hanging it on its hook, and dragged his pack out from under the table. Sometimes it was hard to remember why he put up with the man, and even harder to remember why he cared so much for him.

Jim looked insufferably smug, carelessly discarding his goggles. They bounced once on the formica tabletop and Blair grimaced ruefully, glad they only cost him ten bucks and a good thick coat of black spray paint over the lenses. He scooped them up and stuffed them into his pack, hanging it off one elbow, then zipped and shouldered it. "Why do you hate this so much, Jim? Is it the clinical atmosphere? The measurements? The fact that I'm gonna use these results in my paper? Do the tests hurt? What?"

"Nah, they don't hurt, at least they didn't this time." Jim gave Blair a triumphant smirk. Jesus. Ellison was never going to let him forget that soured milk. Blair rolled his eyes.

"It's boring, Chief," Jim explained easily. "Can't you think of better things to do on a summer afternoon?"

"Well, yeah, about a thousand, but come on, Jim. This is important." Blair gestured emphatically, pointing finger nearly stabbing Jim's chest. "I want to see how much you've developed in the last few months. You've got to stay honed, keep things pushed to their limits and still be able to muster the control you need. When..." Blair hesitated for a moment, aware that the topic he was about to bring up was still a touchy one. "When Alex challenged you, you needed every edge you could get. She caught you flat-footed a few times, man. She knew what you could do and she used your abilities against you."

"We aren't going to run into Alex Barnes again." Jim's voice was abrupt, too curt, a sure-fire indicator that Blair was poking at a sore spot.

"Yeah, right." Blair had sore spots of his own regarding Alex, and no sympathy whatsoever for Jim's discomfort on the topic. He paused, giving Jim a momentary illusion of victory, then changed tracks. He was ready to press his point relentlessly even though Jim gave no indication of being receptive to it. "But what if another Sentinel shows up? Or somebody else who figures out what you can do? Even the Switchman jerked your chain, hiding bombs with patchouli oil and toxic gas next to them... Taggart and Carolyn thought they were to throw off the dogs with the demolitions team, but we both know she knew she could use your senses to manipulate you, Jim." His voice vibrated with sincere stress, but Jim was closed down, eyes forward, walking with that deceptively easy feline stride that Blair very nearly had to trot to match.

He fell silent, hitching his pack up as it threatened to slide down his shoulder, losing several inches' ground to Jim's determined walk. He let Jim keep the slight lead, staring speculatively at the back of his friend's head. Shit, Sandburg chided himself. I'm supposed to be the fucking anthropologist, here... the one who can figure out a cultural paradigm and fit myself into it, but I've been beating my head against his macho jerk routine instead of adapting myself to it....

Adapting himself to Jim instead of expecting him to be reasonable. It wasn't a half-bad idea. If you manipulate him, he will come. Blair smirked a little. Nothing nasty, of course, but he wasn't getting anywhere playing things absolutely straight with his partner. So why not make things easier on both of them? He'd been doing this the wrong way all along. What Jim needed was a challenge, a different environment, a whole new vibe.

"You know, I've got an idea." Blair felt the energetic spring return to his steps as he took a half-skip to catch up with Jim again. "I think you're gonna like it..."

Lee Brackett thumbed the controls of the directional microphone he held and dropped it in the seat next to him. Sandburg was babbling a mile a minute as he and Ellison left the fusty old laboratory building where they'd been conducting their experiments; the former CIA operative took one look at his expression and stifled a smirk. Always on the make, that one, convinced he was right and determined to have his way no matter what he wanted. To an objective observer he was something of an open book, totally focused on making Ellison toe the line. Brackett could sympathize with most of his methods, if not with all of his motives: Sandburg wanted Ellison so bad he could taste it. Lee had been able to tell that the first time he ever saw them together.

Ellison himself was a different matter; it took a while to learn how to tell what he really thought, especially if all you could do was listen to him. In keeping with the conversation Brackett had just overheard, he looked stubborn and inflexible, but there were a few dead giveaways. At the moment his expression and body language were at odds with his actions. For one thing, he'd shortened his stride enough that Sandburg could keep up. More incriminating, he was clearly listening in spite of himself, the subtle tilt of his head giving him away. He was whipped; the little fag still had him hooked through the bag and back. Brackett's lips curled for a moment in a contemptuous smirk.

He disciplined himself immediately, adjusting his sunglasses and schooling his expression to a bored forward stare. His eavesdropping had revealed that Ellison wasn't cooperating with any of Sandburg's experiments, but in spite of that Brackett knew he was alert, his heightened senses on a hair trigger. Getting spotted would end this little game real fast. He could read Blair's lips now anyway; he didn't need the microphone anymore.

He covered his mouth with his palm, seeming to lounge lazily in his nondescript beat-up green sedan. Just another bearded, scruffy, long-haired academic waiting for someone in the parking lot. Yeah. Nothing like the cool, tailored CIA agent they once knew. His palm covered a humorless, bitter grin. One of Ellison's astounding number of serious weaknesses was his overconfidence in the system. Even Federal prison hadn't been an insurmountable obstacle; a few favors called in, a bribe or two, some sly legal maneuvering, and Brackett had managed to get back out on the street in just under two years.

He had enough influence to reactivate a few of his old connections, but he needed capital in a hurry or his clout wouldn't last. So perforce, he had to pick up right where he left off-- only this time he had an extra item on his agenda.

His mirrored shades pointing away from them at an unchanging oblique angle, his hidden eyes nevertheless followed the two men, noting their closeness as they walked down the concrete sidewalk with their elbows bumping casually. They would come into earshot soon, and he catalogued their words automatically, memorizing them as they were spoken.

"...That way we both benefit. You use your senses against a fully aware, fully challenging opponent, and we see if I can stand up against the Covert Ops stuff. If I can evade you, nobody else would have a chance to catch me, right?"

That sounded intriguing. He watched sharply, not willing to miss a word.

"I dunno, Chief." Ellison looked intrigued in spite of his pessimistic words. "It sounds pretty far-out. Expensive, too."

"I can justify it as research expenses. My grant will cover it." Sandburg fairly bounced with excitement.

"So you'll take a head start and run, and I'll try to catch you?" Ellison casually laid his palm against the small of Sandburg's back to guide him around the fender of a car, squinting thoughtfully against the sun as the two men approached his pickup. Brackett could hear them now through his open window and was glad of it as the changing angle hid their faces.

"I'll use every technique I can think of to confuse and elude your senses," Blair elaborated enthusiastically. "And if you don't catch me after a week, I win."

"And if you win, I wind up on my ass back in that lab until you say I can go." Ellison sounded amused as he removed his possessive hand from Blair and they parted to enter separate sides of the truck.

"You got that right." Blair laughed, pleased.

"And if I win, no tests till the New Year."

"That's over six months! Aw, come on, not that long..." They scrambled into the truck together but Brackett didn't bother to follow as they pulled out of the parking lot. He'd seen and heard all he needed; Sandburg's foolish idea would tie in brilliantly with his plans. He'd just have to make a few extra arrangements.

He felt his mouth curl in a smirk of contempt. If Ellison's faith in the system was a serious weakness, his feelings for Sandburg were catastrophic. Things hadn't changed a bit on that front. They were thick as thieves, moving in and out of each other's personal space with ease, but with just enough restraint to reveal that they weren't quite lovers. No, they weren't as close as he'd expected them to be after all this time, but they were close enough. He could be sure Ellison would take the bait-- clearly the detective's feelings for his little hippie partner had only strengthened over time.

He shook his head, simultaneously amused and disgusted. You'd think after two years he'd work up enough balls to take the plunge. If he was half the detective he thinks he is, he'd see Sandburg wants it. Still, the distance that remained between them was convenient. Maybe he could exploit it and turn it to his advantage.

Brackett started the sedan and propped his elbow on the open window, cruising out of the parking lot casually and heading away from Prospect Street. They'd still be complacent since he hadn't taken the risk of revealing that someone was following them. After he made a couple of important calls to set his new arrangements in motion, he'd station himself in an alley across the street from their apartment and listen for more details of Sandburg's hare-brained scheme.

After two whole days spent on an exhilarated adrenaline high, Blair had to admit it: his idea was as stimulating to him as it was to Jim. Just the thought of taking such an active project into the field excited him, and he'd already spent hours making careful plans and defining the parameters of what he was and wasn't willing to do in order to evade Jim's pursuit. He didn't want to resort to anything that would physically harm Jim, though he supposed it would be necessary to cause his partner some discomfort if Jim caught up with him.

He shut his notebook, folded his legs into the lotus position, and closed his eyes to picture the chase. He could almost feel the heart-thumping rush of fear-based endorphins already. He shivered, titillated by the image of Jim pursuing him. Jim would be inexorable and determined and totally focused on catching his quarry, on capturing Blair-- God.

Blair licked his lips without realizing it, shifting slightly, enjoying the feel of his clothing moving over adrenaline-sensitized skin. There was something innately sexual about the chase of quarry; certain primitive tribes even incorporated symbolic pursuit into courtship and marriage rituals. Additionally, masculine status in a tribe often hinged on relative performance in the hunt, with the best hunters being regarded as the most desirable mates. Blair wondered momentarily who would prevail in this chase, then a wry smile tilted the corner of his lips. An ex-Army Ranger Captain and Covert Ops specialist with five superhuman senses versus an everyday run-of-the-mill hippie academic?

No contest, man.

That didn't bother Blair unduly; he wasn't so caught up in the need to be an alpha male that he couldn't appreciate the alternative. He opened his eyes just a slit, watching Jim clandestinely. The Sentinel moved with careless, predatory grace even as he puttered around the kitchen frying hamburgers and setting out salad.

Blair closed his eyes over the stolen peek. As wonderful as the idea of being chased was, it all paled beside his anticipation of being caught. He shivered with delight as he imagined the rush that would go through him when he was symbolically taken. He wouldn't say no to Jim's hard hand closing around his wrist unexpectedly in an airport. A flying tackle on the beach would be good. Handcuffs in a hotel room had a definite attraction. And it was all in the line of duty, almost completely above-board. Except...

Except that these feelings didn't belong in an academic experiment, and they sure as hell didn't belong in his relationship with his best friend. Jim had never given even the vaguest hint that they might be returned.

Blair sighed, familiar with every twist and turn of the long slide down into guilt and every torturous step back up into the land of denial and resolve. Neither guilt nor denial was helpful. He felt what he felt, that was all. Denying himself the experience of his emotions had proven pointless time after time. It was better to accept his feelings, experience them, and channel them into useful activity, always taking care to keep them concealed from Jim with a clever mixture of hidden and overt expression.

A poker face was a must. At least he'd managed that much today. He could certainly look at Jim on a regular basis with impunity, sometimes even when Jim was mostly unclothed, but things like stealing glimpses of a fully-clad Jim through his lashes were definitely contraindicated. That would set Jim's radar off in a hurry-- almost as fast as a combined and unexplainable respiratory/pheromone spike from being stupid enough to fantasize about him while they were both in the same room. Blair sighed.

He opened his eyes again, looking at his partner openly this time, and found himself wondering how much Jim actually picked up with his senses as he worked in the hot kitchen. They rarely needed air-conditioning in Cascade, but this was a particularly warm early summer day. Blair imagined that Jim could feel every subtle current from the blades of the exhaust fan pulling air over his body.

The Sentinel could probably perceive the scent of Blair's perspiration carried on that same air, could overhear his Guide's breathing and the circulation of his blood if he wanted, picked out against a billion noises of the city. He probably wouldn't be analyzing his surroundings for meaning, though. More likely Jim was preoccupied with the snap of meat frying, the chill of the refrigerator lingering around the salad as his arm passed over the bowl, or the sight of the knife and the bun he held in his hands. Instead of listening to Blair, he would be tuned in to the soft whisper of a golf tournament playing in the background on the nearly-silent TV.

By this time three days from now, their vacation time would have begun. Jim would be extending his every sense, as well as his formidable training and not inconsiderable intellect, to search for traces of Blair. No matter how guilty he might feel, Blair was determined to enjoy being the target of Jim's complete focus for as long as it lasted. It was going to be a challenge to make the chase last long enough to savor it, but Blair had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"Lunch is almost ready, Chief."

"Thanks, man." Blair levered himself up gracefully, leaving the lotus position with a single smooth unfolding motion. "I'm starved." He moved past Jim to take plates out of the cupboard, casually careful not to let their bodies touch in the confined space. Jim leaned past him to extract a glass from the cabinet over his shoulder, broad chest brushing Blair's back. So much for being circumspect. His back still turned to Jim, Blair smiled secretly. As long as he kept things hidden well enough that Jim didn't think it was necessary to avoid touching him, life was just fine.

They sat down at the table and dug in, several moments passing in companionable quiet. "So how much of a head start are you going to need?" Ellison finally asked around a mouthful of burger and bun.

The secretive smile escaped again, this time in Jim's view, but it had a lot of potential alternative explanations now so Blair didn't squash it. Jim's looking forward to this, too.

"Oh, I don't know. I was thinking half a day." Actually Blair had already begun his preparations, though he wasn't about to let Jim know that. Jim was supposed to start from scratch the moment he began pursuing Blair.

"Is that all?" Jim's voice warmed to tease him. "Don't you want a whole twenty-four hours?"

Blair grinned at Jim. "Pretty self-confident, aren't you?"

Jim tilted his head, amused, letting his obvious estimate of the situation speak for itself. "I've been fishing for a lot of years, Chief. I've caught plenty of guppies, some nice trout, and a few great big channel cats." His face was solemn, but his eyes practically danced with merriment.

Blair laughed and took a big bite of his salad. He liked things when they were like this. It gave him hope and strength to last through the times when Jim closed down and locked him out behind a shield of cold anger. That happened all too often, usually due to some out-of-proportion misunderstanding or because he was transferring negative emotions onto Blair from some other source. "Just as long as you don't throw me back or something." Blair concluded, and his inner sense of appropriate conversation and dangerous ground dinged an automatic warning. He shifted the conversation deftly. "A guppy can hide where a big fish can't," he warned cheerfully.

"I'm not gonna throw a prize guppy back when I've got him on my line." Jim seemed relaxed, mellow good humor still shining in his eyes. "And there is no guppy that's gonna keep hiding when I offer him the right bait."

"Is that so?" Keep the tone light, Sandburg, breathe, and NO double entendres about worms! "You're gonna have to come up with something pretty tempting to outweigh getting to test you to my heart's content with no complaints allowed." He wiped his mouth and took a sip of his iced tea.

Jim chuckled low in his chest, completely casual, apparently oblivious to the trajectory of Blair's mind: a serious southward dive toward Innuendo Gutter. "I'll dangle just enough to make you pause till the net comes down. Boom!" His palm smacked the tabletop. "Then your ass is mine, Sandburg."

Blair busied himself with another large mouthful of chewy greens, glad of the excuse to bolster his composure before responding. Yeah. It is, if you want it. "Pride goeth before a fall, and a haughty spirit before destruction," he misquoted archly, still teasing.

Jim snorted amiably and took a few minutes to concentrate on his juicy hamburger. His preoccupation left Blair an interlude of silence, and he used it to wonder for the umpteenth time if his roommate was aware that once again, a casual conversation between them had drifted into something... well, something pretty damned close to flirting. That thought stirred up the devil in him, and he spoke without thinking.

"Besides, if it's ass you want, I'm a pretty scrawny piece. Maybe you oughtta get out on the harbor and start trolling for sharks or something instead of trying your fly in my little stream." His accurate but tardy internal warning system shot straight up to the equivalent of a whooping siren. Jesus Christ, what the hell am I saying? Blair braced for the onset of World War III without the benefit of a fallout bunker. He made himself raise calm, humor-filled eyes to Ellison's face as though he'd said nothing out of the ordinary.

"But it's guppy season." Jim's response was immediate, deadpan, and maddeningly reasonable, sidestepping the 'ass' comment entirely and clinging to the firmer ground of the earlier joke. His inscrutable, level look didn't match his words or his tone and it lasted perhaps a fraction of a second longer than it should. Then he abruptly burst into nervous laughter, looking away as though the television had distracted him. "Smart-ass," he accused Blair, still chuckling. "I think it's time we upped the ante. Every hour you stay ahead of me translates into a day that you dont have to take your turn washing dishes."

"I say every hour equals a week!" Blair bantered, almost collapsing with relief at the change of subject.

"I'm not that confident," Jim laughed. "But if you keep ahead of me for the whole week, you get a free year." Something about Jim's voice was not quite right; there was a faint note of strain lingering there in the aftermath of Blair's wisecrack.

"Deal!" Ignoring the undercurrent of tension between them, they shook on the bargain. Jim squeezed Blair's hand a bit tighter than was strictly necessary and Blair gave back as good as he got.

"You're going down, guppy-boy." With that triumphant prediction, Jim left Blair to deal with the dishes and settled himself in front of ESPN, muttering an occasional comment on a particularly good-- or bad-- shot.

Blair took his time with the chore, scrubbing the iron skillet with half-hearted strokes, his nervousness flowing out of him slowly. Jim was still amiable and the world hadn't caved in; Blair's foolhardy remark was slowly falling behind them, being buried under drifting leaves of conversation.

"That Tiger Woods is something else," Jim commented with a touch of envy, his voice completely relaxed again, and just that easily Blair's world popped back into place and everything was normal.

"Yeah, he sure is." Leaving the pan to soak, Blair put the last glass in the cabinet and moved to join his partner on the couch, admiring the instant replay.

It was only later that night that Blair finally let himself dissect their conversation and examine its pieces. They'd been flirting, so of course his play-by-play wound up with him lying in bed clutching his erection in his fist.

This was downtime, this was his time, this was his room, and regardless of Jim's Sentinel senses, Blair had always done and thought what he liked while he was in here behind closed doors. For all Jim knew he spent his palm-time fantasizing about Elle MacPherson or Cindy Crawford or Shania Twain or heck, maybe Drew Barrymore if Jim had him figured for an interest in jail-bait. If Jim ever presumed to listen to him at all. Blair usually didn't let himself think about that very hard.

Guppy season. It made a good joke, had it been delivered like one. But Jim's eyes had been dead serious. No Daffy Duck or Bugs Bunny reference to it at all, man. Still, it was probably just a reference to the game they had planned, that was it, nothing to do with his own stupid comment about Jim hunting himself a piece of ass. Guppy hunting season was soon to be opened exclusively for Sentinels in Cascade, after all.

But if it wasn't just the game... if only he had the courage... the fantasy that appeared behind his closed eyelids as he resettled his palm around the root of his erection was one that he'd already played out in a thousand variations.

Blair shed his clothing slowly, exposing his skin to the hot moonlit night. Naked and savoring the peculiar freedom of it, he brushed his hair until it stood out from his face in an electric, crackling mass, then wet the brush and brushed it again. He crunched it between his fingers, tamed it into ringlets, and let it hang heavy and cool against his neck and shoulders. The air was jungle-humid and oppressive, hanging still with a portent of faraway thunder.

He opened the French door, palm sweaty on the knob, and ghosted into the silent living room, avoiding the lake of brightness from the window. Pausing for a moment, he gazed out across the quiet vista of the city. His things lay in their places, mingled with Jim's, scattered throughout the room. All was as it should be, and he set his foot on the stair with a shiver of confidence and anticipation. He could feel the temperature of the air rising as he approached the higher level, and knew that Jim would be lying awake and naked in his bed, magnificent body bathed in the subtle glow from both skyline and skylight.

Jim's gaze was waiting for him as his head rose above the level of the floor, the Sentinel's wrist placed on his forehead as though he had been lying with his arm covering his eyes and then moved it just to watch Blair's approach. His chiseled features remained still as Blair took the last step, his expression expectant.

"Is it still guppy season?" Blair knew the answer before it came, stepping forward toward the edge of the wide bed, feeling a slight rush of vertigo from the nearness of the drop down into the living area and from the sight of Jim's massive erection. Heavy and thick and curved slightly, it lay against his washboard belly, ready and inviting Blair's touch.

"It's always guppy season, Chief." Jim's arm slid to his side and then lifted, beckoning him, reeling him in. Blair put a shaky knee on the bed and sank into Jim's arms willingly. Jim's hand slid behind his head and dragged him down into the incomparable wildness of a savage kiss, and then Jim rolled on top of him, drowning Blair in masculine hardness and sexual heat....

Blair came hard, barely biting back a shout, catching most of the mess in his palm. Usually he made it through a lengthy fantasy of penetration and mutual orgasm. However, the thread of reality underlying this one had boosted his arousal prematurely, catching him delightfully by surprise, much as he frequently yearned for Jim to do.

As he reached for tissues, he heard the creak of bedsprings and the faint groan of floorboards from upstairs. Jim was tossing, restless, and he had a strong suspicion he'd been overheard. There was no way for Jim to see inside his head and know who was the featured entertainment for the evening, so to hell with it. Tossing the wad of slimy tissues into his trash can, Blair lay back and resumed his fantasies defiantly. Something a little different this time...

Blair had been running for five days so far, and Jim was hot on his heels. He knew it, but he'd done without sleep for three of those five days and he had to risk some rest or he wasn't going to stay ahead of his Sentinel for much longer anyway. His eyes sank shut as soon as he flopped onto the pillow in the cheap, shabby hotel room, body going lax immediately. He didn't hear the door that opened an hour later or sense the presence crossing the room to stand at his bedside.

The quiet snick of steel cuffs was the first thing to penetrate the deep fog of REM sleep, and he struggled toward consciousness dully, half-panicked, feeling Jim's hard palm cover his mouth. "Game's over, Chief. You lose...." His eyes opened and he tried to move only to discover that his wrists were cuffed to the headboard. Jim's weight sank onto him, strong and dominant, his hardness pushing at Blair through the twin barrier of their jeans. Without pausing for permission or doubts, the Sentinel claimed what he'd captured, his tongue finding Blair's mouth and stabbing into him possessively, making him moan aloud.

He melted, all resistance gone, and let Jim devour him. Jim's clever hands opened his shirt to bare his chest, explored him briefly, then unbuttoned his jeans and delved inside. Jim pumped him hard once and then skinned jeans and underwear and shoes and socks off his body in an almost brutal series of motions, leaving only the shirt. Jim smiled wickedly, a predatory display of teeth, and opened his own fly. He pulled out his hard cock, deliberately letting Blair watch him as he readied himself without ever shedding a stitch of what he wore, not even the black leather jacket that Blair liked so much.

Blair moaned with pure lust and Jim reached for him, flipping him onto his belly and pushing his thighs apart. He could feel the cool smooth flaps of the leather jacket brushing his ass and the rough texture of denim covering the legs that held his own thighs pressed apart. Hard fingers probed him, slick with oil, then Jim's cock slammed all the way into him, grinding his hips violently into the mattress. Jim's searching fingertip threaded into his nipple ring and tugged it simultaneously. Blair arched and screamed, orgasm gushing forth in a fierce, blissful explosion....

Blair's eyes fluttered open; he pulled his fingers out of himself and let go of his nipple ring, breathing hard. He wasn't quite sure whether he'd managed to keep quiet that time. After the earlier noise and movement, the absolute silence that now emanated from above meant that he probably hadn't; without a doubt Jim was up there pretending to be asleep in order to spare Blair the embarrassment of knowing he'd been overheard.

He wondered wickedly whether his cry had aroused Jim and whether his roommate had extended his senses to indulge in Blair's scent and his breathing. Maybe Jim would take the cue and indulge in a few fantasies of his own. In a best-case scenario, Jim might even fantasize about him... this time Blair took himself in his fist with a deliberate deep sigh. His erection had completely flagged; this next one was going to take some time. If Jim was listening, he was in for a good show.

After seven days, one hour, and sixteen minutes on the run, Blair felt triumphant and dirty and ragged and exhausted to the point of giddiness and he didn't have to do the dishes for a whole year. Even better, Jim was stuck doing whatever tests he could dream up, and man, he was going to make the best of that. He booked the hotel room in his own name, using his own credit card-- as if Jim would need that kind of paper trail now that Blair wasn't running any longer. As an afterthought, he listed Ellison's name as an occupant and told the concierge to give him a key when he arrived.

Jim had almost caught Blair for the fifth time at the airport in Reno. In truth he probably could have if he'd used his police credentials to demand that the plane be stopped. Blair had seen him watching from the terminal when the small prop plane began to taxi onto the runway, but instead of interfering he'd just made his way out onto the tarmac and stood with his hands stuck in his pockets, watching Blair take off. Blair had been more than a little surprised not to find Jim already waiting for him when he stepped off his plane in Dallas, but he'd taken advantage of his Sentinel's continued absence to flee again, knowing that this time he might just make it. Digging out the dwindling remains of his cash, he'd snagged a quick rental and busted ass down I-45 heading for the coast.

Blair hunted up his room and inserted the key-card into the door. It was a nice hotel, unlike some of the dives he'd crashed in between Cascade and Galveston-- his headlong flight had brought them further than he originally anticipated; his grant wasn't going to cover this much expense, but it didn't matter right now because he'd won. He paused inside the room just long enough to dump his pack on the nearest bed and grab a much-needed shower, but he didn't feel like staying here and waiting for Jim to catch up. That'd be too much like surrender.

Instead Blair rode the elevator down to the lobby and went out to take a stroll along the waterfront, luxuriating in the brisk ocean wind that washed him with south Texas heat and cooled him at the same time, evaporating perspiration and drying his hair. It felt good to be strolling casually, no longer under the gun. The tankers bound for rigs in the distant haze of the horizon were a note of familiarity, reminding him of old times-- and some good times, some good memories in spite of all the stress and sorrow and hectic action he'd endured during their involvement with Cyclops Oil. Good memories like Jim standing purely naked and unselfconscious, drying himself with a towel while Blair leaned casually against the wall and tried to look him in the eyes and not be too obvious about a few stolen glances southward....

His over-used penis began to respond to that image and Blair shifted, groaning softly and pushing his hips up, sliding the hardening organ into the warm clasp of his fist to encourage the return of arousal. He stared up at the ceiling as though he could look through it and see Jim lying in his bed above. His mind slid back into his fantasy.

After a while the combination of sun and wind grew oppressive. Blair wandered back toward the hotel, dangling his shoes on his fingertips till he left the beach. Then he brushed off the clinging sand and put them back on before entering the foyer to take the elevator up to the tenth floor. He pushed the door open with pleased anticipation, expecting Jim's presence inside. Sure enough, Jim sat waiting on the empty bed, watching Blair enter.

"Gotcha, Chief." Jim sounded smug. "In the end, you came right to me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Blair laughed. "It's been over for an hour and a half, man. Three and a half if you count the time change. Now if we'd been headed west, you might have a point, but here? No way! I win."

Jim's expression never altered; the curve of his lips faint and only half-there, a Mona Lisa smile. He stood up and opened the door out onto the balcony, where he stood overlooking the wide narrow strip of beach and the gleam of the westering sun on the water. "I watched you sleep in Seattle," his voice was so soft Blair very nearly couldn't hear him. "The motel had an awful checkered bedspread. I'm sure you remember it. You didn't rest very well that night, and I slipped out before dawn.

"Then in LA, I was the one who called the cops because there were two guys cooking crack next door to your hotel room. I was afraid they'd burn the place down with you in it, Chief. That day you spent at Disney Land was a great idea; you'd have been hard to pick out of all those people in the park, but I just hung around in Minnie Lot A till you came out again. Nevada was a nice try too-- I didn't think you'd be obvious enough to use that room you booked under a false name at the Sands, so I didn't even bother to look there before I found you crashed out in that dive up in North Vegas. You managed to get one sock off before you went to sleep with Nova still going on the TV. How much did you lose the next day while you hid out at the Circus-Circus?"

Blair just stood there with his mouth open, staring at Jim, mind working a mile a minute as he tried to decide whether his partner was just doing a really good piece of retro-detective work or if he actually had been with Blair every step of the way.

"I heard you make the plane reservations for Reno, so I took a risk and went on to the airport to wait for you. How the hell did you get them to let you board with a different name on your ticket than on your driver's license?" Jim didn't pause for an answer. "Must have been a female ticketing clerk, am I right? A little well-applied Sandburg charm at just the right moment, and she doesn't even read the name on the license. Smooth, Chief." Jim seemed to have wound down and he turned to look at Blair with amusement, the light of the setting sun gilding half his profile. "Close your mouth, Sandburg." He stepped forward casually, eclipsing the light.

Blair shifted to his side, breathing hard now, his penis fully recovered. Time to start with the good stuff.

"Why didn't you stop me?" His forehead wrinkled with bewilderment. "If you caught up in Seattle-- I'd hardly been running for six hours then, Jim. It would have saved us both a lot of time and expense, man."

Jim's head tilted, his body assuming that oddly still posture that meant he'd fully engaged one or more of his senses. "It was fun, Chief." His voice was slightly absent and Blair quickly scanned him for signs of a zone-out. "I enjoy a challenge. And it was doing what you wanted it to, it was making me sharpen my senses. Besides." The faintest note of humor entered his tone. "I didn't want to make you feel inadequate."

Blair tilted his head, frowning a little. Jim's lips were still curved in that faint, secretive smile. There was something he still wasn't telling. Blair could sense it in a myriad of tiny signals from the set of Jim's wide shoulders to the slight flare of his nostrils to the way he dominated the room with lazy, confident grace. Even now that Blair was no longer running and Jim was no longer chasing, every shift of the Sentinel's body brought him slightly closer to his prey, a subtle progression of cunning advance-- Jim was still in predator mode.

Blair swallowed, suddenly feeling like a captured mouse being toyed with by a very large house cat. No way to escape, he was doomed to-- to what? He took a step back and realized his shoulders were against the wall, then slid sideways with a casual gesture that suddenly felt oddly familiar. How often had this same scene replayed itself between them in varying degrees of overt threat? But Jim wasn't letting him go this time; his body swiveled easily to follow Blair's movement and Blair was left with the option of standing his ground or retreating out of the room. Swallowing hard, he chose the former, and Jim's small smile curved further, displaying open satisfaction.

Blair felt his heart begin to pick up speed in his chest as he watched the slowly deepening curve of the narrow lips. Instinctively he began to talk, his mind working on a way to defuse the situation. "So it was that easy to follow me, huh? That's interesting, Jim-- it doesn't tally with the results I've been keeping from your casework. I mean, yeah-- I know you tracked Quinn by following the scent of Simon's cigars, but that wasn't in the city among hundreds of other people. I've seen you lose trails, I know how it happens. Scents diffuse or get covered up. Sounds move out of your sphere of hearing, or get lost underneath white noise. You lose sight of the suspect and he vanishes into a bolt-hole. Somebody pulls a clever name-change and you lose track of his electronic information while he hops a plane to Timbuktu. The tricks of the detective trade don't always work out, and your senses aren't fool-proof. But this time... was there something else, something I'm not accounting for here, something about me that nobody else...?"

Oh, shit. Instead of digging his way out, he was digging himself in deeper. All the time Jim was just standing there with his hands in his pockets, tracking him with the turn of his head and body, smiling that self-satisfied little smile.

"Maybe it's an element of familiarity or something," Blair paused for breath. "You're so accustomed to me that you can pick up faint traces of scent that you wouldn't notice with somebody else, is that it?" He licked his lips nervously and Jim stepped forward.

"That's part of it," Jim's voice was thoughtful. "And I can hear you, too. I could tell where you were the whole time you were in Disney Land and at the casino. I could follow your sound, once I found it-- and it wasn't hard to find. There's a tone to your breathing. It's just as distinctive as... as the tone of a voice." Jim's forehead creased slightly as he explained. "Of course, I could hear that, too, whenever you talked. And sometimes I could smell the exact path you'd taken, when the air was still. It was smart to change your shampoo and all the other things you use; that threw me for about five minutes." There was admiration in Jim's tone.

Five minutes? This was praiseworthy?

Jim continued, disregarding Blair's dismay and taking another step closer. "I knew you'd been at the bus station, but I thought the actual trail out of it belonged to someone else until it kept being associated with traces of your scent. The different soaps couldn't change that basic chemistry. Then I found a strand of your hair on one of the outdoor benches." Jim's hand came up and lifted a curl to illustrate his point; the Sentinel leaned forward and scented slowly along its length, seeming oblivious to the idea that he was doing anything unusual.

Blair's heart flip-flopped, his stomach close behind, and Jim continued to hold the curl, rubbing his thumb along its length thoughtfully. "They told me the bus that had been parked where I was standing was bound for Seattle. I think they thought I was crazy," Jim confided, his voice a soft rumble.

"So what you're saying boils down to this: your sense of scent's been underutilized so far; it can do more than we've been asking of it. We'll have to work on incorporating that, come up with some tests--" Blair was babbling as he felt the low bureau against the back of his thighs. There weren't going to be any tests till after the New Year began and he knew it, but Jim wasn't interrupting to remind him of their bargain. "How did you know to go to the bus station in the first place? Lucky guess?"

"I just know you, Chief," Jim purred, still stroking the lock of hair. "That helped more than any of my senses." Blair swallowed hard and watched with disbelief as the Sentinel leaned forward, bringing his mouth to the curl he held, touching it with his tongue.

"Hey, man, you're freaking me out here." Blair's voice shook, but Jim ignored him, taking the tip of the curl between his lips. His throat worked and his eyes drifted shut, and Blair realized Jim was sucking on the end of the curl, tasting it. "Guess smell's not the only sense that weve been underutilizing, huh--" his voice gave out as Jim's free hand rose to curve around the side of his neck. Blair's knees gave way simultaneously and he sank against the bureau, bracing one hand on the silent TV. Jim's thumb rubbed the stubble on his jaw hypnotically in time to the soft sucking motions of his mouth and throat. "Come on, Jim. Don't zone on me, man." But that was exactly what Jim was doing: zoning on the taste of Blair's hair.

Blair whimpered and shifted his grip, tucking himself into a tight little ball. He burrowed his face into his pillow to muffle the small desperate sounds that escaped him. He shifted his grip to make the anticipation of orgasm last, loving the impossible fantasy he had spun, not wanting to miss a moment of its potential.

Jim released the lock at last, moving to touch its wet, spiked tip to Blair's mouth. "I'm with you, Chief," he murmured huskily, painting the curve of Blair's lips with his improvised brush. Blair realized he was panting heavily, his lips parted.

*"Is this some kind of punishment?" Blair managed. For losing?" "No." Jim's smile abruptly turned feral. "It's my reward. For winning." With that he leaned in and licked along the tendon in Blair's neck, beginning where it emerged from the collar of his shirt and moving all the way up to the lobe of his ear.*

Blair moaned and his head fell back, inadvertently exposing his throat to Jim's persistent tongue. Jim took advantage of the surrender, his body trapping Blair efficiently against the bureau and the television. One hand slid behind Blair's neck to support his head and the other palm rose to cover his face, pressing it to the side. Jim savored him with long, slow, burning licks, pausing only to tuck back his hair, ignoring his soft whimpers.

Licking between his own splayed fingers, Jim migrated, his mouth journeying onto Blair's face, then he moved his hand and let his tongue travel across the rounded arch of Blair's closed eyelids. Next Jim's tongue smoothed Blair's eyebrows, his lips hot and wet as he traced the faint horizontal crease that crossed Blair's forehead. Blair could feel Jim's deep, rhythmic inhalations and knew the Sentinel was carrying him inside his body on the soft gusts of air even as he devoured him with his tongue. It was unbelievably erotic, the slow persistent tasting mingling with the sweet cool evaporation as Jim's breath gusted across his skin.

Jim drew back after a long moment, his mouth wet and red, his eyes dilated until the ice-blue irises were nearly devoured by the black depths of his pupils. They were darker than even arousal could account for-- his vision was dialed all the way up, then. Blair wondered what Jim saw as he focused on him so intently and so closely, gaze flickering over his face again and again. Jim's fingertips worked lightly against Blair's scalp, an almost infinitesimal caress, and his face softened as Blair sighed out a slow breath-- apparently all five of his senses were tuned into Blair and cranked right off the scale.

Now that he was caught, it would be so easy to escape if he wanted. So easy to incapacitate Jim with a shout or whistle, by scrabbling for the devastating glare yielded by a light switch, or maybe even by slapping or scratching him. Instead Blair stayed perfectly still and watched Jim lick his lips, savoring the taste of skin that lingered on them. The moment of hesitation stretched, and Blair realized Jim needed something more, needed something from him.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Blair barely moved his lips, words almost inaudible even to himself. "A court order?"

It was enough. Jim dove into him like a drowning man into an oasis, his mouth catching Blair's with an intense delicacy that overwhelmed Sandburg with the purity of its focus.

Lovemaking with a Sentinel. With his Sentinel. Blair had fantasized about it all too often, but he really had no idea what it would be like. Tending his aching shaft with an automatic, skillful caress, Blair licked his lips, staring up at the ceiling again. He couldn't taste himself, so he didn't know what Jim would taste or smell or hear or feel any more than he could guess what Jim would see. Maybe intimacy was so intense it would prove unpleasant for Jim even though he instinctively craved it: bitter body oils on his lips and tongue, even the smoothest skin appearing cratered and pocked to his eyes, morning breath times a million stinking in his nostrils. Maybe that was why he almost never dated a woman twice.

A man would be even worse-- coarse beard stubble scraping against Jim's unbelievably sensitive skin, strong male scents like sour sweat and semen burning his nostrils, the harsh scratch of wiry masculine hair abrading his body. Blair realized he was about to talk himself right out of the mood here if he didn't shut up. Maybe it wasn't like that for Jim at all; that was just pessimism talking. It probably wasn't as incredible for Jim as Blair's fevered imagination sometimes hypothesized that it could be, but it also probably wasn't as bad as the worst-case scenarios he cooked up, either.

Might as well go for the best-case instead. After all, it wasn't like he was ever going to get a chance to compare fantasy to reality and find reality wanting. Why torment himself with his imagination when he should be enjoying it, instead?

OK, fine. Back to the fantasy. To vindicate the selfishness of his decision that Jim would enjoy sex with him, he'd simply erase and correct. Add a shave to the earlier shower and use some unscented shampoo that didn't have a lot of chemicals for Jim to taste. It's not such a hot day in South Texas after all; no sweat to worry about. Where were we....

Jim sank against Blair and kissed him with the slow thoroughness of a man who had nowhere to go and nothing to do when he got there, completely centered in the moment and the sensation of their mouths moving together. Blair gave himself up to the kiss with a will, learning that Jim liked subtleties of movement... long slow licks, soft sucking, a gradual procession inward. There would be time later to battle for control. For now, Blair lost himself in the press of their mouths and the undulation of their bodies. He let Jim drive, following his lead-- a gradual, leisurely advance into Blair's mouth first, and then a slow, molten retreat into Jim's. Just enough motion to keep Jim from zoning on taste.

Blair dared to let his hands move, following the lines of the relaxed muscular form that lay under his palms until his hands rested at Jim's waistband. Jim pushed his hips forward with slow, firm pressure, nestling his thigh tightly between Blair's partly-spread legs. That was enough invitation for Blair to utter the softest of moans and slide his hands around to cover his partner's perfect ass. Just as tight and smooth as it looked, muscles hot and tense through soft denim. Jim pushed forward again, rocking his hips against Blair's groin slowly, and Blair savored the clench and release under his hands, kneading in time with the rhythm Jim set.

Their mouths never parted, breath coming awkwardly through their nostrils and rustling against their faces as they each tried to climb inside one another without ever taking off a stitch of clothing. Too long deferred, their passion devoured rational mind, for the moment too intense to permit the thought that separation might be desirable to allow the removal of clothing.

Eventually the kiss, all-consuming as it was, was no longer enough. Jim's hands plucked at the back of Blair's shirt. He tugged it out of Blair's jeans and slid underneath, moving up to his shoulders, crushing Blair's body against his chest. Blair purred low in his throat and followed suit, loving the silk-covered steel of Jim's torso under his hands, feeling the heat that was radiating off his new lover like a furnace, causing beads of sweat to gather in the hollow of his back.

Then Jim's hands slid back down and under his hips, and Jim was lifting him, carrying him awkwardly and tumbling him onto the bed, following him down. It separated their mouths at last, leaving them gasping. "Jim..." Blair moaned softly, and Jim's lashes sank shut as he practically inhaled the sound. Blair reached to his Sentinel's shoulders and gently turned him, pressing him to one side until Blair could slip onto him, covering him.

Jim let him, his strength held in check, his body passively entrusted to Blair. Jim's eyes stayed shut, his breath coming in low gasps as he let Blair touch him, apparently helpless against the flood of sensory input from his gentle nipping kisses and the light touch of his fingertips. Blair opened his Sentinel's shirt and stroked his broad chest lightly, amazed by Jim's response-- he was hard and trembling, moving with the dazed, determined air of a man who has been struck on the head unexpectedly and can only hold a single goal in mind.

How much would it take to make him come? How little? Blair stroked a nipple lightly and Jim's hips jerked hard, bucking up against him. Not much, then. Not much at all. He touched the nipple again, just brushing it with his fingertip. Jim's throat spasmed, small broken sounds leaving his lips, and Blair kissed him lightly, breathing them in. Blair felt himself smile. If Jim was this easy to bring off, maybe the women left him after one night, not the other way around-- but Blair Sandburg was no one-night stand. Jim wasn't getting off so easily; not in either sense of the term.

Blair drew back deliberately, gazing along the rippled plane of Jim's chest and belly, then leaned forward, letting his hair tumble over his shoulders. He bent until it touched Jim's skin, then swept his head back and forth, slowly caressing Jim with his curls.

"Blair!" That was it; that was what he wanted to hear. Needed to hear. Loved to hear. His name on Jim's lips. He slid his hips back without lifting his head, letting his hair trail over the denim of Jim's jeans, knowing the Sentinel could still feel each strand as it played over him, teasingly held away from his body by the thin barrier of cloth.

Jim quivered with tension, the muscles of his thighs locking tight, his hands tightening to fists in the bedclothes. Finding mercy for his Sentinel's plight, Blair opened the button and slid down the zipper. Jim's hands came to life, moving to push the jeans past his hips, and Blair let him help, knowing that the touch of cloth could be painful when Jim was dialed all the way up. He eased off Jim's shoes and socks, pulling the jeans and underwear carefully from Jim's ankles, then began to kiss his way upward, running lips and tongue along the blade of Jim's shin, then along the inside of his thigh. Jim quivered, helpless again, and Blair drew back to examine the tight-drawn testicles and the hard shaft that waited for him, purpling tip only inches from his lips. It seemed to beg. One touch. Just one.

Resting his palms on Jim's hips, Blair opened his mouth and leaned forward softly, very carefully, and let the head of Jim's cock settle against the wet plush cushion of his tongue. Jim came with a choked scream, penis jerking in violent release, and Blair forced his hips down, catching the pulses of fluid in his mouth, swallowing them, his heart filled with tenderness for his partner, his lover. So beautiful and so vulnerable, lost in passion, his most sensitive part in Blair's mouth....

Jim's orgasm subsided slowly, his body shuddering in the aftermath. Blair stroked his palms up Jim's sides and slid up to hold him, nuzzling against him in gentle, silent comfort.

"God..." Jim whispered, his voice shaken, threading his fingers into Blair's curls, and Blair's heart nearly burst with pride.

"Just me," he teased, hearing the husk of tenderness and desire in his own words.

Jim pulled him into a tight hug, nestling Blair against him, and slipped a hand between their bodies, stroking Blair's unrelieved hardness with loving fingers. "You're mine," Jim growled softly into his ear, and Blair shivered with delight, heat gathering in his belly. "Mine." Jim nipped his earlobe, tongue tugging on the rings there.

"Yes." The word escaped as an ecstatic whimper. Blair gave himself up to Jim as easily as Jim had just given himself. Jim's palm squeezed his heavy, aching cock, his thumb darting over the tip, and Blair gasped and lost himself, floating away on a starburst of bliss, a lazy tide of release that drained him of thought and pushed him toward sleep. Gently tucking him inside warm swaths of velvet comfort, Jim's strong arms cradled him until they both succumbed.

Blair woke up the next morning feeling a little disappointed to find himself alone. He also felt chafed, but in a good way. Jim maintained a casual and unconcerned attitude as they shared breakfast and then drove to the precinct; if he'd overheard Blair in the night he gave no sign.

The quiet morning set a pattern that they followed for the next several days. There was no recurrence of the momentary flirtation and they rarely spoke of their impending experiment as they worked extra hard to close a few cases before taking their planned week off.

Blair's clandestine arrangements continued as he called in some scattered personal favors on the sly and researched a variety of ways to confuse Jim's senses. When the morning of the day dawned, it found him more than a little hyper, psyched and ready to go.

"So where do you want me to go, what do you want me to do?" Jim sipped his coffee calmly, sounding for all the world as though they were planning to meet later in the park for an evening jog.

"Whatever you want, as long as you wait six hours to start looking." Blair sipped his usual morning shake-- nasty stuff, really, but when Jim's arteries hardened and Blair's didn't, it would be worth years of the taste to get to say "I told you so." He eyed the morning paper, not looking up at Jim.

"Six hours from when? I thought you'd be long gone when I got up this morning, Chief."

"What? Me cheat?" Blair grinned. "Six hours from the minute I walk out that door," he pointed for emphasis. "You can sit here and watch TV if you want, or fix the cracked pane in the French window, or go out and shop, or do whatever. I don't care."

"Can I watch out the window?"

"That'd be looking." Blair downed the dregs of his foul green concoction, deliberately smacking his lips in a way that he knew particularly annoyed his roommate.

"You know, I'm not so sure this is a good idea." Jim sat back, his eyes thoughtful.

"Chicken!" Blair protested, his high spirits falling a little. "If you forfeit, you pay the consequences." He knew his heart really wouldn't be in testing Jim if his partner gave up the ghost without a fight. "Besides, I'm not going to get extreme, here. Nothing that could really hurt either of us, okay? No unnecessary risks, no high-speed chases or weird shit."

"Promise?"

"I'm not gonna say I won't spray you with skunk juice or something and I've got plenty of flashbulbs ready in my camera," Blair warned him cheerfully, momentarily ignoring the solemnity in Jim's voice. "And I figure you wouldn't be above a flying tackle, using cuffs, running the siren and the lights, or flashing those police credentials around to get special treatment. But nothing worse than skinned knees and a little inconvenience. Deal?" His tone as he finished matched Jim's for sobriety.

Jim nodded, so Blair got up and put his empty glass in the sink. "Your day to wash," he reminded.

"If I can stand the stink." Jim laughed softly.

"For a year." Blair grinned back and shouldered his backpack, heading for the door. "Get used to it."

"Is that all you're taking?"

"Travel light, move fast."

"Synchronize our watches?" Jim stood up and moved near, laying his hand on Blair's shoulder. "Just so there's no argument about when this started or when it's over."

They did, Blair hovering in the opened door as he pushed the buttons on his battered Timex Expedition. "See you in a week."

"In your dreams, Sandburg."

The door closed between them. Jim, honorably keeping to his part of the bargain, didn't see the battered green sedan that fell in behind Blair's car immediately after he pulled out and headed down the block.

Blair occupied the first few minutes of headlong flight heading for a grimy hotel room where he could spray his backpack and jacket thoroughly with Febreze. It undoubtedly deposited a nearly-nonexistent chemical scent that Jim could easily detect, but Blair hoped it held true on its promise to remove traces of familiar scents that Jim would automatically know to follow. The next half-hour Blair dedicated to a thorough shower, scrubbing himself with a completely new selection of soaps and shampoos, just as he'd planned all along. New cologne, new toothpaste-- the works. When he was satisfied, he came out and dressed-- new clothes, unwashed, still bearing the mingled scents of store handling. He'd given Jeff a copy of his key and his buddy would be here inside twenty minutes or so to pick up Blair's car and return it to the loft, that much was already covered.

A knock on his door interrupted his concentration. Jeff. Blair paused in the process of cramming his stuff into his new bag. He released the chain and bolt on the door, turning the handle, and returned his attention to his preparations. "It's open."

He didn't realize anything was wrong till he heard the quiet metallic click. Raising his eyes slowly, his stomach sinking with dread, he stared straight down a gun barrel and into the highly amused, cold eyes of a very scruffy Lee Brackett.

Shit.

"Hello, Mr. Sandburg-- Blair," he purred, gesturing with the barrel of his gun. "You and I are going to enjoy this little vacation very much, don't you agree?"

Still over five hours remaining in his head start, too. Damn. Blair swallowed thickly. "Cut the crap, Brackett. We both know Jim's gonna do whatever it takes to find me." He had to hope Ellison would be as good and as fast as his fantasies had so frequently predicted he would be.

"Oh, but we'll lead him a merry chase first, won't we?" Brackett's eyes glittered. "Come on. We have plans to make." He stepped forward and caught Blair's arm, tucking the gun up against his ribs, its presence masked between their bodies. Brackett picked up Blair's bag, zipping it up with one awkward hand, and slung it over his own shoulder. Blair accompanied him out sullenly and let himself be shoved into Brackett's car.

Brackett prudently cuffed Blair to the combination shoulder/lap seat belt, ensuring that he wouldn't try to jump from the moving car, then started the vehicle. As they drove away, Blair spotted his friend Jeff rounding the corner on foot, on his way to get the Volvo in order to hide the traces that Blair had ever been present at the small motel where his careful, long-anticipated plans had backfired and crumbled so fucking fast.

"So, Sandburg. It's been interesting listening to you date Rosie and her daughters every night for the past week. You haven't left it alone for much over an hour at a time, have you." Brackett gestured casually toward Blair's lap, and he flushed. The rogue agent had always had a smart mouth and a dirty mind. "Still, if Ellison won't help you out..." the grin he gave Blair was feral and ugly.

Blair ignored the taunt, his shoulders hunched slightly.

"It's been a long time. I'd have thought you'd have gotten into his shorts or given up by now. Maybe I should have let you take that wire out of his pants for me after all. It'd have given you something to remember," Lee continued with conversational malice. "He listens to you, you know. He's a lot quieter than you are, but the two of you go at it together every night, just like clockwork. Whenever you get it out, he's right behind you. Whenever you come, he's already reaching for a clean set of sheets."

Blair couldn't keep from blushing, angry heat rising in his cheeks.

"He'd kill you if he knew who you think about." Brackett's voice was triumphant and oozing with coarsely familiar insinuation. "You get him started, but you know what he's thinking about when he finishes, don't you. Long-legged blondes and the latest issue of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition."

"Sounds good to me, man." Blair kept his voice quiet, stubbornly resisting defeat. "Shared fantasies about supermodels are no reason to kill anybody."

Brackett laughed again, with a note of genuine amusement. "Maybe it does sound pretty good to you, maybe you do think about that sometimes, but I know what you think sounds better, and I know who you've been fucking two, three times a night in your dreams for the past week. The thrill of the chase turn you on?" Blair just stared ahead, memorizing the twists and turns of the route they took through the city, refusing to give any indication that might confirm or deny the guess. The former CIA agent eventually grew tired of trying to bait him and fell silent, concentrating on traffic.

I hope Jim doesn't follow the false trail Jeff laid down for me. Blair stared out the window miserably, remembering his ill-fated promise that this game wouldn't turn dangerous: a promise that was possibly one of the stupidest ones he'd ever given. No doubt Brackett had heard it and would use it against Jim. Blair sighed. Worrying about Jim's ignorance of his predicament wouldn't help things now.

Moreover, Brackett didn't hold the monopoly on sharp psychological insight. Sandburg began to think hard, trying to analyze his position and find an advantage. Prison had changed Lee Brackett, and not for the better. He'd always been ruthless, even reckless, but now Blair sensed a brittle edge in him that hadn't been there before. His competent calm had eroded, his arrogant superiority outweighed by ill-concealed anger. What had once been subtle jabs intended to cause doubt had become an all-out frontal attack. Maybe Brackett's obvious grudge would make him careless; maybe it would make him lose perspective and miscalculate. He had something to prove now-- he had to prove that he could best Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. Maybe it was even crucial to his self-esteem to do that.

"So. What are you planning this time? Unending wealth, mass death and destruction, a little personal payback..." he made his voice cuttingly casual. "Same old, same old?"

"You'll learn soon enough." His jibe didn't faze the other man. "End of the line."

They stopped abruptly in front of a small, run-down residence. Brackett got out and released Blair, pushing him toward the house with the gun tucked up sharp at the base of his spine. He paused on the porch to turn on the sprinkler system, which began to spray the weedy yard and concrete walk. "You've done part of my job for me by disguising your scent, and this should wash away any lingering traces Ellison might sense from the street." He smirked at Blair. "He'll be expecting you to run... you could probably hide from him here all week if that was what I had in mind for you."

"A lawn sprinkler system. In Cascade." Blair gave him a level, skeptical look, stalling in hopes that a neighbor might see the gun and phone the PD.

"Ellison's seen stranger things." Brackett smiled confidently. "By the time he starts looking for you, it'll be off and evaporated. That is, if it hasn't rained and covered the traces anyway. Now move." The sharp nudge of the gun barrel in Blair's back propelled him toward the door and then through it.

Indoors was as nondescript as out except for the back bedroom, which housed an impressive array of gadgetry and some frightening electronics that Blair was unable to identify with any degree of confidence. Brackett quickly cuffed him to one of the beds and tore off a short strip of duct tape, efficiently plastering it over his mouth. He took obvious pleasure in stretching the tape over Blair's lips and then pressing it on tight with his fingers; Blair jerked his head away and glared.

"In suburbia, no one can hear you scream," Brackett misquoted, standing back to watch Blair discover with dismay that the weak wooden headboard of the bed had been reinforced with a long metal pole. "And if they did, they probably wouldn't interfere." He smirked at the look in Blair's eyes: both headboard and pole had been fastened to the studs in the wall with sturdy metal staples, each nearly as thick as Blair's smallest finger.

"You could probably work one of those staples loose in a day or two, if you had the tools for it," Brackett commented. "But you aren't going to have the time or the opportunity." He grinned and shoved aside a few items on the other bed, sitting back and surveying Blair for a long moment, perfectly at ease. "In approximately two hours, my friend, I am going to release you from those cuffs, peel the tape off your mouth, and let you walk through the front door of this house Scot-free."

Blair surveyed him with narrowed eyes, keeping his legs positioned for strategic defensive kicking. Brackett watched him do some mental mathematics and leered to assist in their progress, enjoying the flush of fear and rage that rose in Blair's cheeks. "Don't worry. I'm not going to rape you," he finally mocked after giving Blair's fear time to build. "You think I'd want something even Ellison won't touch?"

Smirking at his captive's angry flush, he scrabbled on the bed, coming up with a tangle of wires, selecting a few small electronic chips and other gadgets that Blair had no immediate name for. Then he picked up a gym bag. Unzipping it revealed several long dull gray strips of explosive. "This stuff isn't your standard C4. It's pretty volatile." He tossed one from palm to palm. Its slap against his skin sounded heavier than such a slender item should account for. "If it landed hard enough on the floor..." Brackett grinned, face stretching into an ugly rictus. "This piece could level this whole block." He tossed it lightly onto the pillow next to Blair's head, and Sandburg shied from it involuntarily.

"You're going to be wearing ten pieces. It's as much as I could spare." Brackett finished gathering electronics and brandished the roll of duct tape again, slipping it over his fist to ride on his wrist. "The rest of it went... well. That would be telling." He fished a bottle out of his pocket and poured the contents into a rag. "This is ether. If you're very lucky, it may interest both you and Joel Taggart shortly after the next week is up to know that it can be used to dissolve adhesives and peel tape. Breathe deeply for me, Blair."

Blair scrabbled back across the bed defensively, ready to kick. Brackett sighed with exaggerated patience. "You want to do this the hard way? I have another sedative ready in a hypodermic. And rest assured, it's going to happen. Or not. Maybe you'll knock the explosives off the bed, and we'll both go up."

Sandburg stilled reluctantly and eyed the approaching rag with loathing, head jerking once as it settled over his nose. "Breathe." Brackett waited patiently until Blair was forced to do so, and then held the rag over his face until his body was limp and unresponsive. He watched Blair's glazed eyes with satisfaction as he skinned off the layered shirts. "I know you're still conscious," he spoke pleasantly. "But this will make it easier. Lie very still."

Through the haze of the ether, Blair felt the unpleasant chill of metal settle first over his heart, then against the side of his ribcage, feeling like cold stethoscopes at a doctor's office. The application of each was punctuated by pulling and ripping tape, and they warmed quickly. As the ether slowly ebbed from Blair's brain, Brackett methodically continued fastening wires to his body, occasionally pausing to strip insulation from the tip of a wire with pliers. He looked oddly peaceful as he worked, the self-contained professional distance returning to his face briefly as he distributed the heavy gray strips evenly across Blair's back and chest, securing them with one long piece of tape.

"Now it's active," Brackett thumbed a switch that lay on the end table and tossed it to the opposite bed, well out of Blair's reach. "Sit up. Carefully." He helped Blair control his uncooperative limbs, scooting him back toward the headboard so that he could sit upright, his arms stretching behind him.

"Your body is an essential component of this bomb," Brackett murmured, adjusting a wire and securing it with another piece of dull gray tape. He looked inordinately pleased with himself. "I've wired three electrodes into the detonation system here. They're connected to all the wiring, and the wiring is flush with your skin. Contact with your skin is what keeps it stable. The minute you lift a single piece of this off your body, the whole thing will go sky high. No fancy business trying to remove it. Got that? It's important. Remember it." His smile chilled Blair.

He began to wrap Blair tightly with duct tape, the efficient motions reminding Sandburg's disjointed mind of a time when Jim had done much the same thing, wrapping up his ribs after he took a bullet at close range, right in the kevlar. Though there was no pain this time, Brackett's fingers on him were much less pleasant than Jim's had been. Blair remembered how it had felt to try to get the medical tape off his hairy chest and winced automatically, not looking forward to a repeat of the experience.

"That's not all, though," Brackett continued, self-satisfied. I've included several monitoring devices, including a GPS, and there's a remote trigger. I'll be monitoring your activities continually and I can detonate the bomb any time I choose. If it detonates, there won't even be blood mist left for your old girlfriend in Forensics to find. Clear?"

Blair nodded sluggishly, the drug doing nothing to impair his understanding.

"Good. Additionally, this bomb is supplemented by more bombs, bombs also of my construction." Brackett slapped Blair's side lightly and kept winding the sticky tape around him. "If your bomb detonates, I'll be left with no option but to trigger them, too. Those bombs are placed somewhere of critical importance to the lives of a large number of innocent people. They might be in one of the dormitories at Rainier. They might be at Cascade Northside Junior High School. They might be at the Cascade General Hospital. They might be in the police department. They might be in all of those places, or somewhere much worse. You just don't know, do you?" The roll of tape ran out and he patted down the last turn neatly. It covered Blair from navel to armpit in a dull silver-gray sheath, making a sleek package of the hellish tangle of wires and transmitters and explosives that covered his torso.

"One last vital piece of information for you, Blair." Brackett smiled a tight, self-satisfied smile. "I planted a weak electronic transmitter on Ellison four days ago. It's keyed to the frequency that will trigger this detonator. If he comes within ten feet of you, you are both history. You got that?" he inquired sharply, no longer bothering to hide his hatred.

Blair's eyes widened and he nodded numbly.

"Good. Now, if I see or hear you communicating with Ellison, or with anyone else who can help you defuse this bomb or come after me, I'll trigger it and set off the other ones too. If you don't do what I say, you'll be taking plenty of innocent lives along for the ride. All you have to do to keep that from happening is run, Sandburg. Keep Ellison busy and out of my hair." Brackett smiled faintly and reached for the tape that covered Blair's mouth, yanking it away with a single vicious snap of his wrist.

Fear and adrenaline had speeded Blair's circulation, quickening the purgation of the ether from his body. He nodded understanding, heartsick. "What are you going to do?" Only faintly slurred, the words revealed his horror.

"You'll learn that in seven days. After it's over, you can go to Ellison or Taggart or whoever you want for help-- I want you to know you've got a fighting chance, so I give you my word I won't set it off if you wait till I'm done and gone. They might be able to figure out how to get it off without taking a one-way E-ticket straight to hell with you. Or they might not."

He un-cuffed one of Blair's arms, helping him untangle the shirts from around his wrists and pull them back on to cover the bomb. "Good thing you dress in loose clothes. I know you may need to take a shower or a dunking to keep ahead of Ellison, so everything should be waterproof. I'm going to give you one last piece of help and then speed you on your way." He rummaged in Blair's bag, coming up with his plane tickets. Laughing, he tore the packet in two. "You won't be making it through any airport security scans for the duration. You'll want to remember that. If you know you're about to get cornered, talk out loud to me and I'll think about whether or not it's worth it to me to yank your ass out of Ellison's path."

He reached into a pouch that lay on the other bed and came out with a hypo, chuckling as Blair's eyes went wide and he pushed back with his heels, remembering not to strike the wall just in time. Brackett's eyes narrowed with cold humor. "Gently, Blair. This is the help I mentioned." He inserted the hypodermic through the rubber diaphragm lid that covered a small clear glass jar. "This stuff will scramble your body chemistry, including your scent. You'll feel funny for a few days and you'll smell like a horse, but Ellison won't recognize your scent." Tapping the hypo and squirting out a few air bubbles, Brackett advanced and administered the injection. Blair watched him without uttering a sound, his eyes dulled with the lingering effects of ether and despair.

"I see you've got plenty of cash. I've secured you a rental and a full tank of gas." Brackett finished his search of Blair's bag, nodding with approval. "Let's go." He took the remote detonator in his hand, unlocked the remaining cuff, and watched as Blair stood up clumsily. "Try anything fancy and I'll push the button," he warned. "I've got someone waiting to pick you up and take you to your car. I'll be listening." The gun ushered Blair into the living room, where a stone-faced man sat awaiting them.

"Carl, Mr. Sandburg is at your service," Brackett's voice fairly bubbled with good humor. "See to it that he arrives at his vehicle promptly." He put a cell phone into Blair's hand. "Keep this with you at all times, in case our plans need to change." He favored Blair with a humorless smile. Carl stood, favoring Blair with an uninterested stare, and headed out without a word. As they climbed into the featureless blue van that awaited, Blair heard the sprinkler system come on again, washing away any lingering traces of his presence.

Ellison was bored when Blair left, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to concentrate well enough to work on anything effectively. This was it, then: the long-anticipated game. Blair was on the run, and shortly he would follow. Jim found it almost impossible to concentrate, the televised stock-car race he'd found on cable droning monotonously past him in a colorful flow of engine whine and monotonous sportscaster babble. He'd promised not to make any preparations, even insofar as planning strategies of pursuit, so he nursed a beer and made his mind wander more or less aimlessly. Standing up to stretch his muscles and investigate the possibility of lunch, Jim found his eyes wandering to the silent, open door of Sandburg's room.

Blair had been particularly... excitable for the past several days, masturbating regularly and copiously, and the scent of stale sex subtly permeated the air inside his room. Jim shut the door to imprison it inside, knowing that he'd be able to smell it anyway if he let himself. It made sense that Blair would have his adrenaline up, getting ready for the challenge of the chase. The tension had to go somewhere, and why not into solitary sex? If Blair hadn't lived with a Sentinel, it would have gone unnoticed, perfectly unremarkable.

Jim sighed, feeling a little guilty. He'd been drawn into the web of excitement and anticipation as well, shamefully listening in as arousal overtook him, prompting him to join Blair in what should have been a solitary pursuit. At least he had the cold comfort of knowing that Blair couldn't possibly have overheard him. One less shameful fact to have to acknowledge and live with.

He shifted uncomfortably, zeroing in on the television as one of the trailing cars clipped the wall during a treacherous pass and spun out, two more narrowly missing it as it limped down onto the lawn inside the track. Unfortunately, the sense of unease from his thoughts resisted his attempts to dissipate it by redirecting his attention. Just thinking about listening to Blair was threatening to set him off again; he shifted uncomfortably to ease his sensitive genitals away from the seam of his jeans.

He frowned a little, eyes locked intently to the set, his brain almost entirely unaware of the pit crew and safety personnel rushing to examine the driver and his battered car. He hadn't wanted to admit that listening to Blair had so much power to arouse him; he'd always been able to rationalize it at the time. But getting hard now, in broad daylight without the soft noises of Blair's pleasure as an excuse, without the scent of Blair's completion as a catalyst... Jim locked down on the train of thought mercilessly. He'd never been one for introspection. Looking too deeply always raised difficult questions that a man really didn't want to ask himself.

Stolidly watching the damaged car limp its wobbling way toward the pit, Jim absolutely refused to consider either the questions or the answers.

At 3:21 PM precisely, Jim Ellison rose from the sofa, turned off the television set, and headed downstairs. Blair's Volvo awaited him, sitting in its customary parking space, and he laid his hand on the hood. Probably warm enough to have been driven earlier-- there'd been very little sun for the hood to absorb. He looked inside, effortlessly finding fibers that matched the clothing Blair had worn out of the apartment. They were snagged in the seat-cover along with a few others that didn't look familiar, not matching any clothing Blair customarily wore. All right then-- Blair had driven away and arranged for someone to bring his car back.

There were a limited number of ways that Blair could leave Cascade: airplane, train, foot, boat, and automobile. Probably his friend had met him here and dropped him off at one of those alternatives. Jim's normal line of attack would be to locate this friend and shake him down for the information he wanted. That could take time, though.

He opened the car door and scented the air trapped inside. Blair, plus an unfamiliar masculine aftershave... as expected. It wouldn't be one of the guys from Major Crimes-- too easy. No, Blair would have chosen somebody from the university, and not one of his usual companions, either. However, knowing Blair, his accomplice wouldn't have any more idea where Blair was headed than the man in the moon. Heck, he might even have just dropped Blair off at the central hub for Cascade public transport, from which Blair could go to any ticketing or rental agency he liked.

Jim paused, thinking hard. This was going to be a contest of brain versus brain as much as it would be a test of his senses. Intellect was the area in which Blair would be at his most challenging.

So. He had to second-guess his hyper roommate, did he? Well, if that was the case, one thing Jim knew was that Blair had an almost unconscious sense of the dramatic. He might spend half a day leaving a variety of false trails through Cascade, but in the end, Jim would bet he'd wind up at the airport. It wasn't just drama-- it made good sense. Cascade International Airport was no smalltime operation, and it would take Jim hours to check out all the possible leads there. Worse, through his participation in police work, Blair knew at least half a dozen ways to get a false ID and get on a plane under an assumed name. His jaw firmed with certainty. In spite of the daunting size of the task, Jim would start his search at the airport.

Four absolutely fruitless hours later, it was too late to go to the university to hunt for the aftershave he'd scented in Blair's car and Jim was at something of a loss. Not a whiff of Blair, and not a ticketing clerk or a vendor or a boarding director had registered so much as an iota of recognition when he flashed his partner's picture. Well, maybe Sandburg had anticipated that Jim would figure him for an airplane kind of guy. That had to be it.

Frustrated, Jim drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his truck as he thought, then made his decision and headed for the adjacent Greyhound station. After that, he'd hit every auto rental agency in Cascade if he had to, including Ryder and U-Haul. It would be just like Blair to rent a truck, figuring Jim might forget that possibility.

By eleven PM, he had made his way through all the available options and found himself at a loss. Gritting his teeth, Jim wondered why the hell he'd ever thought this was going to be easy. Like he had some kind of mystical connection that would lead him straight to Blair or something? His partner was too canny; he knew too much about how crooks slipped up and got caught. He'd probably had the rental made in an alternate name and delivered to him by a friend. The same one who'd taken his car? Probably not. Another friend, then, one much harder to locate because Jim would have no scent of him-- or her.

With the airport eliminated, the rental idea just made sense. The more Jim thought about it the more he believed in it. To get on a bus or board a plane, Sandburg would have to be seen by maybe a dozen airport employees. By contrast, a rental would involve only one counter clerk, and then he could slide out of town slicker than goose grease, leaving practically no trace at all. If he was playing things this smart already, Blair had probably even primed his first accomplice, the one Jim had a good chance of finding, with a false lead on his whereabouts.

Hell. Sandburg was slippery as an eel, and the tower of blocks Jim was building in his mind was already in danger of getting too high to rely on. Worse, Jim had to put one more block atop the teetering stack of speculations before he could quit-- Blair's destination. He could no more check every gas station between here and where a normal tank would run out than he could fly-- and even if he could, convenience store clerks changed shifts regularly.

Less than a day had passed, and Jim was forced to admit that he was already just about stumped. He didn't want to, but he might just have to put an APB out on Sandburg. Already. Damn. He hadn't wanted to involve Simon in this, and Sandburg was going to give him a hard time for caving in so early. Jim sighed. With luck, his captain might be pulling a late shift. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed with one hand and pointed the truck downtown with the other.

"Banks."

"Yeah, Simon-- I'm glad I caught you in. Are you gonna be there for awhile? I'm on my way downtown and I wanted to ask a favor."

"Yeah, I'm gonna be here. And you're just the man I wanted to talk to. Sandburg with you?"

"No, he's busy." Jim winced at the misdirection, but he didn't want to give Simon a chance to work up a head of steam before he ever got to the PD.

"Yeah. Well hurry up, Ellison, I don't want us to be here all night."

Simon had a three-page fax laid out on his desk when Jim walked into his office and was gnawing worriedly at an unlit cigar. "Sit." He didn't look up, shifting the paper with blunt but surprisingly agile fingertips. "I'm going first-- executive privilege."

Jim nodded calmly and settled back, waiting.

"This is our monthly dossier on prisoner status: a list of everybody originally busted by the Cascade PD who's been released from prison in the last four weeks." Simon stared fiercely at the document.

Jim nodded and hitched his chair forward. It was Simon's standard procedure to keep tabs on prisoner status in case a known grudge-holder might earn parole. "Trouble?"

"You might say that." Simon put down his cigar, picked up a yellow highlighter, and slashed it across the second page three quarters of the way down, then slid it across his desk.

Jim whistled, eyes widening. "Lee Brackett? I thought we'd put him away for good."

"So did the Federal judge who did the sentencing. But he got ranked. I don't know how the hell Brackett managed it, but he got an appeal through on an anomaly in court procedure and a higher judiciary signed his release papers three weeks ago." Banks sat back.

"Shit." Jim picked up the paper and stared at it as though it had more to tell him.

"His parole officer has filed the paperwork for a standard visitation pattern, but we both know better than to put any faith in that. Brackett's got plenty of ways of getting around the system. Personally, I think he might have his mind on other things, don't you? Revisiting old haunts, renewing old... acquaintances?" Simon's grim implicit message echoed Jim's own thoughts.

"Brackett's not the kind of man to take defeat lightly," Ellison agreed, pushing the paper back across Banks' desk. "We'll have to keep a sharp eye out for any signs that he's operating in Cascade."

"My thoughts exactly, and I wanted you to know it before anybody else." Banks paused. "So where's Sandburg? He needs to know too. I'm sure Lee Brackett doesn't remember him kindly."

Jim shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "Actually, Sandburg's whereabouts are what I wanted to talk to you about." Simon's eyes narrowed and Jim took the plunge hastily. "You see, he and I made a bet, and we're spending our vacation testing my senses. The plan is for him to run, and for me to find him."

"You WHAT?" It was a good thing Simon had laid his cigar in the ashtray, or he might have bitten it in two. "Of all the hare-brained schemes to come up with... don't tell me, it was Sandburg's idea." He waited for Jim's sheepish nod. "Of course it was." The captain picked up the fax papers and squared them automatically, stapling them together with a vicious snap of his wrist and shoving them in a drawer. "I don't like the timing on this, Jim. I'm going to postpone your vacation till we can get tabs on Brackett's whereabouts. Call Sandburg's game off. You'll have to play some other time."

"I'll leave a message on his office machine," Jim agreed. "He's supposed to check in there every twenty-four hours. Actually, I was just about to ask you to put out a state-wide APB on him so I could get some help on discovering his whereabouts." Simon gave him a dubious stare and Jim shrugged uncomfortably. "What can I say? He's good and he knows the tricks of the trade."

"You mean he's already given you the slip." Banks' voice was desert-dry.

"Of course not." Jim squirmed uncomfortably, knowing damn well that Blair had. "He's just got a head start, and I wanted to eliminate it."

Simon sighed and let the lie pass. "I'll put out the APB and you call his machine. Now. And keep looking! Maybe we'll get lucky and bring him back in before anything goes down."

"Maybe." Jim pulled out his cell phone and began dialing, listening to Sandburg's cheerful voice and waiting for the beep. "Sandburg, this is Jim. Simon's canceling our vacation and we need to stand down. There are old friends in town and they may pay us a surprise visit. We need you back ASAP, partner." He hung up and sat back, already feeling the helpless sensation of having done all that he could. Damn it, he hated waiting. He wasn't about to stop looking for Blair just because he'd recorded a message on Sandburg's machine.

"I already checked the airport and the bus station and damn near every car rental place in town," he mused when Banks hung up his own phone. "No luck at any of them. Whatever he did, he got somebody to do the legwork for him. I think he's in a rental. I'm pretty sure he'll stay in the United States. It's harder to get a phony passport than it is to get a fake license, and he wouldn't want to risk tangling with the feds."

"Good thinking," Banks nodded. He'll be almost impossible to find that way, especially if he pays cash for gas and lodging."

"He'll do that." Jim sighed wryly. "We agreed I could use police resources to hunt him, so there's no way he's going to use a credit card or his checkbook."

"Right." Simon shook his head with resigned disgust. "It's amazing the problems you two find to get yourselves into."

"What do you think Brackett might target?" Jim changed the subject deftly.

"Something high profile, that's for sure. And he won't scruple at endangering innocent citizens to get it." Banks pondered. "The Treasures of Tutankhamun exhibit's in town this month. Sandburg was badgering me to take Darryl to see it. There's a lot of gold in that. Brackett could melt it down and sell it without leaving any traces and you know he wouldn't give a damn about historical value. Or there are private collectors who might pay big bucks for a piece of it to call their own."

Jim nodded thoughtfully. "It's a possibility. We ought to pull records on treasury shipments and valuable military tech, too."

"Yeah. I think a pre-emptive strike is definitely in order. You hit the computer and I'll start making some phone calls, get people out of bed and on the job." Banks slumped in his chair slightly. "Looks like we're gonna be here all night after all."

Ellison emailed a contact in the military to start the ball rolling toward researching any local military tech Brackett might covet and had just managed to locate and input his police clearance to look at impending treasury shipments when his desk phone rang. Not bothering to wonder who might be calling at this hour, he picked it up. "Ellison."

"Jim." Blair's voice was high and nervous, sounding like something was wrong.

"Sandburg." Jim exhaled with relief, momentarily ignoring Blair's agitation. "You got my message already, that's good. I need you back here--"

"Sorry, Jim, it's not gonna happen that way."

Jim sat bolt upright, a frown already pinching his face, and he saw Simon notice his agitation, staring at him through the office window. He gestured and Banks rose, emerging to listen. Jim hit the speakerphone switch.

"What do you mean, Chief? This isn't a joke, we've got potential troub--"

Blair cut him off, his voice shaky, taking on a miserable, singsong tone as though he were reciting from memory. "I know you want it. Come and get it. If you don't, there won't be anything left. I'll leave a clue for you every few days, since you aren't smart enough to take me on your own."

"Sandburg, what the hell?!" He interrupted himself, gesturing fiercely at Simon. "Trace it," he mouthed silently. Simon punched buttons on his cell furiously and started to mutter instructions to whoever had picked up on the other end.

"Do your eyes work as well through smog?" Blair's flat recital didn't stop. "Maybe we'll find out in a day or two. Don't disappoint me, Jim, or you'll never get any, and that goes for a lot of other people, too." His voice hitched and the line went dead. Jim stared at the silent phone for a long moment, then put it away and directed a mute query toward Simon.

Banks shook his head slowly. "We didn't have time to complete a trace, but the call came in through the main switchboard, so it's been recorded. What the hell did he say before I came in?"

Jim just shook his head. "You heard the important part. Something's wrong. Very wrong." His eyes wandered to the window, and he scanned automatically, finding nothing unusual. "Come on. Let's get down to the switchboard and replay that recording."

Ten minutes later they sat in forensics, replaying Blair's brief message for the third time. Simon looked at Jim skeptically as he watched the reels of the recorder turn, doling out the magnetic tape steadily.

"His respiration's elevated and his voice is about as stressed as I've ever heard it. No footsteps, no other breathing. There's a faint hum, almost an electronic interference of some sort... I can't place it. I heard a vehicle or two passing outside, heavy engine noise, maybe tractor trailer trucks. I think he's in a motel. Probably somewhere between here and LA, according to the clue. It could be a true lead, or it could be a false one." Jim sighed. "He's definitely under duress, Simon. He wouldn't talk that way if he weren't."

"You mean the contents of the message." Banks hesitated. "Blair's not usually given to... innuendo. Is he?"

"Not that kind." Jim looked away awkwardly. "Simon, I think it's got to be Brackett. When we dealt with him before, he... made some implications about the two of us being in a less than professional relationship. I think he's gotten to Blair. He probably wrote that script for Sandburg to recite."

"There's no proof, but it gives us a place to start." Banks wiped sweat from his forehead and punched the stop button on the recorder.

"I'm leaving on the next plane to Sacramento," Jim's face set stubbornly as he scooped up his jacket. "There's no way he's gotten that far yet-- it'd take him over twenty hours in a car, and he's only been gone since nine-thirty this morning. Maybe I can spot him on I-5 and cut him off there. Forward my office phone to my cell. Have the phone company put a trace on every call that comes through it the second it connects."

"Jim, if this really is Brackett's plan, you're playing right into his hands."

"You heard what Sandburg said. There wouldn't be anything left, I wouldn't ever 'get any,' and neither would a lot of other people-- he's in danger, Simon, and I can't leave it at that. Or risk the possibility that innocent bystanders may get hurt because I didn't play along."

"Brackett wants you out of Cascade, busy chasing your tail!" Simon winced at his choice of words as Jim's gaze leveled on him coldly. "I mean it. He's a practical man. You can bet your ass he's got bigger fish to fry than just taking a little vengeance against you and Sandburg, Jim."

"He's probably got Sandburg's phone tapped at the U, and heard me ask him to come home," Jim agreed, pushing aside his anger. "I'll bet he's been listening in on us for weeks. That's how he knew what Blair and I were planning in the first place. That call was too much of a coincidence, coming as fast as it did. Brackett had just enough time to contact Sandburg and give him that spiel to recite. If we don't do what he wants, he'll hurt Sandburg. Or worse."

"But if he's out there eavesdropping and Sandburg's three hundred miles down the road, what's he holding over the kid's head? How did he make him call?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out." Jim's jaw set tight, the muscle in his cheek jumping.

"Maybe he's got Sandburg with him. They could be holed up right here in Cascade, Jim! If you fly off to California without being sure... Brackett's bluffed us before."

"I don't think he's bluffing this time, Simon." Jim shouldered into his jacket. "Sandburg's too agitated for that and Brackett never does things the easy way-- it just isn't how he plays ball. My partner's out there in trouble and he's the key to finding out what's going on. You watch over things here and I'll take care of finding Sandburg."

Before Captain Banks could renew his protests, his best detective was gone.

Jim caught the red-eye into Sacramento and rented a car, not bothering with a motel, and headed straight out to park on the verge of I-5. It was still early to catch Sandburg; he figured Blair had probably called from somewhere in Oregon-- maybe Portland or Eugene. He was betting on the interstate because Sandburg liked the kind of road where he could open it up and move fast. As nervous as he'd sounded on the phone, the constant stop-and-start of minor highways would drive him crazy.

Early or not, he stopped briefly for an Egg McMuffin and coffee, then ensconced himself on the southbound margin of the interstate about 20 miles north of Sacramento and began watching traffic. He opened up his hearing as much as he dared, wincing at the roar of engines, and wished he'd invested in a bottle of aspirin. It wasn't likely that Sandburg would be talking, but he couldn't take the chance that he might miss his partner on the strength of a simple omission.

His attention skimmed past cars with more than one occupant, and he made a conscious effort to keep his fingers or toes moving, changing position in the seat-- anything to avoid a zone on the babble and whine of traffic. He developed a blinding headache by noon, and as two approached he began to wish he'd thought to order an extra sausage biscuit for lunch. By four he was seriously thinking of packing it in; depending on how long he'd paused to rest the previous night Blair might already have passed him by.

Jim sighed and shifted sweatily against the vinyl seat, tapping at the car-keys and listening to their tinny jingle. He'd have to give it up when night fell. Though his vision was viable even in darkness, he couldn't cope with a constant stream of halogen headlights. His eyelids lowered wearily and his nostrils contracted with revulsion at the scent of exhaust. He'd had no sleep at all.

He kept his tired mind awake by cataloguing each car as it passed him. A busload of screeching kids wearing baseball uniforms rattled past. A few yuppies blasted by at about eighty miles per hour, following a guy in an expensive Beamer with a radar detector flashing on the dashboard. Tractor trailer trucks roared past, and each one might as well have plowed straight through his skull. His nose wrinkled at the smell from an ancient van carrying a pair of scruffy dopers. His eyes flickered past a station wagon carrying a family with a sleeping baby and a dark blue compact car with a guy in a baseball cap in the fast lane, passing a pair of motorcycles towing trailers.

Jim sat bolt upright and turned the keys so hard the engine whined a complaint. He waited for a window and jammed his car out onto the road, accelerating furiously.

It was Blair, his hair tucked up under the cap, his eyes shadowed with dark circles, and his mouth set in a hard line. Jim passed a few cars, letting a nice buffer stay between him and his fleeing partner. He could see Sandburg's eyes in the rear-view mirror of his car, his expression looking devastated, wiped out. Jim pulled back from the focused vision, concentrating on his driving, trying to keep up without being obvious. He dialed Simon quickly.

"Simon, I've got him. He's in a 1997 Ford Escort. Dark blue, Washington plate CZ12097. We're on I-5 heading south into Sacramento. No, I don't want backup to come and help get him stopped. I'd rather approach him on my own when he stops for the night. Right. I'll keep you posted. Look up the information on that rental, will you? You might find something useful... yeah. Later."

Jim slid the phone into his pocket and returned his concentration to the road. Blair had to be exhausted; he hadn't seemed to see Jim waiting on the edge of the road. Of course, it'd be hard to keep continually alert for pursuit during such a long drive, and Jim was grateful that Sandburg's attention had lapsed.

Blair stayed as far away from San Francisco traffic as he could, hugging the LA lanes in the interchanges. The lane changes forced Jim to reduce some of the distance between them, and eventually he realized Blair was accelerating. He looked up into the Escort's rear view mirror again, saw Sandburg checking it nervously, his expression haggard. Shit.

Jim swore again as a tractor trailer took advantage of Blair's sudden speed and forced its way into the space between them, beginning a steady but frustratingly gradual progression around a slower truck. Suddenly the slower truck's air horn blared and it swerved, almost striking the passing truck in the fast lane. The blare of horn and the scream of brakes sent a white spike of pain through Jim's temple, and he braked instinctively, locking down, feeling the car shimmy and threaten to go out of control. No!

Beneath the trailer of the swerving truck, a flash of dark blue nipped down an off-ramp that Blair couldn't possibly have made, but had. Jim cursed, fighting the sluggish steering, barely managing to keep from plowing into the truck in front of him. It put on a burst of speed to clear the potential accident the driver sensed building next to and behind his rig. The truck next to him straightened out even as he fought for control, tires running rough over junk that had collected on the inner rim of the median, fender scraping the concrete guard barrier and shooting sparks. The support of the guardrail was enough to put him on an even keel again, and he bumped to a stop in the median where the grass resumed just beyond the overpass.

Fuck. Lost him! Jim savagely gunned the gas and forced the car into a sharp turn, thumping in and out of the central ditch, not giving a damn about its suspension. He bulled his way into the northbound lane, causing more squealing tires, and floored it back across the overpass, taking the median again and jamming the car through three lanes of traffic onto the offramp at his first opportunity.

Not a sign of Blair at the bottom.

Jim turned right and headed into strip-mall suburbia, California-style. Maybe Sandburg was moving on automatic, taking the path of least resistance. It wasn't much of a hope, but he wasn't ready to give up on it yet.

Blair steered his car into hiding between an SUV and a U-Haul trailer that had parked behind a flea-trap motel and slumped to rest his forehead on the steering wheel, shaking. That little stunt had endangered innocent lives, but he'd had no choice. He couldn't be sure how sensitive the bomb was to the transmitter Jim was carrying. He couldn't even be sure when Ellison had picked him up; all he knew was that he'd looked up and seen the familiar silhouette two cars behind him shortly after he hit the third Sacramento interchange.

He'd tried to tell Brackett that giving Jim concrete hints without equally concrete warnings was a mistake, but the former CIA agent wouldn't listen. Blair grimaced, taking off the baseball cap he wore and running his hands through his sweat-soaked hair. He felt grimy and his eyes were grainy, like he'd been on the road for a month, not a day. He could smell himself like a farm animal. Even the clerk at the Wendy's he'd driven through earlier had given him a dirty look.

He couldn't stay here, that was for sure. Jim would have the local cops checking motels. He was going to have to load up on caffeine and bust ass for LA-- a roundabout route this time, so Jim wouldn't be able to second-guess him. He didn't dare not go to LA, not with this bomb on him... he didn't even dare go too far out of his way. Brackett's GPS would give him away very rapidly.

A part of him was surprised that Jim had followed him, considering the contents of the message Brackett had forced him to deliver. Blair sighed, a deep quavering breath that shook him from head to toe and strained against the tape that constricted his ribs. 'I know you want it... come and get it....' He knew nothing of the sort, but Jim hadn't let him down in spite of it all-- only Jim didn't know that refusing to give up was bad, very bad.

Blair struggled to gather his scrambled wits. It wasn't in his nature to run-- he preferred to face trouble head-on, but when it came to threatening Jim's life, no way. He had to collect himself in order to decide what to do next. He could be sure Jim had made his car and distributed the information, and now anywhere he went, cops would spot him in it. He was going to have to find some other way to get to LA.

Blair firmed his jaw defiantly. Time to think some more, Sandburg. He had to get some rest. He was about tapped out, both physically and emotionally-- carrying this bomb was a drain on his resources that made the kind of running/hiking he'd done when they pursued Quinn look like a picnic.

A bus, then. A bus to LA. Jim would be busy looking around here for the next hour or so in hopes Blair was too shaken to continue his drive. He'd sacrifice that much time making sure Blair hadn't just gone to ground. It might not be much of a head start, but it was the best he could muster.

Blair got out of his car and trotted to the lobby of the motel, tucking his hair back up under his hat again. "Where's the nearest bus station?"

He noted down the directions, which were fortunately uncomplicated, and hurried back out to the car. Running the considerable risk of passing Jim on the main strip, he headed into town till he spotted a taxi stopped on the roadside, letting out a passenger. Blair immediately stopped his car, leaving it on the edge of the road, and snagged his pack, dashing across traffic to jump in behind the startled cabbie.

"Take me to the bus station," he directed, then sank back against the seat as the car started to roll. Expelling an exhausted breath, Blair let his eyes shut.

"Sure you don't want a motel first?" The Hispanic-accented voice was sympathetic. "Get a shower and some sleep."

"Nah, not today."

"Somebody's after you." The cabbie speeded up. "Not too many fares leave a perfectly good car and come running to catch a cab."

"Yeah," Blair nodded warily. Shit. Was the guy gonna haul him to the police station?

"You look like a real desperate criminal." Good humor, no trace of threat.

"Desperate's one good word for it." Blair's hand went to run over the slick, alien sensation of tape beneath his shirt and one of the hard lethal lumps that lay beneath. He traced the faint ridge of a wire. He couldn't let himself think too hard about it, or he'd hyperventilate right here in the cab.

"You not pay your child support or somethin'?"

"Something like that," Blair agreed automatically. "Can you take the back way?"

"Sure thing. It's your dollar. You are gonna pay me, right?"

"Yeah." Blair grinned in spite of himself. "They're not after me for stiffing cabbies, man. You're on easy street."

"Then it's my lucky day." The cabbie swerved off the main drag and floored it.

Standing next to the abandoned blue Escort, Jim swore and took out his cell phone. "Simon? Yeah. I lost him in traffic, but I've found his car-- he's not in it anymore. Do me a favor and call some guys from the Sacramento PD to come out and get it, will you? Have them run a forensics check looking for any links to Brackett." Jim winced and held the phone away from his ear. "I know I said I could handle it without backup, Simon. Yes. Yes. We're wasting time here... I've got to scour the neighborhood. All right, just as soon as I learn something."

He hung up, squatting to look inside the car. It smelled rank of sweat and fear, but it didn't really smell like Blair. Still, it was definitely the right vehicle. There were plenty of fibers and lost hairs that confirmed it. Jim frowned, a thoughtful crease crinkling his high brow. It wasn't like Blair to abandon a sign of his whereabouts so visibly. He sniffed again, sinking into himself slightly. There were other scents in the car, too, beyond the strong unfamiliar body smell that somehow was Blair's. Car-cleaning detergents and solvents, the remnants of fast food, something pungent and artificial that tickled at his mind with familiarity. It lingered strongest at the driver's seat.

Jim reached out and touched fabric wet with sweat, rubbing moisture between his fingertips. Blair had been running scared, but there still wasn't any evidence that Brackett or anybody else was keeping tabs on him... what the hell was going on?

He straightened and slammed the door of the car. Across the road a curtain flicked, and Jim rose. A curious neighbor just might give him the information he needed. Crossing the street with a staggered jog timed to avoid traffic, he walked through a weed-infested lawn and stepped up onto the rickety porch. He rapped on the peeling mint-colored paint of the door, listening to the house fall silent.

A latch turned and the door opened a crack. "Yeah?"

"I'm with the Cascade Washington Police Department, in pursuit of a suspect." Jim flashed his badge and tried to look unthreatening. "That's his car abandoned across the road. You see anything?"

The door opened wider, revealing a seedy-looking rat-faced woman of about thirty. "Saw Alice come home next door in a taxi. Some guy jumped out of that car and got in it. It went up the street." She pointed vaguely. "I'd like to know where she gets the money for it. If you ask me, she's up to no good."

"The guy. Was he wearing a black baseball cap?"

"And a plaid flannel shirt and jeans." Her sharp dark eyes scanned Jim predatorily. "Average sized guy."

"That's the one." Jim didn't bother to flash a picture of Blair. "Can you tell me the name of the cab company?" Jim smiled patiently.

"Yellow Cab."

"Got a phone book with their number?"

She just looked at him like he'd grown an extra head, so Jim excused himself politely and thanked her for the help, then sprinted for his car and tore out looking for a pay phone where the attached phone book hadn't been ripped off its chain.

An hour and twenty-eight minutes after Blair's bus departed, Jim was trying to forget his brief interview with the hostile, uncooperative cabbie-- apparently the guy had taken a liking to Sandburg. Ten minutes after that, he stood in the bus terminal, where the ticketing clerk recognized Sandburg's picture right away. Jim smiled grimly, pocketing his copy of the bus's itinerary. He cursed every red light that caught him as he headed back toward the interstate. Once he was on the road for real, he pushed his battered car as hard as he dared. Blair had nearly two hours lead on him, and he'd have to check out every stop the bus was scheduled to make.

Sandburg wouldn't slip away from him so easily again.

Blair slumped in his seat at the rear of the bus, well aware that the other passengers were giving him a wide berth. He didn't care-- all the better. His relief was illogical, he knew that. The bomb would probably take out the whole bus and a respectable area around it. However, it still let him relax a little when people kept outside a certain radius. He didn't have to deal with their eyes or their questions, and that was a good thing.

It had been damned close with Jim on the road. All his nerves were jangling that Ellison wouldn't be far behind, and might even be waiting for him when this bus stopped. He had to do something to clue Jim in enough that he'd back off, and he had to do it without Brackett finding out.

Blair scrabbled in his pack, finding a near-empty red pen that he sometimes used for grading. No paper. Eventually he tore open the folded brochure his ticket had come in. His handwriting was bad, a shaky scrawl that testified to exhaustion and incipient, barely-deferred panic.

Jim. Brackett's wired me with a bomb. There are others in populated areas. Not sure where or why. You're wired to trigger mine. I'm rigged for sound so he can monitor me and set them off if I fuck up. STAY BACK, find him! He underlined the last four words emphatically, then signed his surname.

He surveyed his barely-legible scrawl. I can't leave that with anybody. They'd read it and they might call the news. Then there'd be a panic. He folded the note, his fingers shaking, and stuffed it in his back pocket. He'd have to drop it if Jim got close again. He should have thought of doing this before he left his rental, but there hadn't been any time.

Blair leaned his head back against the wear-shiny fabric of the seat and closed his eyes. He had to rest, had to be ready to run again when the bus stopped. Regulating his breathing with an effort, Blair began to run his mind through calming meditations, seeking the elusive and illusory refuge of sleep.

'I know you want it. Come and get it.' The words were Brackett's and they tasted foul on Blair's lips, but Ellison stepped forward anyway, oblivious to the small red blinking eye concealed under the tape that mummified Blair's chest. Blair tried to speak again but his mouth was thick and unresponsive, as though crammed with cotton wool. Jim's eyes were clear and peaceful; he seemed to be taking Blair's words at face value. His hands went to the button of his jeans in a shyly seductive gesture, his eyes soft with love, warm with promise. Jim, approaching Blair with love, ready to give himself. It was everything Blair had ever wanted--

Inside his mind Blair was screaming for Jim to get away, but his body was frozen and he couldn't move. The tape covered him from collar to ankle now, binding him in a fatal sarcophagus. Ellison's wrist brushed over the shiny surface of his badge where it lay clipped to his belt, and Blair realized the transmitter was hidden behind it. He took another step and Blair felt the bomb crackle with electricity, and Jim exploded in front of his eyes. Not him, Jim--

He jolted upright, only partly choking back a scream, and disgusted, frightened eyes rounded on him from nearby seats. "Bad dream." His throat was dry and chalky. "Sorry." They turned away hesitantly and he scrubbed his hand over his now badly stubbled face, wondering if he'd ever get a chance to shave again.

He checked his watch automatically. He'd slept for several hours. It was four AM and dark outside, with headlights rushing past in a never-ending stream. Jim was behind a set of those headlights, edging closer, working on making Blair's nightmare come true-- because even though Jim might not feel what he'd seemed to in the dream, it was his caring for Blair that was driving him to pursue this quest. Jim was drawing near; Blair could almost taste it. He needed to get off this bus before it reached its final destination. He needed to try something different, throw Jim off the scent for a while.

Blair raised himself and made his way to the front of the bus, crouching next to the driver, who regarded him for a moment out of the corner of a jaundiced eye. Blair smiled, aware that it looked more like a corpse's grin than a genuine friendly feeling. "Hey, I know you're not supposed to stop, man, but I'm getting carsick here. Really carsick. In a minute, I'm going to decorate the inside of this bus the likes of which you have never seen, okay? Would you stop for me at the next fast food joint? Or just the next ramp. Just slow down long enough to let me jump off. I'll never bother you again. Deal? Just let me get off the bus and out of your life."

The driver's mouth pinched as the rancid scent of Blair's body, sent haywire by Brackett's injection, swirled in his nostrils. He gave a curt nod and edged into the slow lane, looking for an off-ramp. "You're saving my life, man." Blair inhaled deliberately, steadying himself. A sign fled past, advertising an intersection with Highway 46 in a mile and a half, and Blair sighed his relief as it finally came in sight and they slowed to take it.

The bus paused at the bottom of the ramp and Blair jumped out, watching it accelerate across the road and head straight back up the diamond-design onramp, his debarkation just the faintest hiccup in its planned route.

He jammed his hands in his pockets, spared a minute to look up at the interstate, and started walking east. Let Brackett pinpoint him and fume-- he had to do what it took to avoid Jim, and leaving the bus at a non-scheduled stop had been a smooth move. Now if he could just avoid being picked up as a vagrant... not many cars were moving at four AM, but he was just close enough to LA to hope for commuter traffic. Hearing a motor in the distance, he lifted his thumb hopefully and began picking his way down the highway, persisting in his attempt to hitch even though car after car blew past him. At around four-thirty a battered pickup pulled over and as he ran to catch up, a thumb indicated the truck bed instead of the passenger cab.

Blair vaulted lightly into the back of the truck amidst an assortment of lawnmower parts and some half-filled cartons of gasoline. "Where you headed?" he called through the rear window-vent.

"Santa Barbara."

"Great." Blair gave a grateful wave. "I'll just grab a nap while you drive. Thanks, man. You're a saint."

The greasy black-haired man nodded and shut the vent. Blair scrounged down amidst the sad collection of disassembled lawn equipment, the wind from the road already biting at his ears and freezing his hands. Tucking his pack under his head, he tried to rest as the truck jolted along the road. This time it was easier, in spite of the chill-- his mind was calmer because he'd bought himself a little space. Two days down, and no telling how many left to go.

"He looked bad and smelled worse. Half the passengers refused to sit near him. I didn't want him to be sick all over the bus, so I just let him off." The bus driver eased his sweaty collar, looking at cold disappointed anger in the eyes of Detective James J. Ellison.

"Did you notice anything else?" Jim reminded himself not to take his anger out on the innocent driver.

"He was moving kinda stiff, like he was bandaged up or something. His hand kept fiddling with his ribs. I'd look in the observation mirror and he'd be rubbing his palm against his chest, like he hurt or like he was feeling of something he had under his shirt."

Jim frowned with concern, filing the information away for future reference. Something teased at his sluggish mind, but he was too weary to think straight, drained by lack of sleep and tormented by a thundering eyestrain headache.

"You've been very helpful. Thanks for your cooperation." Ellison tried to keep the dull worry out of his voice as he straightened and looked around the office of the desolate, pre-dawn bus station. The sky was just growing bright and Blair was out there somewhere, probably hitchhiking, and it sounded like he was injured, maybe even drugged. The bus driver gathered his things and left, leaving Jim to his own grim thoughts.

Sighing, Jim watched the driver hurry away and when he was out of earshot, he palmed his cell. He dialed Simon's home number regardless of the time.

"Banks." The voice was a little bleary, thick with sleep.

"I've got information on Sandburg's condition and possible whereabouts. I found a bus driver who talked to him a couple of hours ago. The guy let him off his bus at the intersection of I-5 and highway 46." Jim hesitated and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to ease his throbbing head. "The driver said he looked sick and hurt, Simon. Maybe Brackett had some goons work him over." They'd probably focused on his ribs, knowing the area would be hidden under his shirt. If Sandburg's ribs were broken, one might nick or puncture his lung. He could wind up bleeding to death under an overpass somewhere, and it'd be months before they found his body-- Jim shut that train of thought down with ruthless, vicious efficiency. He couldn't afford to let fear and other emotions further blunt the edge of his thinking.

"I'll notify the authorities to keep an eye out for Sandburg between LA and the area you indicated." Jim could hear the faint scratching of a pen as Simon noted down the details.

Jim nodded absently, forgetting Simon couldn't see him, and rubbed his grainy eyes. He was nearing forty-eight hours and counting since this had started, with no sleep to speak of. "Has Brackett gone public with any demands yet?"

"Not yet." Simon's voice was alert now, though still sleep-roughened. "I'll keep you apprised of any changes."

"He's probably still having too much fun watching us play out his wild goose-chase," Jim speculated dryly.

"Ellison, you in LA yet?"

"Yeah." Jim set his jaw and looked out the window at the grimy downtown skyline.

"Well, find someplace to hole up, get some rest, and sit tight. I think Brackett will make Sandburg call you again if he thinks you've lost him. We've got your phone run through half a dozen recorders at the PD, we'll analyze the call. He doesn't want you to give up. He knows he's got you dangling and he's not going to let either you or Sandburg go that easily."

"And meanwhile, he has us all right where he wants us." Jim's voice was matter-of-fact but bitter.

"You let me worry about that. Get some sleep. You're no good to the kid if you're too tired to think straight."

Though Jim chafed at Simon's order, he was too tired to resist any longer, especially when his captain was talking sense. "Yeah, I'll do that," he muttered, defeated. "Keep in touch." He folded the cell phone and squinted into the rising sun.

Ellison settled on a Holiday Inn near Santa Monica that stretched tall enough to give him a good eastward view of the city skyline. LA was a damned big place, way too big for a single Sentinel to have much hope of quickly locating one guy who wanted to stay hidden. However, it made Jim feel good to have the sweeping expanse of the city laid out where he could let his gaze roam, hoping that Blair might be somewhere out there under his eyes, invisible but present.

By the time he found his lodging the sun had risen far enough to glare down through the layer of dull brown haze that covered the city. Jim sighed, calculating speeds and times automatically, then gave up. Simon was right. He should get some rest.

He took a quick shower and put his undershorts back on since they were the only pair he had with him, arranging his cell phone within easy reach of the bed. Leaving the drapes open as though the vista of the city would give him some connection to Blair, he lay down wearily, staring up at the swirled plaster ceiling.

The next time Sandburg had an idea like this, Jim was going to cuff him to one of the support pillars in the loft and leave him there for at least two days. Ellison sighed. Not Blair's fault, really-- not even Jim's fault. It was just the damn twists of luck and karma that kept embroiling both of them in situations like this. Just the fact that Blair Jacob Sandburg was incapable of walking down the street to the convenience store without getting kidnapped by an escaped murderer or walking past a mugging or interrupting an armed robbery. Just like he couldn't go down a set of stairs without starting half a dozen criminals out of the shadows and he couldn't get in an elevator without finding a bomb waiting....

Jim sighed. He could hardly keep Sandburg prisoner in the loft, no matter how tempting the idea might be. No matter how reassuring it would be to just cuff Blair to the wire that made the railing in Jim's room and leave him there, where Jim could always wake up in the night and immediately know he was present and safe...

He shifted, half-amused and half-chagrined by the mental picture he'd conjured of Sandburg sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room in the middle of the night, looking resigned and disgusted and pissed off, his arm stretched out with the wrist cuffed to the wire. I ought to at least let him get some sleep... the picture shifted, altering to display Sandburg with his head nestled down on one of Jim's pale blue pillowcases, his sleep-tousled curls scattered, his lips parted softly as he breathed deeply in slumber.

Better. Jim congratulated his mind fuzzily, drifting toward unconsciousness, unaware of anything strange or surprising in the gesture as he rolled onto his side and his arm fell protectively across the body of the man who was only present in his dream.

"You're out of your fucking mind." Blair kept his voice as low as he could, not very low considering that he was trying to be heard over a cellular phone while riding in the back of an open-bed truck. "There's no way I can stay hidden in the same hotel with him. He'll corner me in ten minutes. You can't--" he lowered his voice as they stopped at a light, aware that the driver who was his benefactor was glancing back at him. "You can't take it for granted that he didn't find the rental when I had to abandon it. He'll know my scent now. He'd pick it up the first time he walked through the lobby." Another pause. "Well, fine! Why don't you just go ahead and do it now?" Blair clapped the phone shut, shaking.

After a moment it rang again. Scratching his trembling hand through his hair, Blair answered with a curse. "Goddamn you. I'll call him tonight and give him another hint if you want. But I'm not staying at that hotel. You want your fucking lever, don't you? Well if you want to keep it, don't push me, OK? I'm doing my job here, just like you want it, if you weren't too fucking arrogant to realize it." His voice crackled with bitterness. "You want me to stay ahead of him for a week, let me do what I have to!"

Blair fell silent again, listening to curt instructions and answering in monosyllables. He stuck the phone in his pocket when his long-distance captor hung up. Brackett was a son of a bitch, and maybe he didn't care if Blair made it all week. There was no way to be sure of his plans.

Blair's driver turned at the next ramp and Sandburg tapped on the glass, indicating he wanted to be let off. He wanted to stay on 101 till he got into LA. He jumped out as the truck rolled to a stop. "Thanks, man," Blair gave his driver a thumbs-up and received a nod in return. The truck pulled away and left him.

Sighing, Blair decided to walk for a while before trying to hitch another ride. He'd had good luck so far, but he didn't want anything else to go wrong.

As he hiked down the road with his thumb extended, the weight of the cell phone in his pocket hung heavy on him, feeling like the weight of the world. His stomach churned at the thought that soon it would ring again, delivering more of Brackett's taunts and innuendo for him to lay on Jim's head. Meanwhile the real crisis went begging for Jim's abilities: abilities that were being wasted on the futile pursuit of one Blair Sandburg.

Two rides later, Blair found himself in a beat-up Dodge with a girl who'd recently graduated from UCLA. He made noise in all the right places as she conversed brightly, nearly jumping out of his skin as he rode right past the hotel Brackett had told him Jim occupied. The air of the city felt thick and unpleasant in his nostrils, even inside the climate-controlled car. He entertained a fleeting thought of gratitude that he wasn't exposed in the bed of a truck-- the enclosed car would help stop the dispersal of his scent.

He stayed in the car for several more miles, listening to his hostess chattering about her job. It took an effort of will to force himself to leave Jim behind; he wanted nothing more than to hear his partner's voice telling him everything would be all right. His ride let him out reluctantly near Dodger Stadium and Blair managed a smile and a goodbye wave. The small, slightly coarse-featured brunette had been attracted to him in spite of his ragged clothes and his need to bathe. She would have been pleasant company if he'd been able to appreciate that sort of thing right now.

He sighed and set about trying not to look like a vagrant, walking briskly down the street as though he had somewhere in mind to go. Getting picked up by the law was the last thing he needed. What he had to do was find digs for the night and keep himself out of Jim Ellison's way until the master puppeteer Brackett picked up Blair's strings and made him dance again. When the time came, Blair would dance. He had to.

Sandburg shivered in spite of the heat baking up at him off the pavement. Brackett casually estimated that a single piece of the plastic explosive he'd used could level a city block. Given the fact that Blair now wore ten pieces.... He gazed about the bustling city street, feeling sick. How many hundreds of people would die if he didn't do just the right thing? How many more would be injured? Husbands, wives, sons, daughters. If Blair went up like an atomic bomb standing here on Sunset Boulevard, it would make the Oklahoma City terrorist bombing look small by comparison.

"Jim," Blair murmured unconsciously, his eyes tearing, and he tucked his shirt tightly around his body as though it could form a protective barrier for the thousands of innocent people his presence menaced. Right. As though he could protect anyone, as though he could pay back the kindness of the strangers who'd unwittingly risked their lives transporting him to this place. All nice people, he'd encountered none of the horrors of hitchhiking you always got warned about-- except that wasn't true. This time, Blair was the horror. He was a silent secret murderer awaiting a victim. Multiple victims.

Should he head northward and take out the idle rich, or east, where he'd put a major crater in much less promising real estate, maybe eliminate a couple hundred ghetto lives? Either way spelled trouble-- security would be tight against vagrancy in the former, and street gangs and other toughs prowled the latter, looking for trouble. Speaking of which... Blair sighed and accepted the necessity of doing something about his wallet. He still had plenty of cash on hand, but if he got mugged his escape options would dwindle very rapidly.

He began casting about for a restaurant with a public restroom, determined to split the majority of his money prudently between the insoles of his shoes. He'd leave a token amount inside his billfold to placate any thieves who might think he didn't look too scruffy to target.

An hour, a croissant, and a cup of coffee later, Blair felt better. He sat quietly in the glassed-in atrium of the cappuccino shop he'd found, tucked away in an empty, sunny corner. He was out of the line of sight of any major roads, and maybe he could stay here a little while on the strength of having paid for his breakfast. Lunch, really. Mid-afternoon was approaching. He'd have to move on soon and find himself a place to stay.

He swallowed the last of his coffee before it could get cold, stretching a second croissant with tiny bites. His jaw froze in the motion of chewing, his eyes locking on a single figure outside the window.

Jim. Standing with hands in his jeans pockets, scanning the horizon thoughtfully, his face set in an abstract of concentration. He seemed to be gazing casually, taking in the sights of the city, but Blair knew the mind behind those eyes. The tilt of Jim's head told him his friend was relentlessly cataloging information instead of gazing aimlessly across the landscape. He looked tired, Blair realized, but he'd had a chance to rest and freshen. The light struck his profile, gilding him momentarily as he took a step forward.

Blair held his breath, unable to do anything about the sudden thunder of his heart, praying to any god who might be listening that Jim would somehow pass over him unseen. Ellison lifted his chin and Blair realized he was sniffing the air for Blair's scent-- fuck, the closed car hadn't protected him enough. Jim stepped forward, moving vaguely in the direction of the coffee shop. A delivery truck pulled in and stopped, blocking him from Blair's view, and Sandburg flung himself out of the booth, startling a pretty blonde woman in the aisle. She released a startled squawk as he scrambled past her, spilling her iced coffee on her white blouse. She tossed a vicious curse after him, but he barely heard it.

Blair hit the side door of the shop with outstretched arms, running like hell, putting the building between him and Jim, knowing it wasn't enough. His mind raced for options, a countdown progressing morbidly beneath the surface of his skittering thoughts. Fifteen. Sixteen. Sevente-

"Blair!"

Blair's knees wobbled with the onslaught of dismay, longing, and terror Jim's voice inspired as his partner shouted his name, his tone filled with fear and concern. Shit, forgot to leave my note, Blair's mind whispered absurdly, but he didn't have time for more than a passing thought as his self-preservation instincts kicked in, leaving him searching frantically for an opening. Something. Anything.

Spotting an open van pulling out from the curb, he threw himself into the back, then swore, sweat bursting out all over his body, as it accelerated leisurely, moving slowly down the road. Jim gritted his teeth visibly and set in after it, feet pounding the pavement with a furious determination Blair had witnessed many times before, and Sandburg beat his fist frantically on the floor of the truck. Hurry! God DAMN you... he railed silently at the lackadaisical driver, too breathless to scream. His stomach lurched with the knowledge that he'd fucked up big-time, if there was a red light-- but the van picked up speed, gradually leaving Jim behind. One block. Two. Three.

"Sandburg!" Jim gave a final baffled shout and collapsed against a lamppost, gasping for breath. The van turned a corner. He'll follow. Blair knew it with every instinct in his body-- cab, civilian car, whatever-- the minute Jim paused to think he'd appropriate a vehicle and be in hot pursuit. Blair's van would never outrun Jim in a car.

Sandburg took advantage of the momentary slowing as the van completed its turn to hurl himself out. He fell on hands and knees, tearing both his jeans and the heels of his palms, then scrambled for the nearest alley, hearing the squeal of tires on the next street-- undoubtedly one James Joseph Ellison, fulfilling Blair's prediction with unsurprising alacrity.

He flung himself behind a dumpster and lay there, exhausted, thanking God that the impact of his body against the pavement hadn't set off the bomb. In seconds, Jim flew past in a commandeered car. Ignoring his aching lungs and stinging knees, Blair flung himself to his feet immediately and ran again-- it wouldn't take Jim long to discover that Blair had abandoned the van. Dealing with the borrowed vehicle might slow him down, but more likely he'd just leave it and handle all that later. He wouldn't give up the chase now that he knew he was hot on Blair's heels.

The cell phone in Blair's pocket picked that moment to ring.

"What the fuck do you want?" Blair flopped against a brick wall and spat the words into the mouthpiece, gasping for breath.

"Just wanted to let you know I'm listening with great interest, Blair." The calm tones mocked him from so many miles away. "Things got quiet. You give Ellison the slip yet?"

"Listen all you want, just don't fuck with me now, okay? I'll tell you when I'm clear." Blair didn't have time for the rage and the misery that rushed through him, or for the hatred Brackett's voice inspired.

"Good luck. You'd better pray you get the chance." The phone went dead, leaving Brackett's amused voice ringing in Blair's ears.

"Bastard." Blair's voice broke, his lungs straining for air, and he addressed the bug taped to his chest. "Do NOT call me again like this, you sonofabitch-- what if he'd been close? What if I was hiding and he heard you? I'll let you know when I'm clear," Blair repeated, then clammed up, needing to save air and energy, not wanting to give Brackett the satisfaction.

So much for holing up for the night. If he could get far enough ahead of Ellison, he might be able to rent a flop, bandage his hands and knees, grab a shower and a change, for all the good it would do. Maybe it would wash some of his new farm-animal scent away, at least for a little while. But he wouldn't be sleeping tonight, not unless he could devise some way to do it on the move.

Blair composed himself with difficulty, then stepped out onto the street and hailed a cab.

Ten minutes later, Jim abandoned his borrowed car about fifty meters from where he'd taken it. Except for some wear on the tires where he'd had to pull a couple of sharp turns, it was undamaged. He could hear the commotion surrounding its owner and the police on the next street. It was sloppy police-work to simply abandon it for them to find, but he had bigger fish to fry.

He narrowed his eyes and focused on the area where he suspected his quarry had exited the van. Blair's scent was here, yes... and there were two smears in the road... the light changed and he darted out into the brief traffic lull, going to one knee in order to touch his finger to one of them. Blood. He sniffed, confirming what he already knew. Blair's blood-- he'd jumped out of the van here, probably hidden in the nearest alley. Jim had raced right past him.

Sandburg knows me better than I know myself, Jim concluded wryly, returning to the sidewalk. Had he even managed to take the car before Blair was out of the van? Probably not. And now Blair was definitely hurt, at least skinned up. The smears looked vaguely palm-shaped.

He followed the faint tang of his partner's altered scent into the alley and set in after it, pursuing Blair at a calm, ground-eating trot. Sandburg had run from him-- run with every evidence of unholy panic, like Jim was the grim reaper intent on giving Blair an up-close and personal tour of his scythe. Brackett definitely had something over his head. What?

Contrary to the bus-driver's claim, Blair hadn't moved like he was injured. He'd run like a fucking madman, faster than Jim could have hoped to equal even with his longer legs. Sandburg had been nimble and agile as he jumped into the van that carried him away. He didn't move like a man who'd been beaten up, not at all. So what was wrong with him?

He realized he could smell that same scent he'd noticed in Sandburg's rental. Artificial, it underscored Blair's strangely altered body scent with its faint acrid tang. Frowning, he followed the scents until they led him back out onto Sunset Boulevard and then dispersed, becoming the same faint, elusive hint that had drawn him out of his hotel and led him downtown to the coffee shop where he'd nearly caught up to Blair.

So, Sandburg had found a cab-- not a bus, the nearest stop was a block away from where the trail ended. Well, he'd traced Blair by scent once already; he could do it again. It would be faster than trying to track down the cabbie to ask where he'd taken his day's fares.

His jaw grimly set, Jim set his face southeastward and walked, keeping the scent in his nostrils.

"Fine. I think I'm clear. Are you happy now? And I don't think he needs any more hints, man. He nearly caught me today." Blair babbled at his own chest, feeling so weary he could barely stand. He slumped onto the bed in his newly-rented motel room, ignoring the possibility of vermin on the filthy bedding, too miserable to care. A shower, that's what he needed. A shower and sleep, and Jim's arms wrapped solidly around him, keeping him safe... like he could ever ask for that.

Simply lying on the bed was seducing him toward sleep, dragging his eyelids downward relentlessly. He forced himself to get up, his body a lead-heavy and reluctant participant in the process. Bitterly Blair stripped off his shirt, wincing at the gummy, hot sensation of tape stretching over his chest and ribs. He peeled out of his jeans too, dumping everything on the slightly rumpled coverlet, then staggered into the bathroom. He had to get out of this town if he was going to avoid Jim; his internal radar was bleating insistently. Jim had followed his scent into downtown, and he'd follow it again. He had just the margin of time granted by his evasion and Jim's need to take care as he traced Blair's path.

It felt good to sluice the grit and dirt off his body, even though his torn palms and his knees stung fiercely as he soaped them. He scrubbed in spite of the pain, trying to ward off infection. Water beaded on the dull silver tape that mummified his chest, then rolled away. Blair sighed and stepped out of the shower, drying himself with brisk, harsh strokes. He badly needed sleep... but Jim was so close he could only risk it while he was moving.

He was too fucking tired to drive a rental, and he couldn't take a plane... that was assuming Brackett would let him leave LA, which couldn't be taken for granted. Sighing, Blair dug into his backpack for clothes. He stepped into a clean pair of jeans and shouldered into a fresh shirt, then pulled on socks and his Nike boots, feeling the need to be ready to run at any moment. He moved to the window, flicking away the curtain and scanning the desolate parking lot. It was about five PM, but he'd already stayed here too long. Worse, there was only one way out of this room. That knowledge gave him the creeps.

"What do you want next, Brackett?" It sounded odd speaking aloud to the empty room. "I've gotta get out of here before he tracks me down again."

On cue, the cell phone rang and Blair opened it.

"Good job so far, Sandburg." Brackett's voice mocked him, and Blair felt his teeth grit together angrily, but he listened in silence. "You make a good fox. Today's escapades should keep the hound primed to follow the scent, don't you agree?"

"Where do I go next?" Blair's voice fell into a deadly monotone; he wasn't in the mood for jocularity. Discarding the filthy, ripped clothes he'd worn into the hotel, he zipped up his pack and put it over his shoulders. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it.

"To an outfitter supply store, I think. You're going to take a little trip east, my friend." Brackett's tone had lost none of its false friendliness. "To a very big hole in the ground: the Grand Canyon. I think I'll have you tell Ellison this, Blair: tell him that if he wants your little hole, he'll have to follow you through a much grander one." The voice dripped with cruel honey. "That should be perfect, don't you agree? And be sure to tell him what a good job he's done, following his little piece of ass."

The phrases shuddered through Blair, the very idea of delivering those statements into Jim's ears nauseating him. He shivered, eyelids closing.

"Do it, Sandburg." Brackett's voice went icy. "Do it now. Use the hotel phone-- you'll be leaving immediately anyway. Leave this line open and pick it back up when you've finished."

Blair set the cell down, his fingers shaking with a mixture of rage, loathing, and reluctance. He moved to the hotel phone and tried to dial out. He received no outside line, so he had to call the front desk to have his phone set up for connection, then tried again.

A single ring was followed by Jim's voice, taut with exhaustion and stress. "Ellison."

Blair clutched the phone, taking a deep shaky breath. "You... you've done a good job following your little piece of ass." He could hear the faint, tinny chuckle from the cell phone that held the line open to Brackett, and desperately hoped Jim would hear it and recognize Brackett's voice.

Jim's breath hissed between his teeth audibly, but he remained calm when he spoke. "Chief--"

"If you want my little hole, you're going to have to follow me through a much grander hole first," Blair blurted miserably, delivering his clue perforce.

Jim didn't seem put off by the innuendo, his voice returning immediately, reassuring and strong. "I understand, Chief. It's going to be all right, Blair, do you hear me? I know Brackett's got something hanging over you. Just sit tight, let me--"

"No," Blair's voice shook a little. "Not yet, okay?" He clung to the phone for a moment, just breathing, then remembered-- they'd be tracing the line, he'd lose his slight advantage. "I've got to keep going."

"Okay, Blair." Jim's voice was quiet and concerned. "Just hang on."

Blair quietly laid the phone in its cradle, unable to say more, then picked up the cell phone again.

"Very touching," Brackett mocked him in biting, sugary tones, making Blair wonder momentarily whether the former CIA agent had managed to tap Jim's cell phone. "Now you'd better get moving, because you stayed on long enough for the boys at the PD to trace the call. I'll talk to you again tomorrow-- if you make it that long." He hung up.

Blair nodded at the dead line, then stood. The note he'd written for Jim was still in the pocket of his abandoned jeans. Good. Brackett might hear every word he said, but he couldn't know about the note.

Feeling reassured and strengthened just by having heard Jim's voice, Blair let himself out of the room and shut the door behind him. He needed to find transportation for the next leg of his journey.

Jim closed his silent phone and took a deep breath, feeling it wash into his lungs, carrying the faint burn of pollution. He exhaled, releasing the polluted air into the afternoon. The taint remained, lurking deep inside him. He opened the phone again and immediately called Simon.

"Did you run a trace?" No preliminaries or formalities. He kept walking, just as he'd done while Blair spoke to him, automatically homing in on the faint scent of his partner's body.

"Yeah. The fax from the phone company should be coming in any second now." Banks paused, and there was the rattle of paper. "It's a Motel Six in Fullerton near California State, Jim." He read the street address, and Ellison memorized it.

"Thanks." Jim began scanning the street for a cab, dismayed that there were none in sight. "I'll get there as soon as possible."

"Let me guess. You don't want backup." Jim could hear the faint wet crunch of teeth worrying rolled tobacco.

"Right. He'll be long gone before the LAPD could get a unit there anyway," Jim predicted. "This is Sandburg, Simon. He'll think of a way to get us the information he's got. Let me check out that motel room before you call in a bunch of unknowns."

"This is the last time I'm holding back, Jim. You've missed him too many times already. If his motel doesn't pay off, I've got to call in the local authorities," Simon warned. "So far, the kid's our only source of information on Brackett's activity. If it even is Brackett."

"It's Brackett." Jim responded grimly, voice totally flat. "I heard him laughing while Blair made his last call-- it sounded like he was on a recording, or maybe coming through a second phone line that was open in the background."

Simon paused, chewing his cigar in Jim's ear. "Well." He didn't sound pleased, in spite of the confirmation of their earlier guess. "I'll have Forensics examine the tapes to confirm that, if you want--"

"No need at present." Jim knew his words were curt. "That's all there was to hear." It wasn't, not by a long shot, but Jim was unwilling to recite the rest. "The less people who... who know what was said, the better."

Simon's silence indicated agreement, but it didn't last long. "Ellison..."

"What, Captain?" Simon's tone gave Jim pause, and he responded with instinctive, defensive formality.

"Are you sure you're... maintaining your objectivity?" Before Jim could release the tirade of words his in-drawn breath would have fueled, Banks continued. "Not that I believe that garbage Brackett's scripting Sandburg with. But you two are friends, roommates-- this is the second time you've refused backup. You lost him the first time. Innocent citizens have been threatened and you just confirmed there's a man behind it who's more than capable of carrying through with that threat, Jim."

Jim shut his eyes and drew a deep breath-- again it failed to cleanse him. "All right, Simon. If I don't find anything helpful in that hotel room, we'll bring in more pursuit. Local police, the feds, whoever you want." I'm sorry, Blair. He could feel his jaw twitching with tension as he clamped his teeth together.

"Good." Jim could almost see Banks' gruff nod. "Now get your ass moving and find something."

"Ten-four." Jim cut the connection then dialed the operator and called a taxi.

He entered Blair's empty hotel room twenty minutes later, having bullied the sullen clerk into giving him a key by flashing his badge. Sure enough, Blair's scent and some of his things were within. The success set Jim's adrenaline pumping. The air was still humid, and he could hear the dripping of the showerhead. Rumpled bedding, but not enough for sleep. Sandburg had barely paused here, lingering just long enough to clean up and call Jim.

There were Band-Aid wrappers and medicinal-smelling cotton balls in the wastebasket, and Jim was glad Blair had taken the time out to tend to himself. He moved further into the room and picked up Blair's shirt. A faint, lingering warmth tingled in Jim's fingers. He moved the soft cotton between his fingers, inhaling.

The pungent scent that he'd noticed before was much stronger in the fabric. Artificial, it hadn't been made by Blair's body. He scented it again, closing his eyes. It was finally strong enough to spark the elusive memory, drawing it rapidly toward the surface. Jim's forehead creased with concentration. Something worn under his shirt...? Identical to but stronger than the odd artificial smell in the car. Glue... no... tape! His memory of the scent finally surfaced fully in his mind, connecting to a concrete image. Duct tape. But why would Blair be taped up? Unless... Brackett had taped something to him. Shit. A wire, an explosive? Both? He was suddenly sure of it.

Jim swallowed hard, thinking of how Blair must feel to be running from Jim, constantly only one step ahead, with one of Lee Brackett's gadgets strapped to him and primed to go off without notice.

After quickly checking the single shirt-pocket and coming up empty-handed, he dropped the shirt on the bed and scooped up Blair's jeans. Dirt-encrusted and smeared with something that looked like engine oil, they had less of the tape-smell and more of Blair's own disrupted scent. He quickly rifled through them, fingers encountering a crinkle of paper in the right-hand front pocket. He snatched it out, forgetting the garment in his hands. His eyes scanned Blair's ragged scrawl, and he sat down heavily on the bed. No wonder Sandburg had run from him... a transmitter? But where?

Snatching himself upright, Jim started scrabbling through his own clothing, fury coalescing in a red haze before his eyes. Brackett couldn't have fed him the transmitter, or it would have passed through his body. It couldn't have been implanted subcutaneously because Jim hadn't had any lapses in consciousness recently-- hell, he hadn't even zoned. Furthermore, he'd worn subcutaneous transmitters before; the area of implantation was always sore and you could feel the tiny lump inside. That left his clothes, his shoes, and his wallet-- or maybe his belt was rigged. Damn it, if he had to go after Blair stark naked, he would, and propriety could go to hell.

Jim stilled himself by force of will with his belt on the floor and one shoe half-off. All right, he couldn't go near Blair, but he could still follow him, still protect him, still work to keep him safe. He had to find some way to let Blair know that his note had been found and that Jim wouldn't push the situation. Not till all Brackett's cards were played and Jim knew if his own hand could stand a chance of winning.

The Grand Canyon. Blair would be hunting a way to get there-- a way that would endanger as few people as possible. He'd find a way to get there, and a clever one, to boot. He'd be scared, not entirely sure Jim had found his note.

Taking the note and the abandoned clothes, Jim scanned the room quickly. Finding nothing more, he left the rumpled bed for the housekeepers, hurrying back to his taxi with his small bundle in his hands.

It was rush hour and it took a ridiculously long time to drive back to his hotel. Jim resented every moment it took, his hands automatically clutching and releasing in the softness of Sandburg's shirt. The elevator seemed to take forever to reach his floor, and he fumbled his key-card in his haste.

At last he was in his room. Dropping the things he held on the one unused bed in his room, he reached for his cell phone automatically and speed-dialed Simon's number.

"Banks."

"Ellison. Simon, Blair left a note. Get a pencil and paper." Jim drew it out and read it aloud slowly.

"Damn." The Major Crimes captain exhaled explosively, and his office chair creaked an agonized protest as he flopped his huge frame down into it. "Well, at least we know what we're dealing with now. He'll probably go public with his threats and demands when he gets closer to whatever deadline he's waiting for-- meanwhile he definitely wants you out of the action."

"I'm not abandoning Sandburg." Jim's voice could have cut glass. "He's alive as long as Brackett needs him and I'm not going to be responsible for removing that need." Squaring his jaw, he flipped through the road atlas that had come with his rental. I-15 to Barstow, then 40 to Flagstaff... 89 up to the Canyon... the route was simple enough.

The silence from Simon's end of the phone as he considered Jim's ultimatum had a definitely strained quality to it, and to trained Sentinel senses, it definitely sounded like a major, thumping headache. "You do what you can to get Sandburg straightened out and then get your ass back up here so I can kick it for you." Simon hung up crossly but Jim hardly noticed, still following the trace of his finger across the map where a wriggling green blob indicated the presence of the Grand Canyon. The outdoors was definitely more his speed than LA, but what could Brackett want with a hole in the ground?

Jim Ellison was determined to find out.

Three days later, Blair eased his new hiking pack on his back, walking past the Grand Canyon Lodge and gift shop wearily, nearing the edge of the canyon. His collar chafed against his sunburned throat as he swallowed nervously. He could see the other side, but he couldn't see off the edge of this side. That was close enough to the canyon for any sane person, but Blair wasn't sure any longer quite how sane he was, so he stepped up toward the rail anyway. He waited a moment for a family to step back so that he could take their place. Edging forward, he pressed his palms against the hot metal and looked down, down, down. Vertigo swirled in his head and belly and he felt the earth tilt and turn under his feet. He gulped in a deep breath and held it, fixing his eyes on the far rim of the canyon, clutching the rail and willing his world to steady. Eventually it did.

More carefully this time, Blair eased his eyes downward. The glory of the visual experience was lost on him in his weariness and emotional exhaustion. His eyes flickered past the wide array of eroded hills and gullies, failing to note the colorful strata with their speckling of dark green vegetation. The Colorado River was a sinuous green snake in the very bottom of the canyon. He could see a nearby trail winding its way down into the gorge, a pale stripe with people walking up and down on it. From here it didn't look very wide and he didn't see any evidence of a guard rail.

The way he figured it, Lee Brackett had miscalculated by sending him here. Perhaps he had miscalculated very badly. Prying his fingers from their death grip on the rail, Blair slapped the cell phone in his pocket with contemptuous humor, taking comfort from its limitations, then turned and stepped briskly back to the gift shop to make a few purchases.

An hour later, he hovered at the Bright Angel Trailhead, scanning the nearby crowd nervously for signs of Jim or anyone who might be connected with Brackett. All he saw were families, mule wranglers preparing a train for the downward trip, a park ranger, and some college kids outfitted much like Blair himself, but exhausted and sweaty from packing their way out of the canyon. This was it-- his best chance to thwart Lee Brackett and live to tell about it-- his best chance to give Simon and the others in Cascade more time.

With a final grim, loathing look at the pocket that held the silent cell phone, Blair set his chin toward the edge of the canyon. He put one foot in front of the other, hugging the inner edge of the trail and refusing to look up further than the tips of his toes. The white gritty trail surface glared at him mercilessly and the sun beat down on the crown of his head, but Blair ignored the discomfort, focusing on taking one step at a time.

The canyon walls gradually blocked out the sky as he made his way down. Gradually he acclimated to the idea of the drop on the side of the trail. After changing sides at the point of a multitude of switchbacks, accommodating a few children who were even more scared than he was, and being required to stand on the edge of the path while the mule train passed, he could even look up carefully and survey the trail behind him.

At last the sun dipped behind the rim of the canyon and lengthening shadows overtook Blair. Most of the trail traffic had dispersed; he suspected people usually began serious hikes early in the morning so as to be at their destination in the canyon bottom or on the rim before nightfall. However, he had grown aware that someone else was still headed down into the canyon perhaps a mile or two behind him. The switchbacks in the trail made the fact obvious; at times there was probably less than half a mile separating them, as the crow flew.

Blair stopped and put his back against the canyon wall to study the other hiker. After a few steps, the other person stopped also and imitated his move. Blair experimentally took a few steps more, then stopped again. So did his pursuer. He nodded, satisfied. Jim. The way he moved, the size-- it was hard to have a sense of scale here, but it had to be Jim. The way he stopped when Blair did... he must have found and read the note.

Sandburg felt his throat close and his eyes stung. Jim hadn't given up on him, wouldn't stop following him. Maybe he'd even figured things the way Blair had-- deep in the canyon, Brackett's ability to use his electronics against Blair would be seriously hampered, maybe even completely disabled. Clearly he was keeping his distance so that there wouldn't be any possibility that he would set the bomb off-- Brackett knew about his senses and might be able to plant a trigger that even he couldn't find.

Blair set his face forward again and began searching for a wide spot in the trail to use for his night's camp. He found it where a ravine crossed the trail several meters below the point of yet another switchback. Casting a backward glance to make sure Jim observed him, Blair sighed and shrugged off his pack. Wincing, he rubbed his knees. The downward trek had made both them and his hips ache mercilessly. "Looks like a good place to stop for the night." There. If Brackett heard that, maybe he'd assume Blair was talking to himself, and not to Jim at all.

Far behind him Jim waved his arm in salute, acknowledging he'd heard Blair's words. Jim kept coming for several hundred meters until he located a spot slightly similar to Blair's, then sat down. Blair hoped that he had room to get his bedroll off the trail and be relatively sure he wouldn't roll into the canyon in his sleep.

Darkness fell quickly once the sun had fallen behind the rim and it took Blair longer than he anticipated to set camp since the only really flat area was the trail itself. He wasn't about to lie down that close to the canyon edge, so he eventually gave up and simply laid out his bedroll on a small tilted ledge where he judged he would probably be out of danger of possible flash flood waters.

Since Jim knew where he was anyway, he built a small fire to ward against the velvet pall of night that enclosed him, burning dead scrub gathered from the stunted pines that dotted the ravine. He heated water for tea and ate a handful of trail mix hungrily, belatedly realizing he'd skipped lunch. He wondered how Jim was doing, then sighed and set the remains of his supper aside for the morning.

A cougar snarled somewhere in the night and Blair felt his lips curl in a tired, self-deprecating smirk. He didn't have the energy to be afraid of it, though he probably should be concerned. It yowled again, slightly farther away, and Blair decided to take that as a good omen. He fed another stick to the fire, marginally increasing the glow that surrounded him.

The half-circle of a desert moon began to climb above the rim of the canyon and Blair stood, stretching aching muscles, moving out toward the trail. He stayed well back, eyes scanning the shadowed crags and crannies of the canyon. It was beautiful by moonlight, exotic and silent-- it looked unreal, and somehow it didn't seem as deep. This was the first time he'd taken the leisure necessary to appreciate it.

Blair glanced up toward Jim's stopping place and saw no signs of habitation there. Frowning, he stuck his hands in his pockets. Maybe Jim had found the transmitter and removed it. If only he could be sure... his eyes scanned the canyon wall, tracing the pale strip of the trail where it shone in the growing light-- there. Movement stirred at the point of the ridge, and the moonlight caught Jim's form as he rounded the corner and gazed down at Blair, only meters away. Sandburg swallowed, not sure whether to trust, his adrenaline jacking up with the instinctive panic of a cornered animal. Jim stopped as though he could sense Blair's condition-- of course he could hear the increase in Blair's respiration. Deliberately Jim set down his pack and propped it against the canyon wall. Stretching his shoulders, he quietly reached for the hem of his shirt and drew it over his head.

Blair's eyes went wide and he held still, watching as his partner very calmly undressed, folding his shirt and anchoring it against the canyon wind under the weight of his pack. Blair's mouth went dry. He wants us both to be sure the transmitter isn't with him. Riveted and unable to look away, he followed the slow, graceful motions as Jim stepped out of his jeans and boots, tucking them under his pack as well.

The night was growing cold as heat leached quickly out of the dry desert air, but Jim stood still for a long moment when he finished, face in shadow, bare body silvered by the brightening moonlight. Then he stepped forward into shadow again, moving down the switchback toward Blair in perfect silence.

Wind lifted a stray strand of Blair's hair and blew it against his cheek. He leaned back against the rough stone of the canyon wall and waited in the outskirts of the light provided by his campfire, half-shivering and half-trembling. This wasn't really the delicious, tantalizing play-chase they'd planned, not anymore, but now that he was isolated and possibly hidden from Brackett's surveillance-- Blair swallowed hard. Something of the heady sensation of predator and prey remained. He'd never thought of it ending this way, with him standing passive and waiting for Jim to come to him... and with Jim beautifully naked under the desert moon. He only wished they were free for something more to happen.

As though it would even if they were free. Blair held his breath anyhow, listening for Jim's footsteps, knowing that he wouldn't hear them. He strained his eyes futilely until a blur stirred in the velvety blackness, coalescing into a human form. Blair released the long-held breath as Jim moved forward slowly, the faint glow of firelight resolving his features now. He stepped forward very carefully as though worried that Blair might bolt in spite of the precautions he had taken for their safety.

Blair allowed himself one quick glance at the length of Jim's body-- the firelight-gilded chest and moon-silvered shoulders, enticing shadows highlighting the muscles of abdomen and thigh, momentarily hiding Jim's penis as he stepped forward. Blair swallowed thickly and held his ground, hands clenching with unconscious tension and longing.

Maintaining perfect silence, Jim reached for him gently, the fingertips of both his hands touching Blair's cheeks. He smiled a little, expression tender, relief and concern shining in his eyes. Blair felt himself melt with giddy relief, as though Jim's presence had made everything all right and made him safe again. His lashes slid shut and a fine tremor ran through him as he rested his weight against the stone, his awareness centering on the gentle pressure of Jim's fingers as they trailed down and were replaced by Jim's palms, cupping the balls of his shoulders lightly.

It felt curiously unreal to be near Jim after the long days of frantic flight, a sensation that was enhanced by his partner's bare body and the unnatural silence of their interaction, enforced by the listening device Blair wore. Ellison steered him toward the fire and Blair went quietly, savoring the sensation of Jim's presence and the hand that lingered on his shoulder.

Jim knelt on Blair's sleeping bag and beckoned him down. Blair sat before him, folding his legs. His heartbeat faltered and then raced as Jim reached for him again. The bomb, yeah, he'll think I'm just afraid-- Blair's tongue flicked out and nervously moistened his lips. Jim's fingertips caught in his shirt and his partner began to undo the buttons carefully. Blair felt a slow shiver race up his spine, a counterpoint to the burn that fluttered in his belly as Jim worked downward, his eyes intent on each fastening, hands pulling the shirttail out of Blair's jeans gently.

It felt almost painfully intimate to Blair, watching as Jim parted the shirt he wore, his hands moving with the utmost gentle restraint. Drawing the fabric apart, Jim looked into Blair's eyes, seeking permission before looking inside. Blair nodded resignedly and Jim pushed the thin cloth back over his shoulders. A crease marred his forehead as he viewed what lay beneath. He reached as though to embrace Blair, pulling him closer, and Blair inhaled softly, cursing the bomb for making this act only an ironic reflection of what he'd yearned for even while perversely blessing it for making it possible at all.

Jim's hands roved gently over the hateful surface of the tape, tracing the curl of wires and the unyielding packets of explosive beneath its surface, finding the electrodes and the small lumps that were the GPS transponder and the listening device. He circled his hands to Blair's back, leaning in so closely that Sandburg could feel Jim's breath on his face and the warmth of his body even through the layered tape.

Jim counted the explosives with his fingers, his face drawing tighter with additional unhappiness each time he found another one until his hands met in the back over Blair's spine and all ten pieces had been counted. Blair closed his eyes, shy of looking down at Jim's bare body, feeling guilty at taking advantage of his friend's nudity while Ellison's attention was so altruistically focused on more important matters.

Blair was so tired. He wanted to lean in, to rest his head against Jim's shoulder, but he didn't dare-- he shouldn't even be so close to Jim. Closeness risked so much. If Brackett set the bomb off they'd both be vaporized; surely Jim knew that now even if he hadn't believed it before. Blair flinched a little, moving back, but Jim's arms didn't release him. Instead they tightened, drawing him close, and Jim's chest pressed against his, heedless of the destructive power that Blair unwillingly bore on his body.

Blair sighed, a low quavering sound, then gave in to the inevitable and melted against Jim for a long moment, his head resting on Jim's shoulder briefly before he forced himself to pull back. Taking a deep breath and forcing himself to regain his composure, he scrabbled for his pack. Notepad... pen.

Jim took them from him and began to scribble rapidly. I don't think we'd better risk trying to disarm it. Blair nodded, unsurprised but disappointed, and watched as Jim continued writing. I bought all new clothes and new camping equipment. No more transmitter. Left my old stuff up on the rim. Jim paused and grinned a little, half-amused and half sheepish, acknowledging his nudity and the lack of a real need for it.

He just didn't want to scare me, Blair realized, and his throat closed with gratitude, an acknowledgment of Jim's caring. He managed a smile. He wished he'd packed in more clothes so that he could offer Jim something to put on, but all he had was what he wore on his back. It wouldn't fit Jim anyway-- he'd have to go back up the trail and get his own things.

Good idea coming into the canyon. Maybe we'll be out of transmitter range. Jim nodded warm approval and Blair felt conflicting emotions choke him again. We. So simple, so easy for Jim to use the word, for him to give this selfless, unconditional support now. Why wasn't it always like this? Why did this side of Jim only emerge when Blair was threatened, and neither of them could share their emotions properly? He closed the door on the desperate thought, reserving it for another time. If there was one.

I don't know where to go next. Blair reclaimed the pad. Can't stay down here forever. No food. No water.

We'll stall for as much time as we can. Jim's thoughtful gaze rested on Blair for a long moment. Simon's working on the case. Brackett has to move sometime, and they'll get him. We'll find a way to get you free.

Blair hesitated, reached for the pad again. Glad you're here. He was perversely glad even though it meant Jim was at additional risk. Somehow with Jim here, he could almost believe that things would be all right.

Jim reached and touched his cheek instead of taking the pad, giving him an encouraging half-smile. Blair noticed abruptly that Jim's body was covered in goose-flesh, the chill air taking its toll on his exposed skin. Frowning, Blair gestured at his sleeping bag, urging Jim to cover up.

Ellison rose instead, padding out of the circle of light in quest of his pack, and returned without bothering to dress, his clothes hanging over his arm. Only after he set his things down did he pull on his undershorts and his jeans. Blair averted his eyes carefully and covered for Jim's soft noises by making noise of his own, fidgeting and fussing with the water container and his sleeping bag, hoping that Brackett couldn't hear anything unusual-- or better yet, that he could hear nothing at all.

Jim laid his bedding out next to Blair's instead of seeking a separate shelf for himself. Blair sat on his sleeping bag, fiddling with the zippers on his pack, providing cover noise automatically as his mind raced. The narrow rock outcrop he'd chosen as his sleeping area wasn't really large enough to accommodate two men. Blair would have expected Jim's macho defenses to be set off by the insinuations Brackett had forced him to deliver, but Ellison was sticking close in spite of that.

Seeing that Jim was nearly finished, Blair slipped into his sleeping bag, turning his back to Jim's bedroll, and felt his partner join him. The slant of the ground was going to make sleeping... interesting; they would inevitably migrate downhill and wind up pressed together against the wall of the gully. Jim sighed softly, settling, and they lay in silence, neither man sleeping. Jim's warm palm settled unexpectedly on Blair's arm, stroking him lightly, a soothing motion. The moon rose high over the canyon by the time Blair felt sleep come for him at last. His last waking memory was of breathing in synchrony with the motion of the gentle touch on his arm.

Jim lay awake, staring up at the climbing moon. He had the advantage of at least one good night's sleep more than Blair, and he'd heard a prowling cougar earlier-- it would be prudent for one of them to remain alert and watchful.

Blair murmured indistinctly and shifted, gravity and the tilt of the stone underneath them sliding him closer against Jim's side. Ellison shifted away from Blair's elbow, finding the unyielding stone of the gully wall, then sighed as the elbow settled into his side again. Turning onto his side, he maneuvered his partner onto his side as well, then let Blair settle naturally against him. Sandburg quieted immediately, his breathing never breaking its steady rhythm of quiet, rasping half-snores.

The unnaturally lumpy feel of Blair's torso troubled Jim as he stroked Sandburg's arm in silent, automatic comfort, thinking. That much explosive could take out a respectable chunk of territory. It was wry comfort to realize that if it went off, he and Blair wouldn't have even a split second to regret their misstep. Blair was a dangerous package with a deceptively innocent appearance, one that could obliterate Jim and smear him all over the landscape-- whatever remained of it.

He couldn't think of another soul on Earth he'd hang around with under these circumstances-- given a choice, he'd be putting as much ground as he could between him and a bomb controlled by an unpredictable enemy. If he had an ounce of sanity, he'd hardly be cradling that very bomb against his chest, no matter what strings were attached. Emotional attachments were dangerous, all right, and Lee Brackett knew it; he knew the lengths to which James Ellison would go to protect Blair Sandburg.

Caring about Sandburg made Jim vulnerable, he'd known that for a long time. Perps had exploited it before. He'd violated an important unwritten law of Covert Ops-- not to let anyone become more important to him than his mission. Lying here with Blair cradled against him, his back turned on the citizens of Cascade and the threat Brackett presented to them... Jim had to admit that Blair was more important to him than any mission he could imagine undertaking.

It disturbed him greatly that he was so transparent to his enemies, particularly the most dangerous ones-- the intelligent ones, the observant ones, the ones who dealt in subtleties. When this was over, he needed to do some hard thinking about getting Sandburg out of the line of fire somehow. Remove a liability. It would be the best thing he could do for Sandburg and for himself.

Blair stirred, nestling his hips into the crook of Jim's body, exhaling a weary, trusting sigh. Jim felt his eyes sting and lowered them from the light of the moon, moving his hand to rub the bridge of his nose. He felt strange, his stomach heavy and throat thick-- he must finally be coming down from his adrenaline rush.

He'd never been able to make it stick when he tried to push Sandburg away before. He winced, remembering the results of his latest attempt, spurred by the Sentinel dream in which he killed Blair. He'd thought it was his own dream, not realizing that he was sharing a wavelength with Alex; thought he was destined to kill Blair. But all along, it was her-- her dream, her intent, her fate. Not his at all. Panicking and pushing Sandburg away in the midst of the crisis had thrown him directly into her path. Jim's clumsy attempt to save Blair had actually abandoned him to the twisted being who was destined to kill him.

This time, he was going to have to be smarter about it and do things a little differently. No ultimatums, no harsh words, no quick, ill-considered moves that would only serve to yank Blair's support ladder out from under him and leave him groundless and falling. This time, Jim would wait until Blair was safe, then quietly and gradually eliminate his partner's place in his life. In gradual stages he would reduce the inexplicable dependence between them until Blair thought that leaving was the thing to do, until he came up with it as his own idea.

A woman could help make it happen. If Jim could find a permanent, long-term relationship, Blair would accept that the woman had taken his place in Jim's life... but even if Jim could find a woman he was willing to spend that kind of time with, it wouldn't be fair to use her. He didn't really want that-- one failed marriage was enough. His experiences with Carolyn had soured him on "till death do us part" for good.

Maybe he could warm up to one of the newer fellows in Major Crimes and cultivate him as a permanent official partner. A strong new working relationship like that would eventually leave no place for Blair at his side, and then the kid could finish his dissertation and wander off into the ozone like he should have already. Like he would have if he hadn't lost his professional objectivity and befriended Jim, if he hadn't grown addicted to the adrenaline-junkie roller-coaster ride of police work.

Jim's arm slid around Blair's warm body as he thought, unconsciously burrowing inside the tangle of blankets and shirts to nervously re-examine the gummy tape, his hand absently moving to stroke briefly over his partner's warm belly below the unyielding, homogenous surface of the bomb. It was going to be rough, harder than he'd ever imagined. But he was going to have to do it. For Blair's sake... and for his own.

If they survived this.

Dawn came slowly, its faint glow bathing the canyon in subtle lavenders and deep purples. Mist rose off the river, a faint haze softening the stark crags of the landscape, catching the glow of sunlight and gradually gilding the land. Lavender turned to rose and purple warmed to blue, then darkened again to lavender and finally transformed to darker grays and blacks as the sun climbed over the rim of the canyon. Direct light burnished pale shades of rose to red and orange, picking out the seams of white and yellow that divided the exposed strata. It was breathtakingly beautiful even to a red-eyed, heartsick Sentinel whose partner was rigged with enough explosives to blast them both into orbit.

A steller's jay flittered past, drawing a streak of brilliant cobalt and jet black across the field of Jim's vision as it landed in a nearby pine. It called three times, scolding them and greeting the dawn. Its raucous cries startled Blair awake, and he stirred sharply against Jim. Ellison covered Sandburg's mouth gently with his palm, forestalling any damning exclamations that Blair might make before he remembered himself.

Sandburg stilled immediately, the panicked spike of his heartbeat receding as he regained his bearings. Still not trusting the canyon walls to shield them completely from Brackett's listening devices, they rose, broke their fasts with a handful of trail mix and a swallow of water, and began to disassemble the tiny camp in silence.

Jim kept a watchful eye on Blair as they prepared to move further down into the canyon, wondering exactly what his partner's plans were and whether they reflected Brackett's wishes in any way, either intentionally or inadvertently. He supposed it was possible that Brackett could try to hold the canyon itself for ransom if the notion occurred to him; however, the safety of a national landmark wouldn't have the same impact on the governmental decision-makers as the lives of people.

Sandburg looked better than he had, rested and a little less nervous, but there was still a pall of tension hanging over him, and he deliberately though casually kept his distance from Jim. A pointless gesture given the volume of the explosives he was carrying, but if it made Blair feel better, Jim wouldn't complain.

Jim scuffed through the ashes of their fire, dispersing the charred wood and ensuring that no embers remained by grinding the larger pieces under the heel of his hiking boot. Blair finished rigging his pack and headed down the trail before Jim had completed his bedroll. Sighing, Jim hurried his packing and fell in behind Sandburg, keeping within a reasonable distance of a hundred yards, more or less.

They maintained that distance throughout the day, winding their way deeper into the canyon, passing a number of tired hikers headed up and out. They reached the river around midday, Blair perching himself on an outcrop of granite near the suspended bridge and staring down into the green, singing ripples of the Colorado. Jim paused, then scuffled up to sit beside him. A basking chuckwalla lizard indignantly skittered away from his approach. The sun, almost directly overhead, baked down mercilessly, bringing out a sheen of sweat on Jim's skin. He wiped his face and reached for Sandburg's notebook where it lay rolled and tucked into a pocket of his pack, snagging the pen out of Blair's hip pocket.

What next? Jim scrawled, then passed the pad to Blair.

You mean you don't have a plan? Blair scribbled, and the two men gazed at one another with wry humor. We head down the river, Blair scratched at last. Easier than up, and further till we get out of the Canyon. And longer until they lost the protection of the tall, solid stone walls, cutting off the electronic transmissions to Brackett's equipment.

Jim nodded affirmation thoughtfully. We'll need a raft. Some of these rapids don't have a portage. These rapids were going to be tough. How the hell were they going to make this trip without a rafting guide?

Blair gave Jim a wide-eyed look, surprised. You've run the Colorado?

*Yeah. Long time ago. You? * Jim felt hope rise anew; it would help if Blair knew what they were getting into.

School trip. Blair nodded. Their eyes met for a long moment, exchanging a solemn estimate of danger and risk.

So where the hell do we get a boat? Jim scratched down the inevitable question.

That's the easy part. Blair's eyes lit with grim humor. We'll have to steal one. There should be a rafter's campsite a few miles down the river. Easy pickings.

Jim rolled his eyes dramatically, pleased when his mugging drew a wry quirk of a smile from Blair. Lead the way, Dr. Livingstone.

Blair grinned at that, tensions relieved for the nonce. They crossed the bridge to Phantom Ranch and made their way down Bright Angel Creek to the north edge of the river. Jim saw the silver flash of a leaping trout and felt a momentary pang of longing for his fishing gear; trail mix grew monotonous very quickly. There wasn't even enough straight wood for Blair to fashion one of his tribal fishing spears; the pine saplings that grew at this low elevation were stunted and twisted. Maybe they could make a fish trap by pushing a corral of sticks into the muddy bottom in a quick-flowing shallow, so Jim could catch the fish in his hands.

Blair sweated profusely as they headed down river toward the rafting camp, his condition concerning Jim. The tape that swathed his torso was thick and non-porous, holding in his body heat. With Blair sweating that way, they'd have to steal extra water, too. The powerful torrent of the Colorado might look appetizing, but the last thing they needed was to drink it and wind up with E. Coli or some kind of dysentery.

Blair pushed on gamely in spite of his burden, curls gathering in sticky ringlets against his neck where his ponytail trailed down. Jim noticed that his skin was burning slightly in the noonday sun. He stopped them under an overhanging boulder and fished in his pack, dragging out a bottle of sunscreen. Blair reached for it but Jim evaded him deftly, preferring to smooth the lotion onto Blair himself; Sandburg closed his eyes and let Jim's fingertip smooth across his red-flushed cheekbones.

Jim realized his heart was beating fast; he was looking too closely at that weary, drawn face. He realized he was enjoying the smoothness of the skin under his fingertips. He added thumbs and palms to his work, speeding the process, careful not to get the chemical in Blair's eyes. His palms tingled at the faint scrape of stubble on Blair's cheeks.

When Blair's eyes opened, Jim let him take the bottle and do his own arms. He turned slightly aside, regaining composure. It had to be the stress of the situation affecting him like this; normally he didn't feel a drive to care for Blair in such open ways. Normally his heart didn't race that way if he had cause to touch him. It was the stress and the heat, and the lingering sorrow of his decision to ease Blair out of his life. Yes.

Sandburg tucked the bottle back in Jim's pack wordlessly and they moved on, finding the rafting camp soon thereafter. A semicircle of sand guarded by boulders, it was already occupied by a raucous group of college kids and their hired guides. Jim judged they'd put in because it was too late to reach the next camp by nightfall.

He motioned Blair back and they found shelter in the shade next to a boulder. Jim kept himself alert, listening to the kids chatter. Blair just shucked off his pack and leaned back against the rock, closing his eyes. Eventually he slipped into restless sleep.

Jim had a plan ready when he woke.

We're in luck, Chief. I've been listening all afternoon, and it sounds good. There's a guide in training along on the trip. He has a notebook full of information, three trips' worth of notes on how to run the rapids. I'm going to try to steal it when I take the boat.

Blair nodded, pleased relief in his eyes. Yeah. It was about time they got a lucky break.

Even better yet-- they've got four bottles of vodka that survived the trip through Granite Gorge. After they drink it tonight, my job'll be a lot easier. They won't be very enthusiastic about coming after us in the morning.

Blair nodded and laid his hand on Jim's thigh, squeezing lightly, his eyes smiling. Jim swallowed, feeling his heartbeat falter and speed. Good thing Sandburg's no Sentinel. Voices caught his attention and he focused on them, feeling Blair's hand grounding him as he worked to filter out the roar of the river.

They've started on it. Let's camp. He led Blair back about a quarter of a mile and into a narrow cleft in the stone, where they wedged their packs and then dug into the trail mix. Jim remembered his plan to catch fish and hunted for sticks, gathering a small supply of slender ones that would suit his purpose. Blair watched, bright-eyed again after his sleep, but didn't question. Instead, he doodled idly in their conversation notebook.

When Jim passed with his assortment of sticks, he was amused to see Sandburg had been designing traps of the sort he'd planned to make. He shifted his burden into his left elbow and tapped one with his finger, a wide arrowhead-shaped inlet with an open tip leading into a smaller closed arrowhead corral. Sandburg nodded, pleased. Algonquin, he lettered hastily beneath it, and Jim grinned with pride in Blair's cleverness. He knew the damnedest things.

He missed being able to talk to Blair and being able to listen to the quick-flowing river of thoughts from his partner's brilliant mind. He was beginning to see how conversation governed the dynamic of their friendship. Without it, it was easy to think too hard, pause too long, and notice too much. Without it, their relationship felt alien, unknown, vaguely... what? Jim frowned a little, bending and retrieving more suitably straight sticks from a windfall pine. Heavier, that was it. More intense, deeper. Without the quiet babble of Blair's chatter to keep things light and pleasant between them, there was nothing to draw them into idle concerns of the moment and away from the larger, concrete span of their friendship. There was nothing to distract from the depths that span covered.

Finally satisfied that he'd gathered enough sticks to do the job, Jim strolled down to the river to set the trap. Blair followed in his wake, taking off his shoes and wading into the water about 25 yards downstream. He sighed with obvious pleasure at the cool water on his feet. Jim began strategically jabbing his sticks in the sandy bottom, keeping one eye on Blair. Sandburg peeled off his jeans and laid them on a rock, then shoved his boxers off and sat down in the concealing, dark water. He kept on his shirt, disguising the bomb strapped to his body, but tied up the ends of the shirttail to keep it out of the river.

Jim kept his eyes carefully on his fish trap, pushing the sticks firmly into the riverbed and ignoring the flash of beautiful, pale skin as Sandburg's jeans and underwear came off. He'd rolled his own jeans up to his knees, but they were getting wet, and he decided Sandburg had gotten the best of him yet again.

Finishing the trap, Jim waded downstream to join Blair. Standing behind Blair's watery seat, he slipped out of his own jeans and underwear, feeling oddly self-conscious to be naked in broad daylight out in the wild, unshielded even by trees. Sandburg kept his eyes straight ahead, presumably gazing at the striations in a granite boulder across the river. Jim sat down next to Blair and joined him in his peaceful survey of the rushing water, keeping half an ear out for hikers.

They sat for a long time and cooled off, unspeaking, then Jim noticed the water rising, beginning to cloud with silt, its rushing fingers dancing a billion particles of sediment against his exposed skin. He nudged Blair, miming a rise in the river by lifting a horizontal palm over its rippling surface. Sandburg nodded and they stood together; Blair bent to the rock where he'd laid out his clothes.

Jim blinked, eyes automatically focused on the bare, gleaming hips and oddly long thighs with their dusting of wet, clinging hair. His eyes lingered for a heartbeat on the dusky shadowed cleft between Blair's buttocks, and his cock surged unexpectedly, just like the river that had risen to dance ominously against the back of his knees. The Glen Canyon dam had opened its floodgates, releasing excess waters, channeling them down through the frail desert ecosystem. The floodwaters scoured away beaches and plants and stones and every last vestige of James Ellison's sanity. God, Blair was beautiful with sparkling drops of water flooding in rivulets down the landscape of his lower body.

Jim quickly turned away, facing upstream and away from Blair, who tapped his arm and handed him his undershorts helpfully. He stepped into them, tucking his rebellious cock away behind the elastic, where it protruded up toward his navel, damning evidence if he'd ever seen any. Blair handed over his jeans, too, and Jim strode a few steps forward, climbing out of the river to step into them without ever turning to face his partner.

Treacherous cock more or less safely hidden behind denim and zipper, Jim took a deep breath and turned to Blair, who held his boots and socks now, his face puzzled, clearly trying to divine Jim's thoughts. He shook his head a little brusquely, motioning for Blair to keep the shoes and the socks. He moved upstream to see if his little trap had been washed away yet, then waded out and reached into it, searching for fish. Jim brightened as quicksilver fins brushed his palms, then moved his hands up through the inlet and to the point of the corral, catching a fat trout behind the gills and lifting it from the water for Sandburg's inspection.

His partner punched the air with triumph, mouthing "Yes!" as Jim hooked a finger into the trout's mouth and gathered the sticks with his free hand. Blair accepted them as a secondary burden to the socks and shoes, then held the thrashing silver fish as Jim struggled into his footgear preparatory for the walk back to their camp.

Blair started a fire expertly and constructed a small spit while Jim cleaned and scaled the fish with the aid of Sandburg's battered Swiss Army knife. Shaken by his unexpected emotions, Jim hardly noticed the unpleasant scent and sensation, his thoughts wandering far from his work. Instead of concentrating on the fish, he remembered the pale flash of Blair's buttocks and the gleam of water sliding down the secret, tantalizing crevices of his body. He couldn't help but consider how the river must have played between Blair's legs, seeking out all the secrets of him, delicately caressing. He remembered how he'd sat upstream from Blair. Some of the same water that had touched Jim had moved to curl around Sandburg's body too, before flowing onward. He'd gotten hard just from that one glimpse of Sandburg bending over, hips round and inviting--

Jim took a deep lungful of air, feeling like a fish out of water, mouth gulping for something to breathe. Want him. Need him! ...Love him. Truth crashed down on him as though the towering walls of the canyon had toppled and tumbled down in shards of rubble, as though all the dams harnessing the power of the Colorado had given way and drowned him in a flood of water. He could no more hold it back, could no more put it back, than he could count the billion grains of sediment that had caressed them as they sat together in the river.

He darted a desperate, trapped glance at Sandburg. Unaware of the scrutiny, Blair bent over his small fire, feeding it carefully with the dead brush and driftwood he'd gathered from where it had wedged into cracks and boulders during past river floods. Blair had bitten his lip with concentration; the fire gilded his profile. Beautiful. Unbearably so, with his perfect tilted nose and soft mouth, with his pale, intent eyes under his heavy, intelligent brow. He had a square, solid jaw to match, making irrevocable masculinity of the beauty of his face, which might otherwise only have been girlishly pretty.

Jim rose abruptly, used a small amount of their precious clean water to rinse the gutted fish, and handed it unceremoniously to Sandburg. He left without meeting Blair's eyes, carrying the refuse down to the river where he tossed it in and then scrubbed his hands in the torrent.

I'll do the right thing for him. As soon as this is over. Jim renewed the previous night's vow with bitter determination, his fist clenching. He'd set Sandburg free at last, protect him from any more of the horror... protect him from Jim himself.

Standing, shaking wetness from his hands, he stared back toward the camp. This time he felt glad that conversation was not possible between them. He couldn't have maintained happy chatter in light of the revelation he'd just experienced. Not after gazing below the day-bright thorny surface of the land and the obscuring chaparral to find the lay of the strata hidden underneath. Not after descending to the heart of the river channel through layers of stony barrier and finding that the desert dams had broken and yielded up more water than he'd ever dreamed existed.

Jim finally collected himself enough to return to camp and they shared the fish in silence. Sandburg seemed comfortable in their companionship, but Jim was conscious of the aching void inside himself, scoured bare by the flood he'd endured.

Finishing his half of the trout, Jim laid out his sleeping bag and curled up on top of it. He struggled to keep his breathing even as Blair got his own bedroll and spread it next to him, seeking the comfort of his company. Sandburg lay down quietly and closed his eyes. The weight of his presence seemed to soften slightly as he slept, allowing Jim to relax.

Jim lay still until the moon rose, frowning a little bit when he got up. Rattlesnakes were not unknown in the canyon; scorpions were a given. He wished he'd thought to buy a tent; sleeping inside would minimize the danger of waking with something nasty inside one of their sleeping bags. Stealthily he tugged Blair's zipper firmly up under his chin, reducing the risk as much as he could, then set out to steal the boat. They'd have to leave at the break of dawn, if not earlier, to avoid the rafters.

The rafting camp fell still not long after one, the last of the determined drinkers finishing the dregs of the vodka and finding their rest where they lay. Jim crept quietly into the camp, alert for changing heartbeats or irregular breathing. First he sought the notebook, lying in the half-open pack of the young man who was a prospective guide. It was easily taken; the guide had drunk twice as much as any of the kids who were just along for the ride.

Jim tucked the plastic-sheathed notebook under his arm and ghosted to the edge of the campsite, where 5-gallon plastic jugs of water lay stored against the side of one raft. It was the smallest of the boats tethered at the campsite, so Jim simply lifted three full jugs into the raft and began silently picking at the knot, judging that sawing at it with Sandburg's knife would be far noisier. As he worked he counted half a dozen empty jugs; obviously the rafters hadn't bothered to fill up at Phantom Ranch. They could still do that if they had to; hiking back to replenish their decimated water supply would further delay any possible pursuit.

Paddles. Lifejackets. Jim added them to his growing load, feeling shamefully furtive. All the tents were in use, so he couldn't get one of those. He added just a little bit of food-- dried meat and dehydrated fruit, and some army rations that hadn't been stored very carefully. He took a last moment to scrawl a brief explanation of his emergency, contact information, and a promise of reimbursement on a sheet torn from the stolen notebook and tuck it into the novice guide's pack. Then he lashed the stolen supplies to the inside of the raft and took a deep breath, anxiously glancing back at the camp. Hopefully the rush of water would mask the scuff of sand as he pushed the boat away from the shore into the eddies at the base of the campsite.

He moved slowly, minimizing the grate and scuff of the moving boat as much as possible, then wrapped the tether around his wrist and picked his way around the rounded edge of the campsite. The boat resisted as it entered the main current and he leaned against its drag, towing it upstream with him, gritting his teeth at the resistance, muscles straining.

By the time he returned to the gully where Sandburg lay waiting, he was bone-weary. Pulling the raft ashore, he wedged the tether between two stones and returned to his bedroll, subsiding wearily into it and programming himself to wake early.

As he'd planned, Jim woke at the first light of dawn. He found Sandburg lying huddled tightly next to him, apparently chilled. The weather had changed, humidity settling into the air, and the sky was overcast, clouds sinking down inside the canyon, hiding the tops of the ridges. It looked like rain.

He shook his partner gently, watching as Blair's blue eyes blinked open, gazing at him for a moment with baffled weariness before focusing fully. Jim felt a pang of guilt-- he'd almost forgotten the bomb, almost forgotten the constant drain such a burden would have on Blair's emotional and physical well-being.

They unzipped their bags and climbed out into the gathering light. Blair dug out the trail mix apathetically while Jim retrieved the rafter's notebook. They sat together and ate, poring over a summary of the rapids they were likely to cover that day. Several were apparently going to be bad-- Horn, Granite, and Hermit, to name three. Blair's eyes skimmed the information alertly, his lips moving as though he were committing it to memory.

We won't have much time to scout or watch other groups take the rapids, Jim scratched. We'll have to estimate the stage of the river and do our best to follow the right line.

Blair nodded, eyes moving intently over the scribbled instructions. Always paddle for dark water, he added after a long moment. And always paddle. It keeps your momentum going so you're less likely to flip.

Right. Jim nodded approval, suppressing a fleeting urge to touch Blair's face with his fingertips. He jerked his thumb toward the river, a silent "Let's go." Quickly Blair tied their bedrolls and helped Jim strike camp. They lashed their packs and other gear into the boat, insurance against losing it if they flipped over in rough water.

Within minutes they slid silently past the quiet rafting camp, dimly illuminated by the early stages of dawn. There was little time to reflect on the success of their theft before the increasing volume of the river's roar warned them that they were approaching Horn. The water had muddied during the night and was flowing red and fast; Jim judged the river was at a very high volume. Their stolen guide's notebook had indicated a planned dam release volume of 18000 cubic feet per second, but given the likelihood of rain upstream the river was probably running considerably faster. That was good; it would ease the rapids.

They shot through Horn, choosing the prescribed path to the left of center, both of them paddling furiously. Jim spared a single glance back at Blair and saw him working hard, the muscles in his shoulders pumping rhythmically. His face looked calm and determined. He let himself relax a little as they came out of the rapid. Blair had performed well-- as he always did. They might make it through this after all.

After some coasting, they took Granite tight against the right wall. They also ran Hermit to the right, buffeted badly by laterals but carried through with something approaching ease due to the high level of the river's flow.

Jim was already soaked to the skin when rain began to fall, quickly thickening into a cold curtain that obscured both the sight and the sound of the river before them. Reluctant to pull out and make camp and lacking a tent shelter, they let the river carry them along, passing through some minor rapids without difficulty.

Crystal rapid was worse than the others, a rough terrain of rocks and furious ridges that threatened to buck Jim out of the boat. He shot a quick glance back again, worried for Blair, but Sandburg was still there, hanging on like a limpet. They sat through the aftermath of the rapid and drifted briefly, passing another camp of rafters who had decided to sit the rainy day out.

Jim was surprised when he realized it was long past time to eat; they pulled to one side of the river and stretched briefly, eating C-rations and poring over the rafting notes again under a nearby overhang. Rain dripped down off the ledge only a couple of feet beyond their faces. As they turned a plastic-sheathed page Jim felt Blair's cold fingers brush against his and winced; now that he wasn't generating heat through the activity of paddling, Blair was getting chilled.

A quick glance showed that his friend was manfully resisting the need to shiver. Jim admitted that he was unpleasantly clammy himself in spite of the insulation provided by the thick orange life jacket he wore. He hadn't paused to consider the possibility of getting too cold when he prepared for this trip, hell, this was the fucking desert, wasn't it? But the treacherous combination of water and the downstream wind whipping through the canyon made wind chill a factor to be reckoned with.

Inevitable thoughts of hypothermia struck him. He blinked, tantalized by the mental image of stripping to climb into a single sleeping bag to use his body heat to warm a naked Blair. The notion shot a needle of fire straight to his cock and convinced him it was time to think about finding shelter for the night. There was no dry wood; they'd just have to curl up inside their sleeping bags and wait for body heat to do the trick.

Jim laid his hand on Blair's chest, pushing lightly, a silent "stay here." Blair nodded and buried his nose in the notebook while Jim scouted the location quickly. There were no side canyons nearby, and he found nothing better than the ledge they had already found to huddle under. A side canyon could be a serious liability in rain like this-- small canyon rivers would be at flash flood stage in this weather, and sheltering near one of them would be too risky for Jim's taste.

In spite of the dangers inherent in looking for a wider pull-out or a side canyon, he considered the possibility of pushing on down the river and looking for one anyway in hopes of improving their campsite, but after some thought he discarded the idea. There was no guarantee any desirable campsites would be available, especially with the rain. It would be keeping most of the rafters holed up in their tents.

Sighing, he returned to the raft, ignoring the pouring rain and the wind that whipped it into his face. Blair joined him, blinking a little when Jim hauled the raft up onto the beach instead of pushing back out into the river. He lent his strength to the project with a will, and together they pushed the boat well above the water line, tethering it securely to ensure against rising water.

They hauled their packs out and propped them under the ledge, sitting down between them to strip out of their waterlogged clothes. Jim noticed a cut on Blair's arm and reached to his pack for the first-aid kit, bandaging it carefully. Cuts tended not to heal while you were on the river; kept wet and irritated, they often showed a tendency to fester. Blair watched him, shivering now, and Jim gestured at Sandburg's bedroll.

Blair untied and unrolled his sleeping bag carefully, keeping it away from the cascade of rain pouring over the edge of the ledge. As Blair undressed, Jim frowned-- there wasn't enough room under the ledge for two sleeping bags to lie. They'd have to sit up and prop their backs against the stone.

Sandburg finally opened the zipper of his bag just as Jim reached for his own bedding. "Shit!" It was the first word either of them had spoken in well over 24 hours, and it startled Jim badly, making him fumble his pack and nearly spill his bedroll out into the rain. White-faced, Blair held back a flap of his sleeping bag, staring inside. Jim scrambled to look inside at the tiny, wicked-looking straw-colored scorpion crawling there, its tail lifted menacingly. One of the lethal ones. Of course. Only Blair Sandburg, Jim mused wryly, his stomach churning-- what if it hadn't been readily visible and Blair had climbed into the bag with it?

Blair flipped the scorpion out of his gear and reached for his boot to squash it quickly. Jim approved; it was a prudent act and a necessary one, especially if he didn't want it in there with him again before morning. Jim didn't even want to think about when the thing had gotten into the bag to begin with. Scorpions traveled mainly after dark and if it had crawled in there with Blair during the night, Sandburg had used up enough luck for at least ten men in not being stung before he got out.

That settled it. They were going to get a tent even if Jim had to threaten murder and mayhem to wring one out of the next gang of rafters they met.

Sandburg shifted his grip on the boot and used it to flick the tiny flattened scorpion out into the rain with a shudder. Together he and Jim carefully opened each sleeping bag and inspected them for other unwelcome visitors. Blair was shivering uncontrollably when they finished -- the unexpected delay after undressing and the shock of seeing the scorpion had taken precious heat out of him. His hands were clumsy and stiff with cold and his lips were faintly bluish; as Jim watched him struggle to re-zip the bag he felt his heart begin to pound hard. Guilty, nervous elation thrummed through him as he recognized the first stage of hypothermia.

Sandburg wouldn't ask. He would tuck himself into the bag and lie shivering all night before he asked. But Jim knew what was needed, what was more than reasonable-- and they'd shared close quarters before, hadn't they? Not letting himself think, he quickly shucked out of his clothes and laid them over his pack, doing the same with Blair's. Then he slid his body in next to Blair quietly and pulled up the uncooperative zipper, meeting Sandburg's eyes for only the briefest moment before spooning their bodies together within the faintly damp shelter of the bag.

There was enough room for them to lie down beneath the ledge since they were sharing a bag, so Jim eased them to a prone position, struggling a little against the close confines of the sleeping bag. The duct tape Blair wore was wet and faintly lumpy and sticky against his chest, but otherwise nothing separated them. Jim wished he'd dug out some dry underwear for himself-- Blair was not far enough along the course of hypothermia for a small thin garment to have hindered the warming process critically.

Instead of focusing on the shivering body pressed against his, Jim preoccupied himself with the memory of the tiny scorpion, diverting his arousal by imagining it climbing into Blair's bag in the night while Jim had gone to steal their raft. He imagined Blair moving in his sleep, every time barely missing an encounter with its vicious stinger. He pictured it creeping down Blair's body, an unknown deadly menace that could easily have circumvented the far cruder one that he wore. The tangible reminder of the bomb helped too, as did thoughts of Brackett wielding its detonator. Properly treated, the scorpion sting might not be lethal to a healthy adult-- but with the bomb, there could be no question.

Gradually Blair's shivers subsided and eventually the two men slept stiffly on the unyielding rock, their still faces spattered by occasional gusts of wind-driven rain. They were wakened briefly during the night by the ominous clatter of a rock-slide, but they were safe under their ledge, and just as quickly they went back to sleep.

Jim awoke with a crick in his neck, a stiff, crampy leg, an armful of warm, damp, sandy anthropologist, and a hard-on he could have used to hammer railroad spikes. Nestled firmly into the cleft of Blair's ass, it ached with sweet insistence, responding to Blair's sleeping movements. Jim catalogued the soft rhythmic tide of his breath, the counterpoint flex of the blood pulsing in his veins, the shift and sigh as he eased the position of his arm underneath his body. The changes in Sandburg's breathing alerted Jim that he was awakening slowly, and worst of all, they had somehow shifted in the night so that he was on the side of the bag that had the zipper.

Ellison shut his eyes desperately and regulated his breathing, taking refuge in the paltry defense of pretended sleep. Cursing silently, he tried not to tense and give himself away, pleading in the name of all that was holy for Blair to let himself out of the bag quietly and leave Jim the illusion of his failed dignity.

Sandburg came awake with a soft murmur that segued into a sleepy yawn. He stretched slightly and then went still, pulse rate jacking sky-high almost instantly. Jim lay perfectly still, breathing regularly, desperately waiting for the sharp purr of the zipper-- but instead Sandburg moaned very low in his throat. He swallowed almost inaudibly and subtly nestled his hips back against Jim. Jim ignored the sweet torment, maintaining the rhythm of his breathing through sheer bloody-minded force of will.

Then something nudged gently at his wrist where it lay across Blair's belly, and he recognized the soft velvet touch as the head of Sandburg's penis, his shaft lengthening and thickening with abrupt, enthusiastic arousal. The air suddenly swam with pheromones, surging in time with the wild race of Blair's pulse. Jim realized hazily that he'd just nuzzled closer, his lips gently mouthing the tempting curve of Blair's ear.

Blair murmured softly, a warm, surprised sound of pure bliss, and Jim knew he was busted, his act shattered. Sandburg's free arm moved, his fingers gently lacing into Jim's and shyly urging Jim's hand toward his cock. Still hazy with lust, Jim let himself be moved, the unfamiliar thick shaft fitting perfectly inside his palm. He closed his hand around it, tugging upward gently, drawing his thumb around the curve of the broad smooth head. He slid his palm over the slit at the top, feeling silky moisture there.

Blair shivered with delight and Jim blinked, the sensual haze in his brain lifting just enough for him to remember his resolve. Resisting the gentle pressure of Blair's hand over his, he freed himself and patted meaningfully at the ugly sheath of tape that wound around his partner's torso. Blair sighed, his body tightening with dismay at the reminder. After a long moment he moved, the zipper sliding downward noisily, and he emerged from the sleeping bag.

The rain had stopped but the sky was still dim with clouds, a low mist lingering this close to the river. Blair hurried to dress himself in yesterday's wet clothes; though the wind had subsided it was still damp enough to be chilly, especially since the sun hadn't fully risen above the clouds. Jim realized suddenly that Sandburg didn't have anything else to put on but the single outfit he'd been wearing yesterday in the rain. Sighing, he hoisted himself upward, flushing crimson at the feeling of his heavy erection swinging between his legs, and offered Blair a dry shirt from his own pack.

Sandburg slid it onto his shoulders. As his head emerged his blue eyes skimmed Jim's bare body, lingering on the blood-flushed length of his cock, his expression mellowing with desire, then tightening self-consciously. He flicked a nervous look at Jim's face but didn't seem to find what he sought. Looking away abruptly, he turned his back while Jim dressed in his dry jeans and wet shirt. Blair's penis made a long, tantalizing ridge down his thigh inside his jeans and Jim had to remind himself to avoid looking at it.

Jim's mind was whirling, not aided either by his eager body or by their still-rampant pheromones; had he been less taken off-guard, they would still be in the sleeping bag together, kissing and touching and... and making love, regardless of Brackett's bomb. Foolish, suicidally so. Criminally so. Tantalizing to the point of agony. Behind Blair's back, Jim lifted his hand to his nose, scenting the strong musk there, and his tongue darted out to lap at his thumb, tasting bittersweet salt...

Sandburg half-turned, catching him in the act, and his eyes widened, then narrowed with speculation. Caught, Jim whipped his hand back down to what he was doing and tried to pretend innocence. I must be ten kinds of fool. Heat rose into his cheeks. After a long moment, Sandburg rose and moved away, looking for a place to relieve himself after the night's sleep.

Jim cursed himself silently. It was criminally foolish to give in to his lust for Blair. Brackett's bomb proved that. Even if what he felt was love, if what Blair felt was love-- it behooved Jim to set Sandburg free. He must not saddle him with an aging cop as a lover, not keep bringing him into the line of fire, not keep earning him enemies who had access to plastic explosives and lethal knowledge and would like to see him dead. That wasn't even pausing to consider the fact that Sandburg was a man, and that Jim had never acted on his feelings for another man before. He'd never wanted another man seriously enough to kiss him, to touch him, to throw caution to the winds and just take him--

Jim shuddered with longing and misery and with confused guilt and desire. He missed the crease that pulled down hard between Sandburg's brows as Blair returned in time to help him empty the gathered rain out of the raft and stow their packs inside, lashing them down firmly against the possibility of a flip. Motioning Sandburg to take the point position in the raft-- he couldn't bear to endure the day knowing that his partner's curious, longing eyes were resting on him unseen from the rear of the boat-- Jim cast them off. They skimmed down the river swiftly, paddling away from the swirls and eddies near the shore.

Except for a pleasant interlude spent drifting down the three-mile straight of Conquistador Aisle, their run past Elves' Chasm and down Middle Granite Gorge wasn't as smooth as the one they'd made the previous day. Maybe Blair lacked Jim's upper body strength and had more difficulty keeping them on a straight path through the rapids in spite of the high water that buried the majority of the treacherous rocks-- or maybe Jim just didn't have Sandburg's instinctive knack with the tiller. After a couple of pirouettes in rapids easier than the ones they'd run the previous day, one nearly culminating in a flip, Jim steered them to an eddy and they took a breather.

Jim's peace was interrupted unexpectedly by the clatter and crash of horns. Looking up at a distant ridge, Jim spotted two bighorn rams fighting over a ewe. He moved forward and laid his hand on Blair's shoulder, pointing to direct his sight upward; Sandburg squinted and finally nodded, spotting the motion of the rams, but they were too far away for him to see clearly. He turned his head away from the distant spectacle and gave Jim a rueful, accepting smile that took Ellison's breath.

They froze like that for a long moment, faces inches apart, and the sun came out unexpectedly, immediately starting to steam moisture from their wet clothes. Blair steeled himself, visibly summoning his courage, and lifted his hand, tracing a single fingertip along Jim's lower lip. His eyes met Jim's with solemn yearning in their blue depths. Momentarily overcome, Jim let his eyes slide shut and caught Blair's wrist, unable to resist the need to lift Blair's hand and touch his mouth lightly to the center of Sandburg's palm. The joyful face that rewarded him when he finally opened his eyes nearly broke his heart; Sandburg matched the sun for sheer, shining radiance.

Jim took a deep shuddering breath and let Blair go, pulling back in confusion, regretting his lapse and feeling like a total shit for his dismay at having put that transcendent look on Sandburg's face. Blair's fingers moved to his shoulder, paradoxically steadying him, the younger man's eyes warm and deep and infinitely joyous.

Fucking shit, he's got my number, Jim realized with chagrin. He wanted nothing more than to slip his arms around Sandburg and do everything he could to make sure that look stayed in his eyes till it was too dark for even Jim's gaze to discern it. He drew back further instead, the action almost physically painful. Blair's fingertips slid down his arm as he moved away, a light caress. The knowing curve of Sandburg's lips promised that he would not forget this when a better moment arose in the future. Jim looked helplessly at Blair's expression of gentle triumph and happy resolve. He found himself earnestly hoping he would get the opportunity he wanted, even though Jim knew he couldn't afford to let him succeed when it came.

Jim finally saw what he'd spent the day looking for as they approached the Tapeats Creek campsite: an unattended camp. He steered them over, and Blair frowned, apparently guessing Jim's intent. He cooperated anyway, side-stroking steadily. There were several tents in the camp, the rafters could double up. Communicating via sharp gestures, they divided the work. Blair rapidly emptied and dismantled a two-man tent while Jim stowed the gear it had contained in another shelter. This time Blair scrawled the note of apology and the promise of reimbursement. They tucked the note into the same tent where they stowed the dislocated gear.

Jim and Blair folded their new acquisition hurriedly, disregarding the fine sand that clung to its bottom. Sandburg seemed nervous, glancing around as though the campers would return any second. Jim felt more relaxed; he probably would have heard it if anyone came near, even though the thunder of runoff in Tapeats Creek might have sufficed to mask hikers' footsteps if they weren't talking.

Wordlessly they lashed the tent into the raft and Jim climbed into the bow, leaving Blair to shove them off the sand as they put in to the river again. He decided to leave all the equipment they'd stolen with the Hualapai custodians he remembered from the Lee's Ferry pull-out in hopes that its proper owners would find it awaiting them there. That would be less expensive than providing new, especially in the case of the raft.

He and Sandburg traveled a further two miles to Deer Creek before pulling out for the night; Jim decided he wanted to rest again before they moved down the river into Matkatamiba Canyon. Given the day's experiences, Blair was definitely going to be in the back of the raft when they tried Lava Falls rapid-- as Jim remembered, it was the worst on the river. By the time they got there they'd probably have lost the high water from the rains, and worse, the guide's notebook indicated that the dam was planning to cut its flow back to only 10,000 cfs. Low water at Lava was going to be bad.

As they entered the campsite a menacing rattle interrupted his musings; Blair heard it too. Together they turned toward one of the stones that bordered their camp, zeroing in on the twitching tail of a substantial four-foot diamondback rattler. It lay coiled on a flat-topped boulder, basking, and had lifted its rough triangular head lifted to watch them. Jim thanked God for his foresight in deciding to steal a tent, glad that he wouldn't have to worry as much any more about unwelcome nocturnal visitors.

He and Blair set up well away from the snake's perch, stealing occasional glances at the reptile where it lay sunning itself. Its slit-eyed regard gave Jim the creeps; finally he hunted up a branch and after several tries, pinned its head to the stone and then made short work of killing it. Blair shuddered as the long, brilliantly patterned body writhed in Jim's grip, twining around his arm, reflexes driving its motion even after death. Jim just shrugged philosophically-- C-rations and trail mix were getting old and the river was still too muddy to set the fish trap for trout. A bit of roast meat would go down well, and he'd bet his ass Blair had eaten worse on expedition.

He was right. That night Blair ate his portion of roast rattlesnake without much hesitation, giving Jim a wry smirk. "Tastes like chicken," Blair mouthed, and Jim convulsed with silent laughter, grateful for the joke. He looked across their campsite, surprised by the sudden cozy feeling. Their bedding and clothes flapped in the breeze, mercifully given a chance to dry-- the musty smell of mildew had grown to be a constant presence in Jim's nostrils. He was worried about the condition of their feet and about the cut on Blair's arm, which wasn't healing. Getting good and dry was bound to help.

Jim wished they had leisure for a day off and a hike-- there were cliff dwellings with native cave-art nearby, and Blair would love to see them. But along with Brackett, the possibility of angry rafters catching up preyed on his mind. As did the knowledge that in another two or three days, they'd be out of the canyon. Already the height of the walls that sheltered them were dropping, a visible reduction in the protection they had from Brackett and his electronics. They were going to have to face the music and once again Blair would be dancing to Brackett's tune.

Jim grimaced, pensive, and realized Sandburg was watching him, able to read his thoughts in his expression. He tipped his head back, looking up at the stars, and sat still as Blair approached him. One warm arm slid around his waist, fingers patting lightly at his ribs-- Sandburg was comforting him, reassuring him. The kindness of it put a lump in Jim's throat.

They might not live through this. If the bomb detonated neither of them would survive, because Jim was not leaving Blair's side till this was over. At least, not for anything short of a chance to snap Brackett's neck. He looked down, meeting Sandburg's questioning eyes, and slid his own arm around Blair's shoulders, shaking them gently. Sandburg smiled a little, the weight of his burden visible in his tired gaze.

Jim thought vaguely for a long moment of dying, of death-- wondered what lay beyond, wondered what would happen if Blair wasn't given a chance to pass on the way of the shaman as Incacha had. The roar of the Colorado and the gentler ripple of Deer Creek merged in his mind, then became the soft trickle of a fountain. He shuddered, looking into Blair's upturned face with sudden desperation. If Blair had died then, they would have missed so much. And he might die again, very soon. The Colorado might claim him, the bomb might take him, a rattlesnake or scorpion or a future felon's bullet might send him on that path Jim had once refused to take with him. It was a path that Jim sensed he would be far more willing to take if it were set before him now.

Thus Jim's decision to ease away from Blair only made sense, didn't it? Keeping his vow to push Blair away would be prudent self-preservation as well as being in Sandburg's best interest. It was logical and reasonable to want Blair to live a safer life: one far from him and his dangerous lifestyle.

But if they died before he could initiate that gentle, painful parting... Jim was hardly aware when he bent to take Sandburg's mouth. Or perhaps Blair simply read his eyes and lifted his face to meet Jim's. In any case, the warm soft lips yielded sweetly to him, Blair's arm sliding around his neck, and he pressed Sandburg gently to his back beside the fire and kissed him with an intensity that grew till it bordered on madness, threatening to drive him deep into a zone.

He couldn't stop drinking of that mouth again and again, ignoring the faint grit of the ever-present canyon sand, tasting tongue and palate. He let himself revel shamelessly in the scent of Blair's passion and the skillful dance of his tongue. It felt so good to lose himself this way, so intoxicating to taste Blair and feel the warmth and hardness of his body. He was lost, anchored only by Sandburg's strong arms around him, grounded only by the eager, giving mouth beneath his own. All barriers were swept away, leaving him completely open.

Perfect stillness, the silence broken only by the waters-- greedy waters that had once tried to take Sandburg from his Sentinel. Jim unthinkingly turned them to their sides, placing his body between his partner and the river. He gently cradled Blair's hips in his hand, pushing their bodies together. Blair sighed, wrapping both arms around Jim's neck and hanging on eagerly. Warm and willing and pliant, his mouth was sweeter and hotter than anything Jim had ever tasted. Beautiful Blair. More precious than anything.

Jim tucked his face against Sandburg's neck and his chest hitched abortively at the thought of losing him. Not to fire or to water but to time and life. Different rivers, different waters, but equally merciless. He was undone and he knew it-- thoroughly and completely dismantled and vulnerable, a helpless prisoner of love and need. Sandburg stroked his back, nuzzling his temple, and Jim drew a deep Blair-scented breath, struggling to rebuild his walls from the foundation upward.

He would do what was best for Blair if it killed him. Right now, that involved putting himself back together and stopping this before it could go any further. He had to get Blair to rest. Tomorrow would be the last day on the river before they had to shoot Lava Falls, and the day after that they'd probably be back within range of Brackett's cell phone again. Who the hell knew what would happen after that?

Jim raised himself with an effort, stroking Blair's heavily stubbled face with his fingertips, vaguely amazed that he hadn't noticed the coarse masculine beard abrading his face while they kissed. Of course, his own growing beard might have something to do with that. Centered by the prosaic thought, he pointed to the tent and mimed sleep. Blair nodded and rose, tugging Jim with him, and Ellison acquiesced.

They left the shirts and jeans and socks they'd worn all day hung on a tree to dry, taking down their sleeping bags and carrying them into the tent. After they lay down and zipped up, Blair snuggled close to Jim, clearly trusting that he would be welcome. With a pang of guilt, Jim pulled him close. He lay awake for long hours as the moon rose and light slanted over the stolen tent, savoring the heat and weight of the slender man lying next to him, greedily enjoying Blair's presence in his life while he still could.

A scuffle in the camp finally woke him, and he poked his head out of the tent into the midmorning light to discover a ringtail cat feasting on the forgotten remains of their supper. Blinking sleepily, Sandburg got to his knees to join in the investigation, laughing softly as the thief scampered away with the remains of the rattlesnake trailing after it. They'd slept late, probably due to Jim's silent vigil, so they broke camp quickly and headed down the river with their stolen gear.

The trip through Matkatamiba Canyon passed uneventfully. Blair was once more ensconced in his well-earned position at the tiller, with Jim paddling diligently through the mild to medium rapids. The water was beginning to drop off slightly and return to a greener hue as the remains of the rainfall traveled further down the canyon into Lake Mead.

Several times they saw wildlife at the edges of the river-- more bighorn sheep drinking from a still pool, a family of quail, and other more colorful desert birds, one an emerald hummingbird that investigated Jim's red t-shirt thoroughly before buzzing off across the river. Whenever Jim glanced back Blair was smiling, as happy as a man can be who has a bomb strapped to his chest. Ellison knew all too well the cause of Sandburg's good mood. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling that he didn't precisely deserve it, but if it helped Blair get through the crisis, then he was grateful.

Running the river was beginning to seem like the pleasure it should be: a challenge of pitting brains and brawn against nature. Jim could almost forget that this was a desperate and futile chase away from danger. The day passed all too quickly as they boomed along the river, paddling in tandem during the easy stretches. They worked together efficiently without needing words.

When evening fell they pulled out at a narrow beach in National Canyon. Jim estimated that they'd made nearly thirty miles. He wasn't quite sure how much further to Lava Falls, but he figured it would be best to take it while they were freshly rested. The water was still fairly high, an encouraging sign-- perhaps the Glen Canyon Dam had an unplanned excess to release after the rains.

The food had begun to run low; they finished the last of the trail mix that night. It had gotten stale anyhow, molding slightly inside the ziplocs where Blair had stored it. Jim tossed his empty, sticky plastic bag into the fire, wrinkling his nose at the petroleum scent of the smoke it released when it melted and writhed in the flames. Sandburg leaned against him comfortably, tired from paddling and steering, content just to be close to Jim.

In a way Ellison regretted Blair's casual contentment, but his relief was the greater emotion. Wrapping a friendly arm around Sandburg was all right; it fell under the heading of normal acts. Maybe when it was all over he could write the aberration of the previous day's closeness with Blair off to stress and adrenaline from the crisis situation.

Maybe pigs would sprout wings and fly.

In spite of a vague sense of something missing, tonight Jim felt much more comfortable and much less threatened than the previous evening. Sighing contentedly, he fed another stick to the crackling fire. Sandburg snuggled closer, body relaxing and growing limp with the promise of impending sleep, and Jim wished suddenly that he could just speak to Blair. If not for Brackett, they could talk quietly, discussing the cultures of the Native American tribes who once lived here and those who did now.

The stolen notebook said they were skirting the boundaries of the Hualapai Indian Reservation, and Jim wondered how the Hualapai were coping in the twentieth century. He suspected that Sandburg would have something extremely tart to say on the topic of casinos. Or maybe about roadside souvenir stands where children could have their pictures taken next to battered aluminum teepees and old men wearing wildly dyed headdresses woven of marabou and chicken feathers. True to modern American culture, the children would then go inside and buy rubber bladed tomahawks and horsehair 'scalps' and beaded moccasins all stamped 'made in Taiwan.'

Jim grinned at the thought of his partner's righteous indignation, his hand automatically stroking Blair's dirty, limp curls. Sandburg looked up at him with sleepy eyes, sharing the smile if not the thought. Jim tipped his head toward the tent and Sandburg joined him, zipping the rain fly behind them.

It was the last moment of real ease they would share for some time.

They hadn't traveled far the next day before Jim heard Lava Falls rapid roaring in the distance. Rounding a bend in the river, they finally came in sight of the crashing torrent of water. Boulders stuck up out of the water ominously thanks to the reduced flow of the river. According to the stolen notebook, at Lava Falls the river dropped thirty-seven feet in only a quarter mile. There were rafters pulled out at the head of the rapid and Jim nudged their boat in toward the beach at Blair's nod, prepared to let Sandburg do all the talking.

"Hey!" Blair emerged from the boat energetically, greeting the few people who had lingered to watch their companions take the rapid. "You going to run the Falls today?" His voice was pure friendliness and enthusiasm.

"Yeah." A lean, tawny girl scanned Sandburg and upped the wattage of her smile by several candlepower at the conclusion of her survey. Jim tried not to roll his eyes too obviously.

"Mind if I watch you guys find the line?"

"Sure."

Jim tethered the raft while Blair climbed to join the group of paddlers who were up on a narrow ridge scouting the rapid. He listened closely to the talk of lines. Apparently there was little hope of making the left-side sneak he and Sandburg had planned. At the current stage, there was considerable threat from the ledge hole there. After a time, the group decided to hug the right wall in spite of the nasty laterals. In a way Jim was glad they'd encountered more people; if something went wrong there would be the possibility of assistance. Of course, there was also the possibility that the bomb would detonate and take out their would-be rescuers.

Sighing, he finished checking the tie-downs in the raft and nodded a curt smile at the girl who'd greeted Blair, then pursued his companion up the ridge. He mimed 'sore throat' at one of the men who seemed about to speak and greet him, then moved to Blair's side. Together they looked down across some of the meanest whitewater it had ever been his privilege to witness.

Jim thought the right line looked just as bad as the left. Submerged stones kicked up giant lateral waves that could swamp their small raft in a heartbeat. Two kayakers were preparing to scout the rapid and Jim winced as they set out, at times disappearing for endless heartbeats under the roiling waves before popping up again. Beside him, he felt Blair swallow hard and realized he'd rested his hand on Sandburg's back. He made himself drop it, nervously checking for interested eyes on them.

One of the kayakers flipped, and when he reappeared he'd lost his boat. He shot down through the water, feet forward, paddling desperately with his hands to try to keep his orientation. His terrified yells as he fended off boulders with his feet made Jim's skin crawl.

It was a long ride out for the hapless kayaker, but finally his friend rowed to meet him, towing him toward shore. They snagged his boat on their way. "The rapid's at a mean stage," a bearded guy commented to Blair. "That little raft of yours isn't going to be very stable."

"But it's maneuverable," Blair countered cheerfully. "Responsive."

"Responsive is one thing. Those laterals are another. You want to try to kiss the bank on the right, if you can. And watch for those tail waves, man. If you come straight on after we go through, we'll be waiting for you at the foot of the rapid. Gonna have a 'We lived through Lava' party." He grinned and shook Blair's hand. "If we live."

"Yeah, thanks. We'll be there." Sandburg nodded gratefully. He threw up his hand as their new friends departed. He and Jim sat together, swigging from a shared bottle of water, and watched the four boatloads essay the rapid.

The first boat pirouetted and almost lost it in the laterals, two people popping out. One climbed back in and the other shot down the river like the swamped kayaker. Jim noted the location of the whirlpool that had spun them, planning to paddle extra hard at that point in the transit.

The second boat made it through clean, whooping and shouting, and Blair waved at them triumphantly. The third ran straight up a steep wave and nearly tipped over backward almost immediately, missing the line and going in near the center of the river.

"Shit," Blair swore as they went down sideways, then caught a wave and flipped. One... two... three... four heads surfaced, but the fifth rafter was hidden and Jim had a moment of horror that she might be trapped under the boat. His hand tightened on his thigh and he scanned the water helplessly, then spotted her clinging to the opposite side of the raft. He heard a scream and surged to his feet, agitated but unable to help, watching the progress of the tipped boat until it was safely out of the whitewater, seeing the other rafters drag their companions to safety.

Blair gazed at him anxiously, offering the notebook and pencil impatiently. She's hurt. Looks like a broken leg. Some of them got bruised and scratched up. I think they lost some gear. Jim practically vibrated in place, anxious to hurry ahead and offer medical help; he flushed as he caught sight of Blair's lopsided, knowing grin. Sandburg caught his hand and heaved himself upright; they could hear the exhilarated cries from the final raft as it headed into the rapid.

They'd seen one good run, at least, and had some idea of how to handle the rapid. Jim took the notebook as they approached their boat, scrawling hastily. If you get thrown out keep your feet downstream and do whatever it takes to fend off the rocks. A broken leg or arm will mend. But if the bomb detonated... he left the thought unwritten.

Sandburg gulped and nodded, understanding his meaning. Grimly the two men climbed into the boat, taking a final few moments to recheck the security of their gear. Then they slid out onto the river, paddling hard for the right-hand line.

They went in like a dream and were running well when a lateral caught the lightly loaded, small boat and shoved it forward into a trough, nose tipping down, drenching Jim and yanking the tiller out of the water. There could be no thought of bailing; he was too busy paddling for his life. The impact as the back of the boat slammed down into the trough again jolted Jim so hard his gritted teeth nearly shattered. Then the boat skewed sideways in spite of his frantic paddling and he blinked water furiously out of his eyes and darted a glance back only to find that Sandburg was gone. Another wave caught him in the moment of inattention and he struggled, feeling the boat swirl and tilt sickeningly. Then he was in the river, choked by dark water and buffeted mercilessly, unable to see which way to kick to move toward the surface.

A rock battered his side hard and he clung and then pushed away with all his might, breaking the surface with a choking gasp, torn forward and bounced back into the maelstrom of the current. He caught a glimpse of orange raft-bottom before a wild spatter of brownish-red water rolled over him again. No time to look for Sandburg. Jesus, God, let Blair be alive-- Jim surfaced again and gasped for air, sculling madly for dark water with his hands, letting go of his paddle and trying to keep his feet pointed downstream as he sluiced through the rapid.

The next minutes seemed to last a lifetime as Jim struggled to keep his head above water and try to avoid the rocks, half expecting the concussion of an explosion to tell him he had lost his partner for good. A sharp crag tore at his arm, bloodying him, and he swore and choked up water-- God, he hated the water; he'd bet neither he nor Sandburg ever willingly sat down in a bathtub or kiddie pool again after this.

Water and sky swapped places sickeningly, wild bubbles foaming around Jim. Suddenly his head was above water and hands were reaching for him, dragging him into a raft. Sandburg lay there too, wetter than a drowned rat, his nose bleeding and his shirt open. The duct-taped bomb lay exposed. Jim coughed up approximately half the river then lifted himself to his knees and struggled to reach Blair, crawling through bilge, avoiding feet and the ends of paddles. He touched Sandburg's neck and found his strong, regular pulse and nearly collapsed with relief.

They scuffed up on sand and gentle hands helped him and Blair out of the raft. Jim hardly had time to pray that Brackett wasn't listening before he was hip-deep in explanations and fabrications, claiming that Blair had hurt his ribs in a prior flip and Jim had to tape them, they hadn't had proper splints or medical tape. Jim knelt at Blair's side and felt his arms and legs looking for broken bones, but Sandburg had survived with only a bruising.

"I have medical training from the army," he babbled, ignoring efforts to help. At last he was satisfied; Sandburg looked up at Jim with dazed, relieved eyes, smiling weakly, and lifted his hand to clasp Jim's firmly.

"We made it, man. Now let their doctor look at you." He tipped his head back and held a wad of loaned paper towels over the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the bleeding.

Jim acquiesced, grunting as his bruised, scratched ribs were prodded and his cuts and scrapes cleaned. His arm looked worse than it was, and though his ribs hurt, he didn't think anything was broken. He was relieved to note that their raft had also been caught and towed in to shore; it looked like most of their possessions had survived intact. After the medic finished cleaning his scratches he took a look at the other rafter's injury. She had indeed broken her ankle, but it looked to be as well-set as could be achieved under such primitive conditions. Considerate of her pain and his inability to improve the situation, Jim didn't touch it.

Instead he went back to Blair. Realizing that the buttons were torn off Sandburg's shirt, he stripped off his own soaked shirt, wrung it out, and hung it across Blair's shoulders, then went to his own pack and got Sandburg a relatively dry one to put on instead. Blair accepted it with a sigh and Jim took the wet one back and moved away, putting it back on and drawing aside the expedition leader.

"Thanks for the assistance," he spoke softly, grateful that there had been no repercussions as yet from having been forced to speak within range of the bug Blair wore. Perhaps it had ceased to function during the drenching, or more likely the canyon walls were still cutting off the transmission. In either case, Jim didn't want to take more risks than were absolutely necessary. "If you're ever in Cascade Washington and I can give you a hand, look me up. I'm James Ellison, with the Cascade PD." His voice was rough from all the river water he'd swallowed and choked back up, bearing out his previous claim to a sore throat.

"Bryan Marks." The leader shook Jim's hand manfully. "Sure man, thanks. I will. Lots of nice kayaking and fishing up that way." Marks smiled and they shook hands, then Jim moved back to Sandburg, tilting his head toward the boat in silent question. Blair sighed and nodded, unwilling to risk the lives of the people who had helped them so much.

After making excuses and saying several friendly good-byes, they wound up gratefully accepting some canned beans and wieners and heading off down the river, which had smoothed considerably, the remainder of its wrath apparently spent at Lava Falls.

Blair's nose resumed bleeding slightly before they'd gone a mile. After his adrenaline rush wore off, Jim's ribs felt like he'd been kicked by a mule, so they sought a campsite at the first likely place they found. It would delay them by over half a day, but Jim couldn't find it in himself to care. Let Brackett wait. The river had nearly claimed both him and Blair today; they deserved to enjoy their reprieve.

After they hung their drenched gear out to dry again, Jim's sharp ears led them up a small ravine to a narrow rivulet of clear water fed by runoff leftover from the recent rains. Blair cleaned his bloody face in the cool stream while Jim fished a bar of soap out of his pack. They took turns lathering up under the cold spray of its fall, washing some of the sand out of hair and ears and other bodily orifices. Jim was keenly conscious of Blair's eyes resting appreciatively on him as he bathed; he tried to keep his own averted when it came Sandburg's turn to shower.

The sounds were bad enough. He swallowed hard, tantalized by the slick smooth sound of Sandburg's palms wandering over his body. The sounds were nearly as clear as visual pictures, and Jim could catalogue where Sandburg's hands moved on his skin by the sounds they made as they flowed over different textures. Crisp hair on his chest and legs, the slightly rough tanned skin of his arms, the smoothness of his sides and buttocks. Jim began sweating again, turned on by the pictures his mind generated. He could feel Sandburg's eyes on him, could scent the rising level of pheromones coming from Blair's body. He swallowed hard as the sound took on a gentle rhythm: Blair soaping himself, caressing himself, stroking his body in open invitation for Jim to watch...

Ellison rose, stretching and cracking his joints casually. Pretending oblivion he wandered away, leaving temptation behind.

Blair finished cleaning himself as he watched his friend leave, wondering about the thoughts percolating inside Jim's head. It just figured that their relationship would change now, under these least auspicious of circumstances. As always, in a crisis Jim opened up to give whatever Blair needed. This time Blair was determined not to let him close right back down after it ended.

Blair sighed, one corner of his mouth tilting up in a wry smile. Jim made himself vulnerable by repressing so much; when his walls came down, they came down hard. And man, this time they had come down.

The wondrous discovery of Jim's arousal in their shared sleeping bag, the feeling of Jim's lips on his earlobe and strong hand stroking his cock... then the incendiary kisses they'd shared next to the campfire that night.... It had been a dream come true for Blair, one that he found both irresistible and almost impossible to believe. Watching Jim leave now, stiff-backed and refusing to look at him... like this was supposed to be some kind of a fucking surprise? He'd known all along, that Jim would inevitably try to withdraw what he'd seemed to offer... what had surprised Blair most was that anything had ever happened in the first place.

He soaped his hair and rinsed again, enjoying the cool of the waterfall in contrast to the still, oven-like air of the lower canyon. He gave himself all the time he wanted, taking advantage of the moment of solitude. There was too much to process, too much to think about. The way he and Jim seemed to be on each other's last nerve ever since the fiasco with Alex, the way things were so much more fraught with tension now than they'd once been... The whole problem of the bomb strapped around his body was the last straw. Blair set his jaw, determined that he was going to find a way around Brackett's crazy schemes and get this thing off himself without being blown to hell.

Then there would be a whole new set of problems to tackle. The way Jim made him feel, the amazing revelation of Jim's desire, the knotty problem of gay versus straight, the potential of a dozen futures. A dozen and more-- many of them ugly and long and Jimless and some of them damned fucking short. None of those were Jimless, no, every goddamned one of them featured Jim sitting on top of Blair and this fucking bomb like a goddamned fucking mother hen when it went off and blew them both straight to hell.

Blair sighed, stepping back into the main fall of water, letting it rinse away the last of the biodegradable camp soap Jim had brought. As a grad student, he'd learned to keep a dozen eggs airborne at once, juggling projects and responsibilities and people with a modicum of grace, a variable amount of desperation, and the occasional inevitable and seriously unpleasant fumble and breakage.

The hardest lesson to learn had been that there was a certain stage of obligation beyond which you just couldn't go. It was a place where you simply had to cut your losses, prioritize your commitments, and set aside all your pleasures. You had to pick the top five things, or two, or even just one... and let the other ones slide. Give them a lick and a promise if you could and get back to them after the big things were handled. Otherwise you could wind up with every egg you owned shattered in a glistening mess around your feet.

Feeling the constriction of the grubby tape binding his chest as he stood vertical again, rinsing his hair and body clean, Blair knew he was in that place again. This time, his priorities were quite clear-- and as usual, necessity had to rule over desire. When he had this bomb off him and safely disposed of, then he could take the leisure he needed to sit back and figure out just exactly what the hell was going on between him and James Joseph Ellison. Right now he could only sit back and do what he had to in order to avert disaster. The only other thing he could do was hope like hell that one day he'd get the leisure to investigate what was going on here.

And he would. You could count on that. Take it to the fucking bank. Because it looked a hell of a lot like something was happening here that he'd never believed he could have, but desperately wanted. If Jim believed he could just clam up and pretend it was some kind of traumatic stress thing that never really happened... if he thought Blair would be too shy or intimidated to pin him down about it later... he had another think coming.

Then if push came to shove and Jim ran to ground... Jim would just see who was best at the chase, he'd just learn how damned good Blair Sandburg could be at hunting down and getting what he wanted. Sentinel senses wouldn't help him, denial wouldn't help him, all the hostility and repression and misdirected anger in the world wasn't going to put Blair Sandburg off the scent now that he had it. Not when it came to the kind of passion he'd felt in the kisses they'd shared. He was too familiar with Jim's tactics, knew too much about how Jim used words and rejection as weapons to protect himself from his fears. It wasn't going to work again.

Toweling his face dry with his shirt, Blair shook his clothes cautiously for scorpions and pulled them on, then sat on a rock and tapped out his boots before donning them. Priority one: getting rid of Brackett's bomb. Priority two: the pursuit and capture of the elusive Jim Ellison.

Blair felt better in the aftermath of his bath and his decision. He returned to camp with a spring in his step, unsurprised to find Jim at his efficient, remote best. Everything was shipshape, including a tidy campfire ring with a brightly blazing fire inside it, the tent neatly pitched, and the bedrolls spread and smoothed (with a measured stripe of bare tent floor separating them). Blair strolled down to the shore and pulled the raft as far up on the beach as he could so they wouldn't have to tend it unless the river stage changed dramatically. Jim stood several yards upstream staking out his primitive fish trap.

Blair smiled, amused, and promptly set water on the fire to heat for coffee; two could play at this game of domestic one-upmanship. He was drinking a cup of instant brew when Jim returned, and had left a spoonful of dark brown crystals waiting in Jim's tin camp cup. Jim poured the hot water and sipped his coffee, his alert eyes scanning their small side canyon. He was moving and sitting a little stiffly due to his rib injury, but it was a small price to pay the river compared to the one rafter's broken ankle.

They sat quietly through the long afternoon, a little uncomfortable with one another but hiding it well. The silence broke only once when their new friends sailed by, shouting and waving cordially. They had fresh trout with beans and wieners for supper and eventually bedded down in their separate sleeping bags, waiting patiently for dawn and the beginning of Brackett's endgame.

As they set out on the river near noon the next day, Jim calculated that they would arrive at Lee's Ferry near dusk after their next run. He'd more or less regarded that as the end of the river journey and its relative safety. However, as the height of the canyon walls continued to sink, his nerves started to jangle. He nearly dropped his paddle when Blair's cell phone gave a sudden bleat from the interior of his backpack-- he'd half expected it to be non-functional, drowned in the wreck at Lava Falls. Apparently not. Looking back, he found Sandburg eyeing the pack with the same white-faced revulsion with which he'd greeted the scorpion in his sleeping bag-- and the same grim-faced determination he'd displayed when he killed it.

Blair's hands were steady as he dug through the pack and hauled the phone out, and his voice was dryly calm as he answered. "What?"

Jim tuned in on the conversation automatically, wondering what was going through Blair's mind. He futilely wished his hearing was sensitive enough for such impossible discernment.

"Good job, Sandburg. And Ellison, too-- I know the two of you too well to think you both disappeared into the canyon together without... hooking up. I know the both of you are interested in a nice... bang," Brackett's dry voice insinuated, "but I'm afraid it isn't coming just yet. So I guess you're in luck. Still, if you interfere in my plans, it will not be tolerated, Jim."

"Just tell me what you want now." Blair's voice dripped with barely-restrained anger.

"The GPS says you're near Lee's Ferry. I've taken the liberty of pre-arranging a speedboat rental for you there. I want you to head down Lake Mead. Take the boat right up against the dam and stay there. I want you there by twenty-one hundred hours." Brackett's voice sharpened. "I'm a man of my word. When the rest of my demands are met, I'll just toss this detonator out the window and go my merry way. Then you'll have your chance to get out of that bomb."

Hoover Dam. Jim suddenly felt sick, kicking himself for not remembering it before. This was bigger than him and Blair now; if Brackett touched off a bomb in close proximity to Hoover Dam, it was possible that hundreds or possibly even thousands of people might die in the resulting flood.

"No phone calls, no secret codes, and nobody had better be waiting for you at Lee's Ferry, or you're both vaporized," Brackett summed up. "Just do as I say, gentlemen, and nobody will suffer. Except the US treasury, of course."

Blair looked at Jim with eyes that knew exactly what Ellison was thinking, eyes that had counted the lives of every possible victim who might be in the Hoover Dam flood plain. "No," he spoke into the phone, his voice very quiet. "I won't go to the dam."

Jim felt the world reel around his ears, felt himself swallow as though the motion of his larynx encompassed an atomic explosion. Sandburg would rather die than risk all those people... but it was just risk. Brackett could keep his word. Who the hell cared about money? This was Sandburg. Blair. While you were alive there was always hope.

"You have thirty seconds to change your mind, or for Ellison to get himself out of blast range," Brackett informed him almost pleasantly. "My finger is on the button, Blair." Sandburg flipped an agonized hand at Jim, directing him to leave the boat. He clenched his eyes shut and swallowed hard, head bending, chin touching his chest. The posture reminded Jim of an Islamic martyr he'd seen on the news-- right before the man doused himself with gasoline and then struck a match in his own lap.

Without making a conscious decision Jim squirmed forward in the boat, snatching the cell phone from Blair's nerveless fingers. "He'll be at the dam if I have to hog tie him and drive the boat myself," he rasped. "Get your fucking finger off that button. You'll get your money. Then get the hell out of the USA. Stay out if you want to live, Brackett."

The rogue agent laughed with mocking delight, the sound tinny over the cellular transmission. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Jim. Now all you have to do is hope the government will be as forthcoming. Best of luck." The dial tone buzzed in Jim's ear.

Jim sighed, keeping half an eye on his watch while paddling firmly. Brackett's time scheme didn't have much leeway for delay.

They arrived at the Ferry in early evening and deposited their borrowed and stolen gear with instructions for the caretakers to return it to the appropriate rafting expeditions following in their wake. Jim had vague hopes that the gear might actually get back to its owners, but he dismissed the issue as relatively unimportant. Helping haul their remaining gear onto the low dock, he ushered Blair into the waiting speedboat, one hand on the small of his partner's back.

They could have spoken now that Brackett knew they were together, but Blair remained silent. Jim wondered if he resented that his decision had been taken from him. Or maybe he just feared that the deal would fall through and the bomb would detonate, killing him and Jim and drowning all those innocent people.

Brackett had thought of everything; the boat's live-well was stocked with food and juices crashed down in only partly-melted ice. In the driver's seat lay a chart with a course marked for them to follow up the winding path of the lake. Blair took the helm with a decisive air that brooked no argument, so Jim pulled out an All-Sport and twisted the top off.

The desert sun was descending toward the horizon in a globe of molten fire, and it was sweltering hot. He wiped his face and got a second drink out for Blair, opening it and offering it to him deferentially. Blair accepted it without a word and drank, one hand steering the boat. Jim fixed his gaze on that square, competent hand, admiring the surety with which it guided their course.

He raised his eyes along Blair's body to the profile of his face; Sandburg looked grim and focused, his jaw set tight. For a moment his partner, usually so familiar to him, seemed alien and implacable. The sun blazed in his face, narrowing his eyes and gilding his skin and hair. He was worn and tired, the veneer of innocence stripped away to expose the hard steel core of him.

Jim swallowed his mouthful of cherry-flavored water, feeling grudging admiration. A lesser man would be hysterical in Blair's shoes, but Sandburg always took whatever was handed to him and coped with it as best he could-- often he did better than Jim himself would have done in the same circumstances. Jim found himself wanting to hold Blair, wanting to give him the freedom to soften, to release the tension and adrenaline that was keeping him going.

Time... there might be time for that, in a future where rogue CIA agents were honest and a government cared more about its citizens than about a few million dollars of treasury money. There might be time and opportunity, if Jim broke his own promise to himself and drew Blair in instead of pushing him away....

Jim halted his hand, aborting his instinct to reach out. He could tell that Blair was nearing the end of his rope, the increasing burden of the bomb crushing down on him as they speeded toward the dam. A tender gesture at the wrong moment might just be all it took to break his strength. Neither of them could afford that, so Jim sat quietly instead. He contented himself with offering silent support as Blair steered, fixing sandwiches and silently nudging him to eat when he would have refused.

His mind ran through plans, remorselessly considering and discarding possibilities. It looked like all they could do was sit tight and hope for the best. Maybe he should have disembarked at Lee's Ferry and tried to warn the authorities while Blair went on alone, but Brackett might have spies who would have reported his departure. The rogue agent might have figured the jig was up and detonated his bomb.

If only there were some way to hoist Brackett by his own petard, leave him sitting on the bomb when it went off! Jim smiled thinly, involuntarily picturing Brackett finding justice in Hell, sitting atop the cone of an active volcano waiting for it to go off at satisfyingly unpredictable intervals and shoot boiling brimstone right up his traitorous ass.

That kind of thinking was getting him nowhere.

He shifted his focus to the lake-shore. After the first day or so he'd grown used to the barrenness of the canyon, but all his senses rebelled against the landscape that surrounded them now. Lakes should be surrounded with vibrant foliage, trees and plants nourished by the water, but the gravel-choked shores and barren hills were only dotted with sparse green scrub mesquite, chaparral, and various kinds of cactus. He found it surprisingly oppressive.

He had to remind himself that the barren countryside was good in a way; there wouldn't be a lot of cover near the dam. Brackett would have a hard time concealing himself if he wanted to hang around and watch things go down. With Jim's lousy luck, he was probably safely across the border in Mexico, all set to catch the scene off the satellite news feeds.

He didn't know a lot about the security measures in place at Hoover Dam, but Brackett would. If he thought they could get right up next to the dam, they probably could. Jim frowned. He'd once seen the tail-end of a PBS special on constructing the dam; it was a formidable structure. He blinked, realizing that ten medium-sized pieces of plastic explosive wouldn't do much to dent it, not even if Brackett had added something special to the mix. That meant...

Jim's nostrils flared, questing for the scents contained in the air blown back over the prow of the boat. Sure enough, the tang of nitroglycerin and sawdust was much stronger than Blair's small bomb could account for. Feeling sick, Jim got down on his knees and started probing at the interior panels of the boat, opening live wells, the battery compartment, and various storage spaces. Blair looked down once and then stopped watching Jim every time he flipped up a lid, revealing caches of C4 and a network of drilled holes and wires. The wires led to a central detonator that was bound to answer to the same transmission code as the one taped to Blair's chest. Jim suspected that most demolitions experts would find themselves at a loss where to begin dissecting the menacing array.

By the time dusk fell Jim had uncovered all the C4 he could reach from inside the boat. There was definitely enough to raze one or more of the intake towers, probably even enough to weaken the structure of the dam sufficiently for water to break through. Hoover Dam was thinnest at its very top, and given the recent rains the water level would be high. The intakes would probably be open to maximum capacity; if so it would be dangerous navigating such a small boat near them.

They rounded a ridge and Jim's vision pierced the gathering gloom to reveal the bright lights of the dam at last. He maneuvered next to Sandburg, leaning in for conversation. "When we get near the dam, watch out for the intake currents," he shouted over the noise of the motor and the wind. For a mercy, the water wasn't at full flood stage; as they drew closer he could see the Arizona spillway was dry. Blair gave him a wry look that told him not to teach his grandmother how to suck eggs. He handed the wheel over to Jim and fumbled for the ever-present notebook.

I'm going to take you near the shore. Get out of the boat. Brackett thinks he's got you neutralized. Don't let him be right. Don't let him use us against each other. You can help me more if you're on the dam.

Jim read Blair's scribbles, frowning. You've got to promise you'll give me the chance to help, he wrote at last. Do whatever Brackett tells you to. No writing yourself off as a martyr, Chief.

Blair stilled and nodded, his eyes downcast, and Jim's heart sank, reading the lie easily. His mind raced, looking for a way to ensure Blair would do what he had to in order to stay alive. He had to do something to make sure Sandburg meant the promise he offered Jim now. Once Jim was off the boat he would have to look at the equation of his life versus the dam and the safety of everyone in its flood plain and find it in balance.

Instinct dictated there was one quick and inescapable conclusion, one sure way, and Jim didn't have time to cast about for more options. He stood poised on the cusp, contemplating the one promise he could make that would hold Blair to life. He was vaguely startled to realize that the most terrifying thing was how much he wanted to make it.

Under the pressure of time and necessity, Jim's last stubborn barriers crumbled.

"Sandburg." He commanded attention, voice taut with intensity, and Blair looked up. One hand guiding the boat, Jim leaned forward, the other hand sliding behind Blair's neck. He covered his partner's mouth with his, teasing Blair's lips open with his tongue. Kissing him deeply, he let all the devotion he felt surface in the kiss, drowning Blair in it. He made persistent love to Blair's mouth until all the resistance flowed out of him and his arms slid around Jim. Sandburg's tongue finally moved to meet his, hesitant at first, then eager.

Jim slid his free hand to Blair's hips, crushing their bodies together, letting Blair feel the living promise of his erection, of the heat that sparked and swelled between them. He silently gave the promise of more, of everything, of a lifetime of all that Jim had. He drew back far enough to let Sandburg read that promise in his eyes, then savored Blair's lips lightly once, then again. Their mouths clung softly, reluctant to part.

He drew back at last, holding Blair's gaze, not sparing a fraction of attention for driving the boat even if it meant he was about to plow them right into the shore. He held his unrelenting stare level with Sandburg's eyes until Blair nodded. His cheeks coloring slightly with the shame of acknowledging his former lie, Sandburg gave his promise again, truthfully this time.

Jim hoped he would be granted the chance to deal with the consequences of their decision later.

Finally stepping back from Sandburg, he motioned his partner to take the helm and began to scribble quickly while Blair watched. Don't slow the boat-- he'll hear the noise change and guess what's going on. We're almost to the dam. Take us near that point on the left and I'll swim for it. Jim paused, knowing that the next words could be the last he'd ever share with Blair. Live for me. He underlined the phrase emphatically. Love you, Chief. His eyes met Blair's as he put down the pen, and Sandburg swallowed hard, nodding again, and laid his hand on Jim's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Stoically setting aside fear, Jim moved to the stern of the boat and when they passed the point, his dive cut the wake cleanly, the sound of his splash covered by the engine noise. He could still feel the hum of the motor vibrating in his bones and his eardrums as he swam for shore. He'd told Sandburg more than once that a cop had to detach from the emotional impact of a situation for his safety and for the safety of those who depended on him, and it was time to do that now.

When he climbed out of the water, his mind was ticking over furiously. First he had to contact the Feds, then link up with security at the dam. He'd let Simon know what was going down as soon as he got a chance. He hoped the Feds were willing to give Brackett what he wanted, even if he was asking for a billion dollars and the President's left nut.

Dragging himself out onto the eastern shore just short of the spillway, Jim shook water from his body and began to jog as hard as he could, heading for a cluster of lights at the visitor center and observation deck that stood just beyond the dam. He hoped to hell somebody was there; other than the sparse flow of automobile traffic across the top of the dam the lights at the visitor center were the only sign of human habitation.

He glanced to the side, alerted by the sudden racing of the boat's motor. Zeroing in, he saw Blair's tense hand pushing the throttle forward. Drawing back a little, he realized why: a line of warning buoys lay between Sandburg and the dam, possibly with some sort of wire barrier strung in the water between them. Jim's fists tightened. The motor howled and then silenced abruptly as Blair's finger stabbed the lift button and the hydraulic system whined minutely, drawing it out of the water just before the bow of the boat struck a thick barrier cable strung just below the surface of the water.

A horrible scraping noise ensued, bringing Jim's heart to his throat-- even if Blair somehow failed to detonate the C4 with his foolhardy maneuver, he was likely to sink the boat. Its fiberglass hull was not designed to withstand high-speed collisions; Jim could only hope that there were reinforced interior compartments inside the hull that would keep Blair afloat.

His heart pounded in his throat as the boat skewed violently, listing dangerously to one side. Blair fought the tiller, struggling for control, and finally the boat slowed and stopped, still listing.

He'd chosen to hit the barrier almost exactly in the middle, keeping as far from the intake towers as he could, but the boat was dragged far to one side by the turbulent roiling waters before he could get the motor lowered and started. Jim could hear him sloshing through water as he hurried to do it manually, the electric system obviously having been damaged by the collision. Meanwhile, the boat bobbed and swayed dangerously, moving closer and closer to the western intake towers.

Shit. If he sinks next to those active towers.... Jim jerked himself away from the spectacle. His duty to Blair was much more important than helplessly watching Sandburg struggle to stay afloat and alive.

Forcing his burning lungs to keep working, Jim struggled up the uneven granite slope toward the road and the visitor center. He spared a look over his shoulder only when he reached the relative smoothness of the highway. Blair had managed to get the motor in the water, activate it, and steer toward the center of the dam. He was bobbing against the tall concrete face, bailing water out of the boat. Jim couldn't tell if it was actively leaking, or if Sandburg was just ridding himself of what the boat had shipped when it skewed and tilted after striking the barrier. He just thanked God Blair was still alive.

His progress was quicker on the pavement; soon he reached the building and began pounding on its locked doors. "The visitor center is closed!" A testy, complaining voice finally greeted Jim's pounding; he realized his abused fists were sending shooting pains up to his shoulders.

"We've got an emergency situation here!" For the first time he quailed, remembering he'd left his badge back with all his other possessions in his truck before falling in behind Blair on the Bright Angel trail. Unable to locate the transmitter, he hadn't been able to risk taking anything Brackett might have had access to among his belongings. Now its absence was a serious potential liability.

The door opened a crack, revealing a suspicious eye, and Jim gritted his teeth at the poor training the Park Service gave its employees-- the man wore a gun but he hadn't even unfastened the flap over the top of the holster.

"My friend and I have been held hostage by a terrorist. He taped a bomb to Sandburg. There's a boat next to the dam--" Jim pointed to illustrate "--and the psycho said he'll blow Sandburg and the dam both all the way to hell if he doesn't get what he wants." He tried to stay calm, watching as the man tried to swallow the information.

"Shit!" He gave Jim a nervous glance. "I gotta make a call!" He shut the door in Jim's face and Ellison sighed, wondering if the man would even know who to call first.

He extended his hearing into the building, wincing at a sharp, high-pitched whine that seemed to permeate the air, scraping along his nerves viciously. A bank of security lights flashed on, illuminating the top of the dam with a fierce white light. Men began to scramble around the varied pieces of the facility, especially at the far side.

He focused his hearing in tighter, wincing as the whine became a shriek, but through it he could just make out the sound of the ranger yelping into his handset. Jim grimaced at the note of hysteria in the man's voice-- he'd never make it through to anyone in authority without handling himself better than that. If the government was ever going to take this seriously, Brackett would have to make some calls of his own.

Taking his hearing off-line, Jim frowned, rubbing his temples. He squinted around, looking for the source of the disturbance-- then understood as his eyes passed a tall metal framework and returned to it. A high-voltage tower, tilted at an ominous 45-degree angle, bearing several thick power cables capable of carrying an unimaginable load of electricity across the desert. There were many similar lines originating at the dam, tall metal frames marching across the desert conducting precious hydroelectric energy. He experimentally focused in tight on the lines and snapped his lids shut reflexively as the world went insane around him, electromagnetic distortion wrenching at his perception in intricate patterns of gray visual static.

Now that he was aware of the effects, he could feel his skin crawling in response to the electromagnetic forces in the air, slightly stronger on the side of his body near the closest tower. He could taste the ion charge in the air and smell the metallic burn of high-powered electric charges frying dust particles out of the atmosphere. Anywhere in the vicinity of one of those towers his senses would be useless. That probably meant Brackett was camped out underneath the biggest one he could find, or maybe even the thickest cluster.

Sighing, Jim started listening for distant sirens and helicopters. As he was searching the sky, the door behind him popped open; this time the ranger had a hand on his gun. "You'd better come with me quietly, sir." He produced a set of handcuffs somewhat clumsily with his left hand.

Jim spared an anguished glance in Blair's direction. "I'm Detective James Ellison of the Cascade Washington PD. I don't have my credentials on me; I lost them during the chase. That's my partner down there in the boat. The man behind this is probably hiding somewhere nearby, watching. If you leave me free, I can help you locate him."

The ranger cleared his throat nervously, unconvinced, and pulled his gun. "Sir, you've just delivered a terrorist threat on a national landmark. I'm going to have to read you your rights." He advanced, gun wavering slightly, handcuffs at the ready.

Jim had a second to bless the incompetence of the National Park Service's half-assed security training; he feinted left and the gun followed his motion. He brought his right foot up in a lazy roundhouse kick that sent the weapon flying.

"I'm sorry," he muttered as he cuffed the ranger's wrists behind his back with quick efficiency. "But I told you, that's my partner down there and right now I'm the best man to help him. No hard feelings, all right?" He stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans. "Now let's get in there and see about calling in some real security."

Once they arrived in the ranger's office, Jim stared at the newly scribbled notes on the ranger's desk blotter. Grudgingly he decided that someone titled a "Regional Law Enforcement Specialist" would probably be a lot more likely than a night shift ranger to know what the hell he was doing and who to contact. There was a folder labeled "Emergency Procedures" lying open on the desk; inside he found more notes regarding flood plain and facility evacuation plans. Maybe the ranger had more idea what he was doing than Jim had expected.

He pointed to the blotter. "Go ahead and make these arrangements if you haven't finished already." The cuffed ranger looked at him with startled disbelief. "Look, I told you. I'm not a terrorist. I'm a cop. I don't want to see innocent people get hurt. Now let's make the calls." He picked up the phone, waiting to dial.

When the additional emergency spotlights went on, Blair's taut-strung nerves ratcheted up another notch. He stared at the reflected light on the turbulent water, wondering what kind of progress Jim was making. He hoped in vain for the roiling water to smooth, leaving only a few dissipating bubbles, and for his boat to stop rocking and scraping against the face of the dam. That would be something to be grateful for; the noise was giving him a headache. Moreover, it would be a hopeful sign, indicating that the intakes had been turned off and the power plant shut down and evacuated.

Nothing happened. Resigning himself to a long wait, he occupied his time between watching Brackett's baleful, silent cell phone and bailing the boat periodically. After his collision with the security cable, water kept seeping in. It was still slow enough to deal with, but the boat was sitting low and tilted, riding heavily in the water, and he knew that some of the flotation compartments in the hull had been breached and partly filled.

He hoped Jim would hurry.

The cement face of the dam radiated heat like a furnace after absorbing a day's worth of harsh sunlight; he leaned over the edge of the boat and laid his tense, chilled palm against the rough surface, soaking up the warmth. He traced a grout-filled seam idly with one fingertip. The four intake towers and their linking catwalks gleamed brightly on either side of his position; numerous yards away, they were still so massive that they seemed to loom over him in silent threat.

When the cell phone rang, he flinched so hard it shook the boat. Collecting himself, careful not to jar the precarious balance of the boat and let precious air bubbles escape from the breached compartments, he went to the bow and answered it. Brackett began speaking immediately, skipping any pretense at pleasantry.

"You'll be thrilled to know that I've made my request of the United States treasury, and that the National Park Service has succeeded in emptying the power plant. They're currently implementing evacuation procedures for towns along the Colorado River nearly all the way to Mexico." Brackett's voice was hatefully smug. "They're taking us seriously, Blair. Expect the boys from Edwards Air Force Base to arrive via helicopter within a couple of hours.

"Don't worry, though. If you sit tight, they probably won't try taking you out with a sniper since both you and the boat are rigged to blow." He paused for thought. "How did you weather crossing the security cable?"

"Badly." Blair snapped, bending and sloshing his hand through the gathering water in the floor of the boat so that Brackett would hear.

"Aren't you glad I thought to provide you with a bailing cup." Brackett's voice held a razor edge of false sympathy. "And that I didn't wire C4 into the boat beneath the waterline." A pause hung heavily in the air. "I want to talk to Ellison," he snapped suddenly, and Blair felt his jaw lock tight, the muscles spasming painfully.

"No." His hands rose to his taped ribs instinctively, touching one of the explosive packets concealed inside. Brackett wouldn't blow him up now, not with his goal in sight. "He doesn't want to talk to you."

"You're very brave, Blair." Brackett's voice mocked him. "Maybe braver than Ellison? I guess he didn't care enough about you to stick around for the fireworks." Blair pushed the cutoff button savagely, with a single muttered oath.

Mercifully, Brackett had apparently accomplished his purpose by telling Blair where to wait and not to move. He failed to call back and time began to stretch again, slowing to a maddening crawl that pulsated with tension. Eventually Blair heard voices, distorted and hollow, echoing from the top of the dam; a searchlight beam swept over him and then settled, sharply illuminating his boat.

He held perfectly still, ears straining to interpret the sounds, wishing for Jim's acute hearing. He tried to follow his own advice for filtering out interference, partly succeeding.

"...don't think a bomb... penetrate the dam... helluva dent."

"We can't... risk. What if... extra force of the..."

"Flood all the way... Mexico... you..."

Then Jim's voice rang out, angry and sure. Blair welcomed the sound, basking in it, soaking up the small comfort Jim's nearness offered even though part of him wished that Jim would back off and move further from ground zero. "The dam isn't the only thing to think about here..." a motor growled, drowning Jim out for a long moment. "... partner's life is at stake!"

"We only have your word for who you are!" Hostile, a little petty, this voice was nevertheless very aggressive. Every word rang clearly.

Then another voice intervened, authoritative but still tense. "Gentlemen." It dipped out of range for a moment, then rose again. "...argument somewhere else. You're the last personnel remaining in this restricted area. If you'll follow me...?"

Blair finally looked up, and as he did Jim's head leaned over the edge slightly to the left of his position. Their gazes locked and held, wordless. Blair lifted his hand, feeling his chest constrict. He nodded and waved, giving Jim leave to vanish. He didn't need Sentinel vision to know Jim's knuckles were white on the edge of the wall. After a tense moment, Ellison disappeared.

"Love you, man." Blair whispered, his voice choked. He didn't even care if Brackett heard him.

Jim's head didn't return. Blair wondered with a pang of loss whether he would ever see his partner again.

Ignoring his fear, he grimly resumed his bailing.

Jim forced himself away from the stone wall that edged the roadway. He stalked heavily toward the white Bureau of Reclamation van that waited to carry him to join the other evacuees. They were temporarily gathered in the parking garage a few yards down from the dam on the west side of the plunge basin, preparatory to being shuttled to a safer locale. He sat down inside the van, staring moodily out the window, not really seeing the narrow gorge winding away on his left. He had to figure out Brackett's plan, and time was running short.

A walkie-talkie crackled, the squelch digging painfully at Jim's ears, and the jolt startled him out of a near-zone on the soft sounds of Blair's nearby presence. "Right. We're going to move with the second phase of the evacuation." The chief ranger, who'd rushed in from his nearby desert home, was considerably more capable than the night shift man Jim had surprised. He was talking two-fisted, a cell-phone to his right ear and a radio in his left hand. While looking at Jim with considerable suspicion, he had so far given him the benefit of the doubt in spite of his missing badge.

He flipped the cell phone shut and tucked it in his belt, keeping the walkie-talkie handy. Jim realized he'd missed overhearing a message. "The Treasury isn't going to meet the terrorist's demands," Ranger Thompson muttered to their driver, too low for normal ears to pick up in the back seats. "The Army Corps of Engineers doesn't think a bomb that size will breach the dam. Come on; let's hurry and get out of blast range."

Jim's lips tightened and went white. The sliding door slammed, trapping him inside for the moment; he shifted to stare out the window and scanned the harsh granite hillsides as they drove, struggling to detect traces of Brackett. His head swam, his vision going gray and speckled as they neared and passed a long bank of power lines, still active even though the dam had been evacuated. He shook his head stubbornly, trying to throw off the influence of the high voltage lines, but it seemed to be cumulative, rushing over him in growing waves until his hearing was completely useless and his skin crawled. Ionized air seared his nostrils, the effects worsening rather than lessening as they drove.

"End of the line." A shake to his arm startled him out of a mini-zone, and he crawled out of the van clumsily. "You all right?" Thompson scrutinized him narrowly as he emerged, staggering a little, eyes automatically moving to the blocky cement building that dominated the area, recessed into the granite cliff. There were a surprising number of people gathered between the road and the cliff, power plant workers Jim supposed.

"Yeah." He answered Thompson belatedly. "Maybe a touch of sunstroke." He swept the crowd automatically. His eyes narrowed as he tried to force himself to focus on the men who stood near the tower furthest toward the back of the graded area. Something... Jim frowned and took a step forward, ignoring the sensation of electromagnetic waves like insects crawling over his skin.

The majority of the group were engineers, all nondescript, wearing the standard Bureau of Reclamation coverall from the power plant. A couple nearby were sharing the remains of their lunch; one was sitting on the curb and drawing absently with a twig in the sand beyond the asphalt. There were fewer people on the ground beyond the asphalt, but small groups had segregated themselves, talking quietly. Jim noticed that one group was further out than the others, and one of its members stood almost in the shadow of the high voltage tower near the corner of the pale cement building.

Jim squinted, his instincts prickling the hair at the back of his neck as he stepped forward, weaving through the loose crowd of workers. There was something furtive about the last man he'd noticed. He cursed below his breath, trying to force his vision to focus properly. He squinted, ignoring the disconcerting static in his vision. The man held a briefcase and stood staring up into the darkness of the cliff behind the concrete parking garage, his back to Ellison. Unlike most of the other men, he wore a long ponytail and a scruffy beard.

His posture tickled at Jim's intuition, and Ellison began to move forward faster just as the man took a small, sidling step away. He edged unobtrusively toward the shadows just beyond the perimeter of the sickly yellow circle cast by the single sodium-vapor light. Light caught the edge of his features for a moment just as some of the electrical interference lessened.

Brackett.

Jim let him slip around the rear corner of the building, then put on a burst of speed. He shoved men aside and ran after, lungs laboring a little as he negotiated the incline. He staggered, nearly losing his balance as he passed under a set of high voltage wires, struggling against a zone-out, battling down the shrieking whine he'd been keeping sublimated under his conscious awareness. He blinked savagely at the avalanche of gray speckles obliterating his vision. Blair. His mind took the name as a focus and it kept him moving through the pain and disorientation, past the interference below the power lines and forward until his vision cleared and the world stabilized around him once more.

Shouts rang out behind him now, demanding that someone stop him. He swore aloud and pushed roughly past the few outstretched arms that reached to hinder him, peripherally glad that the majority of electrical engineers weren't the athletic type. Jim tore around the corner of the building only to find Brackett's heels at head-level-- the rogue agent was escaping, ascending the rough granite cliff face. He lunged, catching one ankle, and clung viciously as Brackett kicked to dislodge him, then slipped and flailed, sliding downward in a scrabble of gravel and uprooted scrub.

Agony suddenly exploded in Jim's head and he clutched at his scalp, falling to his knees. Dimly he heard the scrabbling sounds of Brackett climbing out of reach. He shook his head, struggling to clear his mind, shrugging back the sharp pain. Reaching to his scalp, his hand came away with bloody fingers. He swore curtly, the sound of his own voice sending a jolt of pain through his nerves.

He struggled to push himself up off the ground to resume the chase, and his fingertips encountered an unexpectedly smooth surface: leather, his nostrils suddenly informed him, catching the sharp musky tang of cured hide. That forced his eyes open, and he found his hand resting on Brackett's briefcase. He realized it must have been what struck his head. He snatched it open as footsteps thundered around the corner of the building, finding an array of electronics, a slim semi-automatic pistol, and a laptop computer stored inside.

"Get Thompson. Don't touch anything." Jim barked, beginning to recover from the swaying nausea of the blow to his head. "That was the bomber, and I think this might be his remote trigger." He snapped the case shut, tilting his head up. Brackett's feet vanished over the top of the bank as he did. Almost immediately thereafter he could hear the clump of boots on asphalt; Brackett had apparently made it up onto the switchback of the road to Las Vegas.

Jim shoved the briefcase at the first uniformed ranger he saw, then caught handholds on the cliff and began to scratch his way toward the top. Recklessly using the scraggly vegetation growing out of cracks in the granite for purchase, he kicked and clawed his way up the cliff, feeling dust cake in the trickle of blood from his wounded scalp.

He topped out and vaulted the guardrail, scanning for Brackett, cursing when he saw the man running far ahead, long legs eating distance at a relentless rate. Hoping Brackett hadn't stashed an escape vehicle somewhere nearby, Jim doggedly took off after him. He cursed himself for not buying a new sidearm when he'd left his own 9mm behind to make sure there was no risk that some piece of his old gear would trigger the bomb Sandburg wore.

Brackett was sprinting hard about a hundred yards further up the road, his lean body lighter and easier to move than Jim's heavier, more muscular one-- but he'd spent a lot of time sitting around on his ass in federal prison, and his stamina had begun to flag. He was slowing gradually. Jim gained ground, pushing his body to its limits, feeling his lungs expand and contract in the familiar rhythm of hard exercise. He let himself zone on it just a little, falling into the groove of pursuit, focusing everything on catching Brackett.

Jim hardly noticed the change as his feet left the blacktop and he launched himself over the guardrail, scrambling up the steep slope in his quarry's wake. Now that Brackett wasn't holding the button that could terminate Blair's life anymore, Jim felt his anger and relief giving him extra strength; he poured it into his burning muscles. Some part of him realized this was an abbreviated version of the true test that Blair had envisioned, Sentinel senses versus a fully aware opponent-- plus something Sandburg couldn't give him: the tangible malice of an actual enemy and the crucial imperative that his chase succeed. He knew instinctively that Brackett would make for the power lines, relying on them to render Jim helpless.

Engines whined behind him as vans and cars peeled out in pursuit of himself and Brackett up the long switchback of highway; car doors slammed and voices shouted, but he hardly heard them, his focus almost perfect. The ground leveled out and stone blurred beneath his pounding feet. His breath whistled harshly in his lungs. Brackett filled his eyes as he zoned on pursuit, focusing his concentration only on the information from his senses that brought him traces of his prey.

A jagged outcrop separated them from the nearest power lines; Brackett lost precious ground as he scrabbled up its face. Jim's upper body strength and Covert Ops training helped him swarm up the rock-face in a fraction of the time it had taken the rogue agent. He resumed running instantly, close on Brackett's heels. As they sprinted toward the nearest set of lines, his vision hazed over in snowy stages like static gradually devouring the picture on a television set.

Hearing and sight faded past usefulness as they moved under the power lines, and Jim's nostrils flared to take his prey's scent. His mind directed his feet in accord with his last visual memory of the rough terrain. Hands extended, he could feel the faint temperature gradient of stone outcroppings radiating solar generated warmth into the cool night desert air, reinforcing his memory-map with new input. His skin crawled under the pressure of the magnetic field, but not unbearably. His fingertips tingled, tantalized by the heat sink of Brackett's body just beyond his grasp, a ghostly impression heightened by the sharp stink of sweat and fear and rage washing back over him as they ran.

He put on a burst of speed, knowing that they were almost to the boundary of his mental map of the terrain. Cloth skimmed his fingertips and Jim sprang, crushing a cursing, spitting Brackett to the rough stone. Grounded by the solidity of touch and hours of combat training, he could read the flicker of Brackett's motions like a book, anticipating his blows more accurately than he might have done with eyesight. Still focused, lost in the zone of pursuit, he felt Brackett leave a hairsbreadth opening. He lashed out, clipping his opponent on the jaw with a neat punch that snapped his head back, stunning him. Lacking handcuffs, he tore his t-shirt into strips and bound Brackett's wrists and ankles efficiently, still caught up in the surge of adrenaline, moving purely on instinct and anger.

Finishing, he sat back, automatically extending his hearing to check for backup. The subharmonic scream of electromagnetic current thundered into his head, deafening him, sending him reeling. He crashed onto his side, barely aware of the faint rhythmic vibrations that meant other feet were approaching. At least Brackett was caught. He succumbed to the pain in his head, losing the world in its howl, consciousness fading before he could wonder whether their pursuers might have the presence of mind to move him away from the power cables.

The first thing he noticed upon waking was pain; his wrists competed with his head for attention. Giving them an experimental tug, he realized he was cuffed. He opened his eyes and Brackett swam into focus, his eyes filled with a combination of venomous hatred and glee that Jim shared his captivity. "Nice act, Jim, but they got you anyway. So much for your plans to break our agreement."

"Shut up." Jim worked to lever himself upright. The electromagnetic interference had lessened to a bearable level once more, and he took a moment to sort himself out, taking control of his senses again. He ignored Brackett's rude snicker and the silent armed guard standing watch over them-- the same ranger he'd originally surprised and disarmed. Jim groaned. Great. "Where's Sandburg?"

"Still in the boat." Brackett sounded positively smug, his quiet triumph sending shivers of dread crawling up Jim's spine. "Waiting for a military sniper. They'll eventually have him shot so he can't hit the button himself, I suspect."

That wouldn't be true. Couldn't. ...Might. Jim felt something slippery on his wrists, and realized he was pulling against the restraints, the obdurate metal cutting his skin. Brackett lazily directed his attention elsewhere, still smirking. Jim tried to catch the guard's eye. "I want to talk to Thompson!" The pain in his wrists worsened, but he couldn't stop struggling.

"I already did." Jim blinked at the familiar heavy tenor, more welcome at the moment than anything. "We have positive identification. Get those cuffs off him."

"Simon!" Jim squirmed to present his bloodied wrists to the guardian ranger, who sullenly bent to unlock the cuffs.

"What kind of damned fool stunt was it to leave your police ID in your rental?" Simon gestured sharp annoyance with his cigar. "No, don't tell me. You 'had a good reason.'" He tossed Jim his badge and gave him a hand up, disregarding the possibility of getting blood on his overcoat. "The USNPS matched it with my APB about twelve hours ago when a ranger patrol noticed it sitting parked in a lot next to the Bright Angel trailhead where you left it. They jimmied the door and phoned the PD when they saw your badge. We figured you'd hiked into the Canyon and I had a hunch this was where you might wind up, so Taggart and I flew into Phoenix and picked up your gear, then I drove us out here. Just in time to pull your ass out of the fire, too." He slapped Jim's shoulder. "You're getting predictable in your old age, Brackett!"

"There's no time for that, Simon. I've got to get to Sandburg before the military gets here." Rubbing his aching wrists, Jim trotted toward Thompson's voice, leaving Simon to trail in his wake.

"Did you confirm that the briefcase contains the trigger to the bomb?" Jim demanded in, bursting in on a conversation in process. Thompson eyed him sharply; Jim gave a brief nod to Taggart.

"Looks like it, Jim, but we can't take official action till the feds arrive and examine the briefcase. They're the experts." Taggart shrugged elaborately, his eyes wry.

Jim rolled his eyes. Jurisdiction issues. Lovely. "What's your personal opinion?"

"It's definitely a trigger of some kind, but I can't say it's the only one. The rangers searched Brackett; if there's another trigger he isn't carrying it." Taggart hesitated, uncertain, and Jim tried to think how to reassure him-- Brackett was an old and painfully sharp thorn in Joel's side.

"Go on." Jim urged softly, putting his hand on Joel's arm, offering tactile encouragement.

"Well, you know how slippery Brackett is as well as I do, Jim. Backups, dummy explosives, diversions... I don't think it's gonna be that easy, you know?" Joel tipped his head back toward the dam. "They say Blair's rigged to blow sky high, and his boat is too. What if Brackett has them on a timer, not just on remote control? Or there could be more bombs that we don't know about." Joel's eyes looked haunted; it was one of Brackett's hidden bombs that had taken his nerve.

"I agree." Jim turned to Thompson, trying to temper his instinctive urgency and aggression with enough respect to pacify the park ranger's ego, aware of Simon's silent support at his shoulder. "Joel and I were two of the cops who handled the case that sent Lee Brackett to prison. We know his MO. I want to get Blair out of that boat, but I need somebody to talk to Brackett. We've got to get more details out of him. Maybe he's willing to deal information. I'm sure my captain is eager to help you."

Thompson looked indecisive, a little nervous, and Jim writhed with impatience. The worst emergency he's ever had to handle before was some drunk college kid with a sprained ankle. He didn't care if his assessment was fair or not.

"The government agents--"

"Look, with the remote detonator in your hands, getting my partner off that boat isn't going to increase the chances of triggering the bomb!"

"Jim." Simon laid a quelling hand on his shoulder. "Maybe we should--"

Walkie-talkie squelch garbled in the background, and Jim shrugged off the hand, listening. "What was that?" he stalked to one side, halting a ranger whose name tag labeled him an interpreter. "The boat's sinking?"

"Approximately six inches in the last half hour."

Jim turned on his heel.

"Detective Ellison, the dam is a restricted area--"

"The hell with that. I'm gonna go get my partner!" Jim invested the words with sarcastic venom, and Thompson stepped forward to interfere, but this time Simon's restricting hand fell on his shoulder.

"Ellison's an ex-Army Ranger, Covert Ops, and he has the best case closure record of any cop on the west coast." His dark eyes met Thompson's soberly. "He takes on all the worst cases in Major Crimes in Cascade-- and wins. He's handled Brackett's schemes before. If anybody's going to end this without one of those bombs going off, it's him. Now I think you and I have a prisoner to question."

After a tense pause, Thompson acquiesced reluctantly and nodded to his man. He headed for Brackett with Simon; the interpreter surrendered the keys to one of the vans to Jim. Ellison jumped into the driver's seat and reversed out onto the road, spraying dust and gravel and sending rangers and evacuees scattering.

That had gone easier than he'd expected. The USNPS employees really weren't properly trained to handle an emergency of this magnitude, and he was relieved that Thompson's inexperience had helped them convince him to surrender his authority and let Jim act. Putting the incident behind him, he accelerated up the curving road and onto the dam. He halted near the middle, eyeing the guardrail carefully.

It looked sturdy and Jim sighed with relief, jerking open the back of the van. A coil of heavy-duty electrical extension cord would have to suffice for a climbing rope. Jim tossed it briskly toward the side of the dam. He could hear helicopters in the distance, and figured it was the boys from Edwards Air Force Base. He had to move fast.

"Sandburg!" Jim's hoarse bellow spread out across the water, echoing back from the granite walls of the canyon.

"Yeah!" Blair's voice had a weary heaviness to it, but it was there, and that was all that was important.

"We got the remote detonator and Brackett's in custody. I'm gonna throw a rope to you and I want you to tie a loop to put your feet in and wrap it twice around your waist, all right? I'm gonna pull you up."

"Right!" Blair's voice brightened with relief.

Jim hitched the cord firmly to the frame of the van's underbelly, heaved it over the edge, then looked down... and cursed. It fell a good fifteen feet short of Blair's grasping hand-- fifteen feet that might as well have been a mile.

"It won't reach!" Blair called, then stooped and resumed his bailing-- the rangers were right; he was ankle deep in water at the middle of the boat, and the lower end of the looked like it might give up the struggle very soon. "Do you think I could climb one of the towers?"

Jim glanced around frantically, from the empty back of the van to the innermost western intake tower-- his vision focused in tight, revealing steel ladder rungs set into the concrete and leading down to the surface of the water. "Can you get to that one over there?"

"Not all the way, not in the boat. I don't think I can control it well enough to be sure I won't crash." Blair kept bailing. "But I could swim."

Jim hesitated, looking at the churning water with dismay. It was turbulent, but it didn't look like the towers were drawing from the surface. "Does the motor still work?"

"Yeah, I think..."

"Steer the boat away from the dam and give the accelerator a kick when you bail. Wait till I get out on the catwalk, then do it. I'll yell when I'm set."

"Hurry!" Strain bled through in Blair's tone.

Jim abandoned his cord and moved to examine the arc of chain that served as the only barrier between himself and the catwalk. He glanced up at the sky, where helicopters had begun to descend around the dam like a plague of locusts. One settled right next to him and Jim cursed as soldiers spilled out: more explanations, more interference, and these guys wouldn't be as easy to convince as Thompson had.

"Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade PD. Ex-Army Captain and Ranger," he yelled to their sergeant over the thudding whine of the rotors. He pointed at Blair. "I'm going after my partner with the sanction of the feds in charge of the scene." It was definitely a bit of a stretch calling Thompson and the other park rangers feds, but if it got him out there to help Blair he didn't care, and this guy hadn't had a chance to sort out the command hierarchy yet. "There's a bomb planted in his boat. When he dives, he's going to point the boat out into the lake and kick the motor on."

The captain nodded quickly. "We'll take it out when it's a safe distance from the dam."

"There's about a half-ton of C4 on that thing," Ellison warned.

"We've been briefed." The sergeant sprinted back to his helicopter and began barking orders; his men obeyed, rapidly setting up the mount for a small missile launcher while the sergeant got on the horn with his general to confirm the plan.

Jim ignored them and vaulted the chain onto the wide catwalk that joined the towers to the dam, sprinting out to the top of the first cylinder and kicking at the topmost ladder rung with one boot. It held solidly, and he lifted his chin. "Sandburg!"

"On my way." The motor of the boat turned over reluctantly; Jim held his breath as he watched it struggle and cough, nearly submerged, spitting black smoke. Sandburg cursed under his breath and jogged to the front of the boat, climbing onto the dash for balance, resting one foot near the windscreen and the other on the wheel, his weight evening out the vehicle slightly. The motor caught and roared. The sinking boat lurched forward, nearly dislodging Sandburg from his precarious perch. He went to his knees, losing control of the steering. Jim's heart shot into his throat and his fingers spasmed around the cold ladder rung.

The boat veered toward the intake tower where Jim perched. Sandburg recovered from the lurch awkwardly. He got on one knee and put his hand on the wheel to straighten the boat, steering it away from the intakes. Course set, he pushed himself upright again carefully and leaped. A splash punctuated his descent, then he bobbed to the surface, hair darkly plastered to his skull. Ellison released a relieved breath; he definitely didn't trust the currents so close to the intakes. He tracked Blair's slow progress across the intervening water, focused on the bright orange of his life-vest. A quarter the distance, then half...

The boat's motor suddenly screamed and then fell silent; one of the soldiers shouted a targeting order in the middle distance, warning Jim of impending fire. The auditory input almost distracted him from a near-zone on the orange life vest, which suddenly did a sickening dip and roll, nearly vanishing beneath the dark, turbulent water.

"Sandburg! The currents get worse close to the intakes!" The water around the towers continued its relentless surge and roil, muffling Jim's useless shout. He scrambled down the ladder, hesitating on the verge of diving in himself, trying to figure out whether Blair was in danger of being sucked in. He couldn't figure out what depth the actual intake might be happening at.

A piercing hiss cut the air, and he glanced up at the vapor trails from two small missiles, then braced himself on the rung and ducked his head behind his sleeve. The projectiles caught the motor boat where it had hung itself on the guard wire at the buoy line, and it exploded in a horrible billow of heat, concussion, and flame. The shock wave rattled Jim on the ladder and he jerked his head up, searching desperately to find Blair, belatedly terrified that the bombs were linked for one to go off if the other did. Thank God they weren't; the orange life-jacket still bobbed in the current, closer now.

"Holy shit!" Blair yelled, and Jim couldn't tell whether he meant it as a comment on the explosion or the currents. He swirled, caught in a vicious eddy. It tugged him in circles, but at least he wasn't being dragged under. He swirled around again, then caught a tangent out of it, unfortunately heading away from Jim and toward the outermost tower. Jim abandoned the first ladder to sprint out the second catwalk and down the ladder there, reaching out for Blair futilely.

Sandburg's legs and arms broke the water, churning up white wake as he kicked desperately to reach Jim. Then the current shifted and he backpaddled equally hard as another swirl caught him and propelled him directly toward the tower, ramming him savagely against the concrete and holding him pinned there with its force.

"I'm coming, hang on!" Jim rasped, forgetting the ringing in his ears from the explosion. He struggled to find a purchase in one of the grouted seams between the poured cement blocks that made up the tower, working his way away from the ladder and toward Blair, who clung to the north face. Ignoring his bleeding fingers and palms, Jim traversed alternate vertical ribs and horizontal ledges, at last arriving on the ledge above Blair and cursing his lack of foresight in failing to bring the extension cord along.

"Sandburg, you OK?"

"Yeah, yeah, just winded." Blair's voice sounded a little choked; his hair was drenched and streamed in wet ribbons over his face. "I'm not going anywhere, man. There's a current pushing me up against this corner like you wouldn't believe." Sure enough, when Jim looked, he saw that Sandburg was tucked up in the seam between one of the vertical ribs and another ledge.

Jim estimated the distance to the next ledge, then flipped himself over the edge of his ledge and swung inward. He dropped a few feet from Blair and sloshed over to help him pull himself out of the clutches of the current and up onto the ledge. It was submerged beneath about six inches of water, but that was shallow enough that the current was no longer dangerous. They huddled against the interior wall, looking for a way to climb up without having to swim.

Jim touched Blair's face, unable to help himself, and their eyes locked in silent understanding. He hadn't ever let himself truly consider the possibility that he might never see Blair again... "Good thing you had this on." He moved his hand to touch the orange life vest gently, breaking the moment.

"Yeah. I thought the current was gonna suck me down for a minute there when the boat blew." Blair pushed his wet hair out of his face with a scraped and bleeding hand. "I saw a TV special on building the Hoover Dam once; the intake tunnels are way down near the bottom of the lake, so the water goes in from a long way under the surface. That way the water going through the turbines is always the same temperature." He swallowed hard. If that wasn't so, I'd have been a goner for sure--"

"Blair." Jim's quiet voice halted his babble. "We've got to get back up on top of the dam and take care of that bomb. Brackett's in custody, but I won't rest easy till we've got that shit cut off you."

"Did they evacuate the dam already?" Blair blinked. "Then why are the intakes still on, man?"

It was Jim's turn to blink. "I don't know," he answered slowly. "They said they evacuated all the engineers."

"Something's still not right." Sandburg's hand fell almost unconsciously to his ribs, and Jim winced, forcibly reminded of the bomb Blair wore. "Let's get out of here and talk to Brackett."

"You took the words right outta my mouth, Chief." He reached to the nearby wall, feeling around the seams in the concrete, testing handholds.

"You gentlemen need a little help?" A hollow voice reached them, and Jim moved to the edge of the ledge, looking up cautiously.

"Yeah, throw us a rope!" Jim heaved a sigh of relief, glad they wouldn't have to climb unassisted-- the narrow grout seams were not hospitable to a climbing grip. Eventually a rope and climbing harness splashed down next to him, and Jim caught it, then made Blair go first. When it returned he scrambled up himself, only to find their rescuers holding his partner at gunpoint. One of the airmen was already poking cautiously at the tape that swathed his chest.

"He's not a terrorist, he's a victim!" Jim snapped, stepping between the guns and Sandburg. The park rangers and a couple of FBI vans were trickling down in the distance, eager to investigate the detonation. The CIA were more discreet, but Jim recognized their logo as well. He could even read one door panel that proclaimed the ATF had arrived. Blair began shivering in the cold dry air, and Jim moved to put a protective arm around his shoulders, glowering at the men surrounding them.

"If you'll come with us, gentlemen." The blank-faced airmen escorted them back toward the highway that traversed the top of the dam. Jim focused his hearing on the escalating jurisdictional argument before they ever reached the inner tower.

"I'm the ranking officer currently present at this facility, and frankly, I don't give a rat's ass what the FBI has to say about jurisdiction here!" The discussion was currently dominated by the Air Force General; Jim smirked humorlessly. The feds and the military clearly thought there wasn't much to do now that the bomb had detonated but claim the glory for its demise; this was going to be a hell of a fight. It was a pity he couldn't afford to stick around and enjoy it.

Simon spotted him when they stepped into the glare of the floodlights and elbowed Taggart. The two men angled away from their position on the fringes of the argument and approached the soldiers, giving Jim and Blair nods of relieved greeting.

"Simon Banks, Cascade PD." Simon flashed his badge to the unimpressed military guards. "These men are my subordinates, and this officer is a demolitions expert. I'm going to take them out into the desert and have my man defuse the secondary explosive device."

The sergeant held up a silencing hand, instructing Simon to wait, and strode over to the general. He looked none-too-pleased to be interrupted in mid-rant.

"Send Osborne and Miller with them to neutralize the bomb on the civilian. And that explosion could draw sightseers. Extend the security perimeter!" the general snapped, irritated, then returned his attention to the discussion at hand.

As Osborne and Miller led Jim and Blair away they could hear him raise his voice again to counter an objection from the senior FBI agent. Simon eased up alongside Sandburg, muttering for Jim's ears only. "If we don't get moving in a helluva hurry, some petty bureaucrat might just lock you two in cuffs and put you in the back of this van with Brackett. The way things are going so far, any one of them could drive away with you and be gone for an hour before somebody notices. This jurisdictional debate is gonna get ugly. We don't have time to sit back and settle who gets which piece of the pie; Brackett wants to talk to you. He says it's not over, but he won't deal with anybody else."

Simon chewed his unlit cigar viciously, his brow crinkling in thought. "Joel, you go with Osborne and Miller. Talk to Sandburg; get all the information you can about the bomb he's wearing but don't try to peel it till I give the word." He steered Jim closer to the USNPS van he'd commandeered. "The big boys may think all that's left is squabbling over who gets the glory, but I don't think this is over yet, Jim. Brackett's still looking too smug for my taste." He opened the back of the van.

"Detective Ellison." Sure enough, Brackett still had that hateful, superior look. The confidence of it made Jim's heart sink. "You did an excellent job neutralizing the boat and rescuing Mr. Sandburg." Brackett was all pompous formality now, with none of the patronizing familiarity he'd displayed while interacting with Jim and Blair alone.

His sarcasm grated on Jim's nerves unbearably, and Jim felt his hackles rise. "What else have you done?"

"That's an excellent question, Detective." Now Brackett dripped genteel scorn. "Have the other agencies asked themselves that, I wonder? Have they locked things down so tight already that you can't move to save Sandburg?" Brackett raised his knees, ignoring the binding at his ankles, and casually rested his wrists across them.

"Tell me your deal." Jim already knew the terms, already knew Brackett had some kind of sabotage set up inside the power plant or the dam itself. In return for that information, he'd want his--

"Freedom." Brackett supplied in a venomous tone, right on cue. "In exchange for information on further explosives located in the facility and how to neutralize them-- and for the plans to the bomb I wired on Sandburg, including the only safe way to defuse it."

"I'm listening." Jim's throat felt dry and tight; his hands and wrists ached sharply where he'd cut himself on the cuffs and scraped his fingers raw on the concrete of the intake towers.

"It's very simple. You take me down into the power plant; I give you the map I have stored there. We go our separate ways." Brackett smiled, a vulpine expression.

"When do I get the plans for defusing the bomb you put on Sandburg?" Jim restrained an almost overwhelming physical need to drive his fist into Brackett's nasty smirk.

"When you find the third bomb. The plans you want are located with it. While you move to neutralize it, I'll be making my way to Mexico." Brackett looked confident now; he knew Jim's weakness well. "What time is it, Detective?"

Jim glanced at Simon, who checked his watch. "Eleven PM, give or take about three minutes."

Brackett bared his teeth at Jim in a grin that seemed more like the mocking leer of a skull. "Think fast, Ellison."

Jim slammed the doors on him. "Simon..." he hated the sound of the desperation in his voice. "What if Sandburg's wearing a timer?" Blair remained still and looked between them, silent and white-faced, his fingertips nervously groping at the lumpy tape.

"I don't see any choice, Jim." Simon nodded grimly. "We've got to give this a shot."

Jim re-opened the back of the van. "You've got your deal."

"You'll have to get rid of Groucho and Harpo," Brackett inclined his brow toward the airmen, who were speaking quietly with Joel. "They're not part of this deal."

Simon huffed with impatience, then raised his voice. "Let's get this bomb off the dam." He caught Joel's eyes and held them for a long moment. "Sandburg, I want you in the front seat with me. The rest of you get in back where you can keep an eye on Brackett."

Jim caught Joel's eye too as they climbed into the van, and Taggart nodded imperceptibly, but before they could move, Brackett spoke up.

"If it isn't Joel Taggart. You're looking well-fed these days. What did Banks bring you with him for, decoration? I spent a lot of time in the penitentiary consoling myself with the news that you weren't good for much anymore. But don't feel bad. A lot of guys lose their nerve the first time something goes wrong."

"Shut up, Brackett." Joel clenched his fists and Jim nudged his thigh; he took the hint and leaned over, shoving Brackett's arm viciously. Unable to brace himself, Brackett teetered and fell. Joel followed him to the floor with apparent intent to do mayhem. Osborne leaned over and caught his arm; Jim dispatched the airman with a quick chop and then tackled Miller. Taggart promptly abandoned Brackett and dealt with Osborne. The five men entangled in a flailing mass of limbs and fists that finally sorted itself out with Taggart producing cuffs and restraining the two Air Force demolitions experts. Jim tore strips off their uniform shirts and gagged them.

"A nice rough tumble, but I wish you'd been on the bottom, Jim." Brackett's chin was bloodied from a split lip. He struggled upright laboriously, hampered by his cuffed wrists. "But then, I guess you do too, don't you, with somebody else on top?"

"Shut up, and I mean it this time." Taggart gave Brackett a baleful glare, shoving him a second time.

"Talk all you want. You're not good for anything else." Brackett spat, trying to wipe his chin on his collar. Joel's mouth tightened, but he stayed still this time.

"Cuff him to your arm, Jim. We're gonna have to bluff our way in." Simon stopped the van.

"Just Ellison and Sandburg," Brackett spoke flatly. "And no cuffs or the deal's off, Banks."

Simon swore, levering the transmission into park. "If you run for it now, the Air Force snipers will have you before you make it a dozen yards."

"I'm no fool." Brackett turned to let Jim un-cuff him, then wiped his lip with his sleeve. "The clock's ticking."

Jim emerged from the van and they sorted themselves into a rough order with Sandburg and Simon flanking Brackett and Joel bringing up the rear. Together they strode off to find the tourists' elevator. There were guards stationed in front of it and Jim hoped against hope that his bulkier body would shield the guard's view of Brackett's bloody face. "Detective Ellison, Cascade PD." He flashed his badge quickly. "There's been a glitch in the power plant computer programs and the substation reports it's causing a surge in the power grid; General Madison sent us to escort one of the engineers into the dam to shut it back down." The airman frowned, especially at Jim's lack of a shirt, craning his neck to look past Jim's shoulder and inspect Brackett's Bureau of Reclamation employee identification tag.

He frowned again at Blair's bedraggled clothes and dripping hair, clearly not buying a word of the story. "I'll have to verify your clearance." The guard lifted his walkie-talkie, thumb twitching on the button.

"No, you won't." Joel's voice was quiet and deadly. He stepped between Jim and Brackett, revealing that he held his weapon trained on the officer's midsection. "I'm sorry about this, but you didn't leave me any choice. Let them get in the elevator. When they're in the power plant, I'll let you call your general and then we'll go quietly."

"Speak for yourself," Simon muttered, but he didn't reprimand Taggart. The guard sullenly surrendered his radio to Joel; Jim hustled Brackett past him and punched the button to call the elevator.

"Hurry, Jim. Get things sorted out down there before that general declares martial law and hangs the both of us for aiding and abetting a terrorist action." Simon made the request dryly, pushing his own sidearm into Jim's hand.

"We will," Blair promised, earning a dark look. Jim saluted Simon with wry humor and hung back to let Blair step into the elevator car first. He pushed Brackett in behind Sandburg and stepped in himself. The closing doors eclipsed Simon and Joel's concerned faces. The car started its smooth descent into the plunge basin with a swift jerk that seemed to leave their stomachs suspended above them.

"It won't be long before that General sends his troops down after us," Brackett commented lazily. "Your colleagues' scruples are admirable, but Taggart should have taken out that guard."

"What part of 'shut up' don't you understand?" Blair's cold voice pre-empted Jim's own comment. His gaze locked with Brackett's and Jim could almost feel blunt dislike shooting like icy needles between them. Brackett finally dropped his gaze, but only to run his eyes over Blair's torso, that smug, mocking smirk back on his face again. Jim laid a steadying hand on Blair's shoulder, not sure where the breaking point of Sandburg's temper might lie after the ordeal he'd been through.

"So, how are the home fires burning?" Brackett's sneer deepened. "You two had plenty of time alone together in the canyon, didn't you, safe in your clever little plan to block all my transmissions." His eyes narrowed speculatively, the corners of his lips creeping upward. "Of course, you can't be sure whether it worked or not."

Jim's hand tightened on Blair as he felt Sandburg's muscles tense. "Why should we care what you heard?" he asked, his voice easy and calm. Let Brackett read whatever he wanted into that; Jim wasn't about to give him any more information than he had to.

"It's about time you told us what we're up against," Blair's tone was carefully neutral now, and Jim was glad his steadying touch had helped calm his partner.

"That's very simple. I've located an explosive and a timer behind a key control panel." Brackett shrugged elaborately, enjoying his own cleverness. "Within the hour, the timer will reach zero. When it blows, it'll cause an overload and every piece of electrical equipment in the plant will short out. Seventeen multimillion-dollar hydroelectric generators and turbines... meeting my modest demands would have been a bargain by comparison." Brackett smiled unpleasantly.

"And...?" Jim fell silent, but Sandburg didn't relent.

Brackett's lips thinned, his smile widening and growing icy. "Yes. I've placed a final bomb independent of the others." Brackett shrugged. "The instructions for defusing this one--" he tapped Blair's sternum familiarly, making Jim bristle, "--are taped next to it in a waterproof pouch. After I disarm the explosives I placed in the power plant, I'll go on my merry way and you're free to call in Taggart or the feds or just go after it yourselves. There should be just about enough time left if you move fast. I'd advise you not to hinder my work or my going."

Blair looked at Brackett silently; the elevator chose that moment to slow and then stop, depositing them at their destination near the bottom of the dam. He stepped out to follow Brackett into the power plant. He glanced back as he reached the railing and realized Jim hadn't followed; the doors of the elevator were about to close, leaving him inside.

"Jim!" Blair hurried back, managing to jam his hand between the exterior doors, ignoring the discomfort when his wrist was harshly clamped between them. He pushed insistently, and they retracted. Ellison shook his head, looking disoriented, and let Blair pull him out, stumbling over the threshold, eyes glazed. Sandburg cursed softly and Brackett looked on with interest; Jim shook his head and lifted his hands to his temples, trying to clear his mind. His face pinched into a mask of pain.

"I don't guess he'll be much use to you now," the rogue agent gave Blair a thin-lipped smirk. "Sometimes this happens to tourists and even employees at the dam, you know. They can't handle the pressure change of the descent or the electric charge inside the plant." His eyes glittered with triumph. "Usually they get migraine headaches. In especially bad cases they stop making sense or get motion-sick. Sometimes they even get violent. It lasts till someone takes them back up in the elevator." A mocking flicker of his eyes invited Blair to do just that.

"'m all right," Jim mumbled vaguely, tilting his head and shaking it a little. "Head feels funny." His eyes looked dazed and Blair had to support him when he attempted to walk.

Sandburg clenched his jaw, splitting his attention between the faltering Sentinel and Brackett. Time was fleeting; he could almost feel it ticking away. "Jim, I want you to go back up in the elevator. Send Taggart down. I'll handle things on this end, okay?"

"No," Jim muttered, obstinate though confused. Blair sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. Not much time. Brackett strolled away leisurely toward a staircase set into one end of the balcony where they'd disembarked.

Compelled by the need to follow, Blair gave up. "Well then, come on before he ditches us." Hoping Jim wouldn't get worse, he tugged his partner's wrist and they set out after Brackett. Jim staggered slightly, as though the floor was uneven, but he kept up. Blair glanced out across the floor of the power plant at the neat row of fat red platforms housing steel-gray generators, marveling involuntarily at the sheer, massive scope of the power plant. Like the rest of the dam, it had been made with spectacle in mind: there were wide, polished stone floors and gleaming stainless steel railings everywhere, even atop the generators-- the entire area fully functional but still an awe-inspiring sight. The whole place hummed, both with generator noise and with a subharmonic sense of thrumming energy-- it was no wonder Jim's fine-tuned senses were acting up.

Brackett trotted down a set of stairs and Blair hurried to catch up, Jim in tow. He made it to the bottom just as Brackett confidently approached a cluster of equipment including a green control panel and vaulted the guardrail designed to keep tourists away from it. He made an elaborate show of checking the dials and gauges, then took a moment to inspect a complicated array of pipes that stood nearby.

There was no way Blair could be certain whether Brackett knew what he was doing or if he was merely bluffing. He worriedly glanced at Jim, who looked more than half-zoned, his eyes confused, his head tilted in a listening posture. Sandburg sighed, trying to decide whether he should take Jim's gun for himsel--

"This is where we go our separate ways, Blair." Brackett's gleeful voice brought him sharply back to attention. He gritted his teeth, kicking himself for his own hesitation-- Brackett had pulled a handgun out of concealment in the jumbled pipes and now he held it trained on him and Ellison.

Blair sidled partly in front of Jim as Brackett began to back away, moving toward the far end of the power plant. "Good luck finding the final bomb before it's too late. You have thirty minutes, more or less."

"One bomb?" Blair questioned sharply. Brackett shrugged causally, looking smug. "Just tell me where it is, man." Blair took a step forward, blocking the line of fire between Brackett and his disabled partner. "You'll still get away clean. I can't stop you."

"You're right about that." Brushing up against another panel, Brackett groped high on its top and pulled down something small and metal-- a key. He put it between his teeth, then backed past the panel and reached again, producing a sheet of paper that had lain unnoticed above the normal reach of eyesight. "And as for the bomb... well, let's just say 'I don't give a dam' whether you find it or not. Happy hunting." Again his face split into a death-rictus smile, the eyes above it mocking and cold. "Or should I say, happy hunting ground?" He tossed the paper. Caught by an unseen draft, it fluttered onto the floor and skimmed toward one of the generators in jerky fits and starts.

"You'd better catch that before it blows away," Brackett spat the key into his left hand and stuck it in his pocket. "It's a map to the tunnels in the dam. You'll be needing it." He climbed onto a battery-powered cart and maneuvered backward along the floor, his hand steady on the steering shaft. He kept the gun pointed at Blair's forehead. The paper skittered after him and Blair followed it cautiously, keeping one eye on the gun and the other on the floor.

"Elevator," Jim murmured hazily behind him, but Blair ignored him, chasing the paper until he had one foot planted on it. He folded it, jamming it into his hip pocket. Brackett's cart neared the end of the generator room where a wide gate stood half-open, revealing a slice of night. Outside, moonlight glinted on dark river water in the canyon beyond the dam.

Sensing freedom, Brackett accelerated and prepared to turn the cart. Just as he began the maneuver a sharp crack rang out, making Blair flinch. Jim's face crumpled and he fell; Brackett jerked and a red flower blossomed on his shoulder. His finger tightened, his gun fired, and the bullet struck metal somewhere, screaming off in a ricochet with a whine like an angry wasp. Brackett fell off the cart, the impact tearing a scream from him, his gun skittering free.

I thought only Jim did that! fled euphorically through Blair's mind, as he sprinted forward to scoop up the gun, but Brackett was scrambling out through the gate, leaving a trail of blood staining the smooth stone floor.

Blair tore after him, emerging from the humid heat of the power plant into the chill of the desert night, beads of sweat suddenly icy on his forehead. The dam loomed like a smooth white glacier on his right, brilliantly lit. Brackett was nowhere to be seen, but the blood spoor led toward the end of the dam. Blair trailed him mercilessly, gun at the ready. He heard running footsteps behind him just as he reached the edge. Ignoring them for the moment, Blair squinted, trying to make out the details of a pale patch receding down the river in the shadows on one side of the canyon. Frustrated, he lifted the gun and emptied the magazine, plugging bullets furiously at the boat bearing his tormentor out of the range of justice.

"Sandburg!" Simon's hand on his arm, voice exasperated and yet oddly gentle. "He's gone. You did what you could."

Blair fell out of auto-pilot mode with a jolt, blinking up at him. He finally let his arm fall, only now hearing the click of the trigger mechanism on an empty chamber instead of the crackle of shots.

"Maybe now you'll be agree to take some firearms training?" Simon suggested, but the joke fell flat. "Or maybe I should; I had a clear shot, but I just winged him. I must be getting old." Simon shook his head in disgust.

Blair blinked, remembering Jim's condition. The thought pushed Brackett out of his mind and he hurried back inside, Banks on his heels. They jogged along the bank of generators toward Joel, who was kneeling at Jim's side.

"I see you didn't turn yourselves in," Blair puffed as they trotted up the long room.

"That was just to throw Brackett off the scent. Figured we might be a little more useful down here with you guys." Simon tucked his gun away in his shoulder holster, never slowing his easy lope. "Jim doing OK?"

"Not very." Ahead of them, Taggart had a hand on Ellison's arm and a dubious expression on his face. Blair lowered his voice, cautious of being overheard. "Too much electromagnetism down here or something. It's got his senses all messed up."

"Damn. We're gonna need him to sniff out the other bombs."

"Brackett said we had thirty minutes. More like twenty-five, now. I think he may have been bluffing about placing one here in the power plant. He said there's only one more."

Simon swore fluidly and creatively. "At least we know what time zone he's in. Those two clocks up there on the dam had me worried-- but of course he's using Arizona time. We'd have had an hour extra if he'd used Nevada."

"Something's the matter with Jim." Taggart informed them, visibly distressed. "I checked for wounds, but he doesn't have any."

"Brackett said a lot of people can't handle all the electricity and stuff from the dam-- and the air pressure, the sense of all that water backed up just over their shoulder." Blair obfuscated automatically. "Probably that's it. He's always had trouble with fast elevators." He cut between Taggart and Ellison, thumbing one of Jim's eyelids. "Come on, Jim. It's OK." The gunshot on top of the electromagnetic interference had been too much.

Jim blinked slowly, focusing on Blair, and nodded painfully. "Yeah. Head hurts." He blinked at Blair. "Sandburg?"

"Yeah, man." Blair laid his hand on Jim's shoulder to reassure him. "We gotta get him out of here before whatever's bothering him causes permanent damage, Simon. Get those explosives specialists out of the van and have them check out the power plant, especially that panel over there. I've got a hunch, he wasn't lying about the last bomb, though." He pushed Jim toward the stairs, wincing at Ellison's visible pain as they moved close past the last generator. "Joel, I want you to come with me."

"What are you up to?" Taggart sounded uneasy, and Simon didn't look much better.

"I don't think Brackett did anything to the power plant," Blair explained hurriedly, bundling Jim into the elevator with Simon and watching the doors close. "There were a lot of engineers working down here, and they might have unconvered any sabotage he tried. I bet he counted on the river to do it for him; there wouldn't be anything left of this place after the dam burst. We've gotta figure out where he planted the last bomb, and I think I've got a pretty good idea."

Even with the map, it took a dismaying ten minutes to sort out the layout of the power plant and make their way onto the roof at the foot of the dam. After several false starts they emerged into the cold desert air and jogged across the exposed ceiling toward the looming white cement face of the dam. Taggart was already panting, and Blair looked back at him sympathetically, trying not to jitter impatiently from his position atop the staircase that led into the heart of the dam. "It's gonna be a long climb, man. You up for this?"

"Soon as this is over... I'm going on a diet!" Taggart vowed. Breathing heavily, he followed Blair up the steps.

"I figure he'll have placed the explosives as far up as possible," Blair explained, and Taggart uttered a heartfelt groan. "The dam's thinner up there. If a bomb weakens the structure enough, water pressure will take care of the rest. I'm thinking he's put the explosives right in the middle and at the waterline, where they'd have combined with the explosion from the boat if everything had gone the way he planned." Blair snagged a hard-hat with an emergency lamp on top and tossed one to Joel, then led the way down the rough-walled, dank tunnel.

"It's wet in here!" Taggart complained nervously. "This thing leaks."

"Nah. Dams don't leak; at least the government says they don't. That's seepage," Blair corrected wryly.

"I don't care what they call it."

Soon climbing prevented casual conversation; Taggart worked hard to keep up, puffing but determined. Blair needed pauses to study the map anyway as they made their way up toward the waterline. They finally reached a series of narrow, staggered vertical shafts that would complete the climb; Blair started up, determined to go on this time even if Taggart fell behind.

"When I top out I'll leave markers in the forks for you to follow," he called down. "I'm headed toward the center first, then if my hunch didn't pay off, I'm going to check the tunnels on the east wall. You go west."

"Ten-four," Taggart wheezed, and Blair speeded his upward pace. There wouldn't be many forks; at that height the dam was relatively thin and wasn't extensively honeycombed with tunnels.

Even Blair was badly winded when he reached the level he wanted. The arches of his feet ached from pressing ladder rungs and the muscles in his arms and thighs burned with pain. He took off without allowing time for a rest, moving toward the center of the dam. No time. He hoped Jim was safely off the dam by now, even if that meant the Air Force had taken him and Simon into custody.

As he trotted down the tunnel, it occurred to him that he could have brought Jim along after all. The pressure was much less here and they were shielded from the electromagnetic currents by walls of thick concrete. Hindsight's 20-20. He squinted at the walls, looking for any evidence of tampering, then stopped with a lurch at a seam where a pile of grout lay crumbled on the floor. He angled his head, tilting the beam of the lamp to shine inside, the crack. Sure enough, there was a cluster of dull gray packets, just like the ones strapped to his body. A small metal box adhered to the inside of the seam just above eye-level, black-insulated wires trailing from it into the explosive.

He exhaled slowly, relieved that his gamble had paid off. Sure enough, this bomb was placed right in the center of the dam, where it would have combined with the explosion from the bomb-laden speedboat to blast a hole right through the heart of the dam.

"You with me yet, Joel?" Blair's call echoed weirdly through the hollow tunnel.

There was no answer, and Blair spared a millisecond to worry that his heavy friend had succumbed to exhaustion. Or worse, had a heart attack and fallen from the ladder. There wasn't time to investigate.

Blair tilted his head, trying to angle himself to read the display on the timer, which cast a red glow onto the opposite wall, but he couldn't. Squeezing his eyes tight, he forced his arm into the seam, scraping his elbow as he felt for the timer box. It came loose easily in his hand and he turned it without pulling it out. He made himself look, discovering a flashing 4:37, the last number slowly counting downward as he watched.

"Man, Joel, hurry the hell up!" His throat rasped on the panicked shout. This time the echoes produced something that might have been a faint answer, but so distorted that he couldn't tell how far away Joel might be.

Swearing, Blair examined the timer, fingering the three wires that emerged from it, trying to remember what Brackett had done when he attached Blair's own bomb. He didn't have a clue which one to pull. He remembered the rig, when time had left no alternative but to snatch and guess. In a way that had been easier than this, the deliberation of which wire meant life and which meant death. He couldn't even remember which one he'd chosen then, or why.

His only consolation was the thought that without the boat, this explosive alone probably wouldn't be enough to penetrate the dam.

There was a scuttle of feet; Blair looked up and blinked with shock. "Jim!"

"Taggart had to stop and breathe. When I passed him, he was about eight levels down. I can hear him climbing again now." Jim hurried to Blair's side, apparently functioning well once again. "Once we hit the top, I was fine. I got away from Simon and came back down, and I was ready this time-- dials down to nothing. I managed to follow your scent from the ceiling into the dam." Jim's white teeth flashed in the dim light from Blair's helmet lamp, a quick grin. "How much time is there?"

"Two minutes, seventeen seconds."

"Taggart's not going to make it in time." Jim gazed at Blair serenely. "Pick a wire, Sandburg."

"Jim..." Blair swallowed heavily. "Shouldn't you take a look...? Maybe this is wacky-dough again or something."

Ellison leaned close to peer into the crevice and considered for a long moment, his body warm against Blair's. "It isn't. And the wires... you know as much as I do, Chief." His hand rose and settled at the small of Blair's back.

"At least get back, man." Blair lifted his eyes to Jim's, agonized.

"If it blows, the blast will scorch everything within at least a hundred yards," Jim spoke softly. "And then the water will break through. I'd rather go clean than risk getting barbecued or drowned, Sandburg. Pick one and pull it." He turned his face and gazed calmly into the seam.

That simple. Two against the odds, and no chance of making it one-- they were in this together, inevitably. Blair nodded reluctantly, his heart sinking. He forced his left arm into the crack, grasped the timer, and tugged the leftmost wire free, focusing intently on Jim, wanting his partner to be the last thing he saw.

Nothing happened.

"The timer's still counting, Chief." Jim's voice, still soft but brittle with tension, his hand smoothing over Blair's back in a warm, gentle circle.

Blair gritted his teeth and tried again. With shaking fingers he gripped the middle wire, clinging to his view of Jim as though to a lifeline, entire body tense-- and pulled. Once again, he was rewarded by silence.

"I think that's got it," Jim muttered with visible excitement, plunging his hand awkwardly into the seam to feel the timer box Blair held. "No more electric activity, no vibrations. The timer's stopped..."

Blair nearly collapsed with relief, but Jim remained sturdy. Blair let himself be pulled close and held while his breathing steadied. "Now we've got to get that thing off you." Blair nodded vehemently, exhaling in a long, wavering sigh.

"Just hope it isn't on a timer, too." He barked a short, humorless laugh.

Jim's hands skimmed up under Blair's damp t-shirt, feeling the lumps under the grubby duct-tape. "I doubt it is, Chief. How would he have known when to set it for?"

"I hope you're right, Jim." Blair steeled himself and released the timer, feeling around inside the crack. "Brackett promised..." he bit his lip, then brightened. "Maybe there is honor among thieves." He pulled out a ziploc bag and examined the piece of paper it held. "We'll have to see if Joel can make heads or tails out of this."

"Guys!" Taggart called, rushing down the tunnel looking desperate and even from yards away.

"It's disarmed," Jim interrupted before he could speak further. He released Blair, turning to greet the puffing captain. Taggart staggered up, looking miserable with guilt. "We had to move before the timer counted down."

"Blair, I'm sorry." Chagrined, Joel twisted the lapels of his jacket in his hands. "Brackett was right. I'm no good to anybody."

"No way. It's cool, man-- no foul." Blair slipped around Jim and laid a comforting hand on Taggart's shoulder. "There's still plenty for you to do. You think I'm letting the Air Force goons lay a hand on me?" He gestured to his ribs, illustrating his point, and Taggart paled beneath his swarthy skin. "Let's get out of here so you can peel me," Blair gently pushed at his friends' arms. "I want out of this thing, like, last week."

Taggart shook his head slowly. "I don't think I can--"

"I don't know anybody else I'd rather let try," Blair insisted, and he meant it. "You've still got it."

"When we get out of here I'm turning myself around." Joel looked haggard. "No more doughnuts for this cop."

Jim slapped his back and they headed out for the climb down. Blair went first on the ladder. He forced himself to climb with slow care, aware that the dissipating adrenaline rush from disarming the explosive had made him clumsy.

Reaching the bottom, they emerged onto the roof of the power plant. Blair watched Jim with concern; his face had gone tight and pain-white as he struggled to resist the growing electromagnetic influence in the air.

"We gotta get him away from the power plant," Blair urged Joel.

"No," Jim gritted his teeth. "We go up there, the military takes over. They snatched Simon already. You really want a pair of amateurs who'd fall for a sucker punch to get their hands on Sandburg?"

Taggart hesitated, torn between loyalty and fear, then his face sagged. "I don't think we have the option." Blair turned to follow his gaze, finding several airmen advancing on them with weapons ready.

"We surrender," Taggart offered, but the grim-faced men failed to respond. The airmen surrounded them in hostile silence and pushing them toward the staircase with no semblance of courtesy. They were hustled into the elevator at gunpoint, Blair anxiously herding the increasingly unresponsive Jim.

The elevator rose quickly, making his ears pop, and deposited them at the top of the dam. Blair winced, looking out at a small sea of grim faces-- Simon, the chief ranger, the Air Force brass, and a bunch of blank-faced federal suits.

"These your men?" the general snapped at Simon.

"That they are." Simon sighed a little and looked like he wished he had a cigar-- or maybe like he wished they weren't his men after all.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Blair spoke up quickly, stepping out, wearing a disarming expression. "Brackett's threat to the dam-- including a second bomb in the internal tunnel network-- has been neutralized. Maybe Osborne and Miller..." he spared a half-apologetic look for the two explosives experts, who were standing nearby with disgruntled looks and slightly battered faces, "...would like to check it out and dismantle it?" He produced Brackett's map and extended it, trying to look innocent, tapping his finger at the spot where the bomb had been placed.

"By my count, there's still a live threat to the dam and that threat is riding on your back." The general glared at him like a thundercloud, but Blair faced him calmly, ignoring the hostility.

"I have an explosives expert prepared to assist me with the removal of this bomb just as soon as we get out of your hair and away from the dam." Blair nodded back at Taggart, who stepped forward reluctantly. "Less risk to fewer personnel and no risk to your own personnel, sir."

The general considered, then snapped a look toward Banks. "He a civilian?"

"He's an official unpaid consultant to the Cascade Police Department," Simon sighed. "Attached to Major Crimes and under my authority."

"My condolences!" Sarcasm dripped from the words, and the general leveled his glare on Sandburg again, speaking aside to an aide. "All these police officers have clearance to leave the perimeter. See that they do, and don't let them back inside it!" He returned his glare to Simon. "We'll be in touch to coordinate our reports and jurisdictional complaints with your department!" Effectively dismissing Simon, he turned and stalked away, gathering his men with a flick of his hand.

"Let's get out of here while the getting's good," Simon sighed, speaking low. "I'm sure we don't want to be 'sequestered for debriefing' if he starts thinking about what you did to Osborne and Miller and changes his mind!" He turned in a swirl of coat and led the way toward the van they'd commandeered earlier. "We'll just go get my rental car," he announced. "Good job, Sandburg."

Later, Jim would remember their exodus from the dam as a blur broken only by flashlights shining into their borrowed car at the perimeter checkpoints and Joel Taggart's anxious muttering. The former bomb-squad captain turned on the interior lights as they drove. Sweating, he studied the diagram Brackett had left, a schematic of wiring and a list of complicated instructions. Simon chewed on a cigar he had produced from a breast pocket in his overcoat. He squinted against the light, searching for a location that might be deemed acceptable for the attempt to remove the final bomb.

Sandburg sat at Jim's side, looking alert and focused. Jim suspected that he was running on fear and adrenaline, his fingertips tapping nervously at the bulky wrapping beneath his shirt. If he'd let himself, he could have zoned on the ghostly sensation of warmth from Sandburg's knee lying near his thigh. He hesitated to move closer to Sandburg given the presence of Simon and Joel in the front seat.

Each minute they traveled away from the dam seemed to take an eternity to pass. After a few lifetimes, Simon pulled over and nodded toward the nearest set of power lines where they stood silhouetted darkly against the stars. "Those oughtta be far enough away to be safe. Brackett's still on the loose, and I don't like the thought of that thing staying on Sandburg for a minute longer than it has to." He activated the high-beams and got out decisively, leaving the keys in the ignition. Taggart followed with reluctance, going to the trunk to retrieve his small briefcase of tools. He donned a breastplate and face shield, his fingers slipping sweatily on the protective gear.

Blair's eyes followed Jim; he stood shivering just a little in the cold desert air, the elongated shadow of his body thrown into sharp relief by the powerful halogen headlights. Jim stared at the shadow dully, thinking the edges looked sharp enough to cut like razors. Simon's hand on his shoulder roused him.

"Come on, Jim. There's not much you and I can do here." His tone was oddly gentle, and he jerked a thumb toward the night, away from the car. Jim shook his head savagely. He'd made his decision-- if fate demanded it of him, he was ready to go, as ready as he'd been in the dam.

"Actually, you can. I could use some help," Taggart interrupted apologetically. His face glistened with sweat, looking unnatural in the harsh artificial light. "I'm going to need somebody to make sure the electrodes don't move while I peel the tape, and to help me lift the wires off him without letting any of them touch. If Jim's willing..." his voice trailed off as Jim lifted his chin in a curt nod.

Simon hesitated. "You need more hands, you call me." He took a single step back, reluctant to leave them to it. "I won't be far." Jim nodded his understanding. Somebody needed to be there if things went wrong, to call for help and to pick up the pieces. Whoever survived was going to have a hell of a lot of fast-talking to do. He'd have to smooth over all the ruffled feathers and cope with the tons of red tape that was going to come from the government organizations who'd been involved in the response, especially the Air Force. Better Simon than me, Jim decided with a faint, dry smile.

He moved forward and helped Blair tug the t-shirt over his head, laying it out on the hood of the car.

Joel's fingers shook as he picked up a scalpel; Blair reached out and covered his hand quietly. Joel looked up with haunted eyes; Blair just shook his head slightly, then took a deep breath, which Taggart imitated. After a few more, Taggart started to calm visibly.

Jim recognized the exercise as a relaxation routine Sandburg often used with him before trying post-hypnotic suggestion. It surprised him a little to realize Sandburg's techniques were familiar enough to Taggart that initiating the ritual didn't require words.

"You can do this. You've done it a hundred times." Blair's voice soothed, thick with confidence. "Slow and easy."

"I promised myself I'd never have to do this again after we got Candace Blake out of that office during the church bombings." Joel shook his head, his forehead pinching tight.

"Yeah, man, but you had it whipped then. You can do it again. You gonna let Brackett get on top of you? You gonna let him be right? You're a better man than that, Joel, and we both know it. You can do whatever has to be done." Blair faced Taggart down earnestly.

"You gonna forgive me if I screw up?" Joel's eyes traveled nervously from Blair's sober face to Jim's tension-taut one.

Blair glanced at Jim momentarily, regret for the possible future in his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "Jim too. Right?"

Jim licked dry lips, opened his mouth, and found it empty of words. He swallowed and tried again. His mind raced, picturing another fifty years of life... without Blair. Trying to control his own senses, trying to find someone else to love him, someone he could love. Trying to find the intimacy and respect, the trust and the simple comfort that he shared with Sandburg. The prospect made him weary, weary beyond endurance.

Truth be told, even the prospect of life with Blair terrified him: the absolute love and openness it would require, the sharing and the forgiveness, the self-examination and the sacrifice... the dizzying possibility of receiving those same gifts in return. He wasn't at all sure he could handle the full measure of Blair Sandburg's love, if that was even what Blair felt for him. He hesitated, thoughts flitting disjointedly through his mind. Too stunning to believe he could ever be thought worthy of love. Too far-fetched to believe he could make it work, that he could keep from hurting Blair... too cold, the reality that so many others wouldn't understand the rightness of what they felt and would hold their lifestyle against them. Too horrible, the notion that he might fail again, that Blair might leave him as Carolyn had...

"Jim." Blair's soft voice roused him from his thoughts.

Joel was waiting. "Yeah," he said softly, and reached to brush a tangled curl back behind Blair's ear. He wasn't sure which train of thought had produced his answer, but he knew its truth. Accept what comes.

"I'm going to cut around the components of the bomb and peel the extra tape." It seemed Joel, too, had accepted the inevitable, his voice hoarse beneath the protective mask. He brought out a bottle of clear liquid. "Try not to breathe the fumes if you can help it."

He began to work with a craftsman's patience, delicately peeling back an edge of the tape, leaving only a narrow margin covering the wires. He left a wider one to support the heavy bulges of explosive and electronics. Jim stepped in behind Blair, reaching around him to help hold back the corner of the panel of tape Joel had peeled. Blair sighed, subtly leaning back against him.

In spite of the cold, droplets of sweat stung and burned in Jim's eyes. He watched in mute agony as Joel's hands worked, their motion mirrored in his faceplate and the lenses of his eyes. By the time Joel had removed the front half of the extra tape, the ether was making Jim feel a little dizzy. Sandburg swayed a little, also feeling the effects.

"Rest a minute, guys." Joel capped the bottle, pulled off his mask, and wiped sweat off his brow, pacing around to work the kinks out of his back and legs. Blair stretched cautiously, moving with delicate consideration to the thin bands of tape that remained; Jim stood near and watched cautiously in case he stumbled or faltered. The stars shone bright all the way to the horizon, picking out the distant dark silhouette of the granite cliffs where the dam lay. No cars had passed.

Jim could make out Simon's tall form on the crest of a nearby ridge, pacing anxiously and peering toward them. The headlights of the car had dimmed slightly and Jim found himself wondering if they would free Blair from the bomb only to be stranded in the desert, victims of a dead battery.

A light breeze stirred, bringing the sweet fragrance of a night-blooming cactus to tickle at his nostrils, crisp and refreshingly clean after the cloying scent of ether.

After a few moments Joel consulted Brackett's instruction sheet, squared his shoulders, and they resumed work. "I'm going to loosen the C4 packets next." Taggart looked haggard and weary as he drew on his protective mask. Jim, I'll need you to hold them in place so no wires slip out due to weight drag. That's a critical job," he cautioned unnecessarily. "They shouldn't touch each other, so no sneezing."

"No sneezing," Jim agreed quietly. He watched as Taggart started peeling tape at the left of Blair's spine. Taggart worked with exquisite care, keeping the removal symmetrical. Blair too was sweating now as the first narrow strip detached from the black-insulated wires.

"Brackett said if the wires stopped touching me it would explode." Stress made his voice rise high, the most fear Jim had heard from him so far.

"They're insulated, Blair. He just wanted to scare you out of trying to remove it," Taggart assured him softly. "I'm ready for you to hold this one, Jim."

"Gloves," Blair insisted, so tense it was obvious he wanted to squirm, wanted to look at Jim. "You don't want that stuff on your hands, Jim."

Jim nodded and dug a pair of rubber gloves out of Joel's tool kit, put them on, then laid his palm over the newly freed packet, warm from the heat of Blair's body and malleable. Its bulk felt horrible and dead in contrast to the living elastic of Sandburg's flesh. Joel kept working steadily, his breathing stertorous inside the confining helmet. He freed more and more of the wires and packets until finally Jim scooted up behind Sandburg and used his chest to contain the rearmost ones, his arms stretching around his partner in a gentle embrace, holding the explosives safely in place.

Blair was trembling very faintly, perhaps so faintly Joel couldn't perceive it, but Jim could. He didn't know whether it was a reaction to adrenaline overdose or the persistent night chill. In either case, he suspected Sandburg's resources were slowly eroding, slowly fading. He tightened his arms gently, trying to lend his warmth to Blair, wishing he could press his lips to his partner's neck. He settled for pressing his cheek against the flyaway wisps of Blair's hair instead, keeping it out of his eyes.

Joel hesitated, absently trying to wipe his face through the helmet, then bit his lip and pushed the face-plate back for a moment to mop his brow with his sleeve. "I'm gonna need another pair of hands," he muttered, looking distraught.

"Where do you want them?" Jim and Blair both looked up to find Simon already there, looking exhausted. The captain shrugged irritably at the unspoken question. "There's only so much sitting around on a rock one man can do before the scorpions find him and eat him alive." He tried to sound gruff. Blair smiled, the taut-wound tension throughout his body relaxing slightly. Jim blessed Simon for his sacrifice, knowing they could never repay the risk that he was taking now on Blair's behalf, and knowing they'd never be asked to.

"I'm going to take the tape off the electronics," Joel gestured carefully. "Don't let them move."

"Ten-four." Simon's wide hands moved gently, poised in readiness, then pressed against the gummy metal and plastic, his focus steady. Again Jim could see their reflection, this time in Simon's glasses. Blair's eyes were wide and nervous and Jim's own face was pinched with tension, a muscle in his jaw jumping frantically.

Joel's face-mask had begun to fog up at the corners, but he seemed not to notice. He worked steadily, gingerly removing more tape, leaving only the bomb itself and the wicked devices that controlled it. "It doesn't look like there's a timer," he announced, then took a moment to wipe out the fogging mask with his handkerchief. "So far, the whole bomb's been laid out according to the sheet Brackett left, but I still don't trust it." He eyed the wires nervously. "There's no color coding here to help us out." The tremor was back in his hands again, and he struggled to still them. "I think that's the GPS." He indicated a small black box. "And that's probably the transmitter." He pointed to Simon's left hand, then fell silent. The four of them stared at the last piece, which lay positioned ominously on the left of Sandburg's chest just below his heart.

"Then that's the detonator." Simon sounded dry but calm, his professional demeanor a much-needed lifeline, steadying them all.

"According to the diagram, there are electrodes attached under all three of those. Did you see him place any others, Blair?"

"He only had three." Sandburg's voice was subdued. "But he said that if you moved anything off my skin, the bomb would detonate."

Taggart paused to consider that, examining the paper in his hands. "This diagram indicates the bomb could be lifted off at this point." He paused, considering that.

"There's got to be a trick here. Something clever, not just Brackett hoping we'll believe him and get blown to hell as a result. He knows better than that." Jim's brain kicked into overdrive. "I think the diagram's right... we lift the bomb next."

"But some other condition has to be met to keep it from going off?" Simon prompted him when he paused for thought. Blair's eyes flicked anxiously from Simon's face to Joel's, the nervous movement reflected in the face-plate of the protective mask.

Jim nodded. "It's just a matter of figuring out what."

"Jim's right. The diagram shows how all the wires tie to the detonator. It's a direct-current circuit; breaking it triggers the explosion. Removing a wire will detonate the bomb." Taggart rattled the paper anxiously.

Simon frowned, craning his neck to look at the diagram himself. "If we can lift it, whatever it is has to be relatively slow-acting-- at least in comparison to electricity. At least a second or two, not a matter of milliseconds-- enough time to take it off him..."

"...and put it on something else." Jim finished.

"Temperature!" Taggart blinked, realization dawning on his round face. "The electrodes are probably heat sensitive." Jim held his breath, considering the idea, feeling Blair's tension inside the circle of his arms. "You can lift them and put them on another heat source, and if you do it fast enough and the other heat source is within the right temperature range, the bomb won't detonate."

"Sounds like a long shot to me," Simon protested. "Jim?"

"It sounds like something Brackett would do." He hesitated to commit himself. "Is there any way to verify the guess, short of trying it?"

Joel shook his head. "No, and there might be other things the electrodes are linked into-- body electricity for one. You've seen the experiments where someone lights a bulb by holding it between two fingers? Some bombs work that way, too."

"What other options are there?"

"Timer. Pulse sensor. Motion sensors. Loose connections designed to come apart when they're jostled. Remote radio waves." Taggart considered. "Given how long he's worn it and all he's been through, I don't think most of those options are plausible."

"Brackett's still out there somewhere," Blair muttered tightly. "What if he has another remote detonator?"

They exchanged uneasy glances.

"Why doesn't everybody just get back and let me peel it off and run?" Blair sighed, squaring his shoulders.

"That won't work. Metal conducts heat fast. Given the ambient temperature of the air, you'll have two, three seconds at most before the electrodes cool enough to trigger the explosion. You'll still be in range." Taggart fidgeted. "We need to heat something up and put the sensors in contact with it to give us a reasonable escape window."

Jim was already searching the vicinity. "Simon, can you take my place here? I've got an idea."

They awkwardly switched, Simon's arms coming around Sandburg, holding the explosives in place while Joel helped steady the electronics on the front of Blair's torso. Jim scrambled away, aiming straight for a flat rock he'd spotted. It was no longer warm from the long-departed sun, but he tucked it under his arm anyway, then returned.

"What's that?"

"A rock." He answered unhelpfully, then fished in Simon's pocket for his keys. He started the car briskly, relieved when the engine turned over and caught after only a moment of sputter. He popped the hood and tucked the rock in on top of the engine block, then closed the hood again, not letting it latch. "We'll warm that up for a few minutes, then let it cool down to body temperature. When it does we transfer the electrodes and get the hell out of here before it cools enough for the bomb to blow."

Blair nodded, eyes resolute, and Taggart sighed deeply, pushing back the face shield of his mask. "If I'm wrong--"

"If you're wrong, you did your best," Jim kept moving, gathering up Taggart's gear and Blair's discarded t-shirt. He paused to lay a palm on the hood of the car, then kept going, tossing Taggart's gear into the trunk and putting Blair's shirt in the back seat to wait for him.

"I'm not going to let it get hot all the way through," Jim decided, thinking aloud. "It'll cut down on our margin for error, but if we wait for it to get that hot, it'll take forever to cool enough to make the transfer." He squatted and straightened out a few pieces of discarded tape. "We'll use this to secure the sensors to the stone, so they don't slip."

Tape readied, he checked under the hood, pressing his fingertips against the stone, then let it stay for another few minutes before dragging it out. While it cooled, he opened the car doors in preparation for flight. He tested the stone again, then lifted it. Moving back to the headlight-washed road where the others knelt, he laid his palm on the heated stone, then reached and slid his hand between Blair's arm and his chest, brow pinching in concentration.

Joel and Simon watched, almost holding their breath with tension as long moments passed while Jim repeatedly compared the temperatures. Taggart started to speak and Simon shushed him just as Jim's eyes opened. "Sandburg, sit flat on your butt. Joel, get the tape ready." He balanced the long flat rock across his knees, roughly level with Blair's chest, moving in as close as he could. His hands lingered on both Blair and the rock for another long moment, four racing pulses cacophonous in his ears. He embraced the sound readily, keeping himself anchored within himself as he sharpened the sensation of touch, balancing the dance of heat beneath both palms, comparing it, until at last it equalized, vibrating in perfect harmony...

"Now!" he barked, his voice sharp, and exploded into motion, pulling his hand out from Blair's armpit and sliding his fingers underneath the detonator. He quickly transferred it to his lap. Taggart crossed it with tape; Jim followed it with the GPS and the transmitter, each fastening to the rock neatly. "Simon," Jim urged, and together he and Banks lifted the daisy chain of explosives, supporting its weight. Blair cooperated by sliding fluidly downward, sweaty back pressing into the desert sand. He scuttled back, crablike, and bounced to his feet just as Jim and Simon laid the stone and its lethal burden carefully but swiftly onto the ground.

Joel was already behind the wheel revving up the engine, and they broke for it frantically, Jim pushing Blair in front of him as though his body would be an adequate shield from the impending blast. They piled into the car frantically, the doors swinging shut as Joel floored it in reverse, skewing wildly off the pavement for a second before he compensated and they barreled down the highway backward. Seconds stretched-- five, then ten.

"I think we're far enough to slow down and turn around," Simon suggested at last, and Joel applied the brakes, bringing them to a skidding stop half-off the blacktop. He turned the wheel, starting the turn-- and the desert night lit bright as day. A sharp, vicious thump and rumble rattled them only instants later, crackling the safety glass of the windshield in a frost-glaze pattern that bowed inward but failed to shatter. Sand and gravel pattered down on the hood and ceiling, orange fire billowing in gradually subsiding gouts in the distance. Next to Jim, thigh pressing his, Blair shivered once, then was still.

They sat silent for a long moment as night crept back in and covered the landscape, then Simon pulled out his cellular phone and dialed slowly.

"Bomb successfully removed and detonated." His voice sounded absurdly normal and relaxed, given the circumstances. "We'll be heading back to Vegas. Right. I'll contact you in the morning." He closed the phone.

Jim fumbled in the seat and reached across Blair. He pulled the t-shirt out from under his partner's hip, then gently prompted him to struggle into it. Joel turned the car shakily and set out across the desert, leaving the scene of destruction far behind them.

It was almost dawn, the eastern horizon starting to brighten with the first traces of light, but the Las Vegas strip never slept. Neither did Jim Ellison. The thought of how close Blair had come to death ran around and around his brain in tight little circles. He couldn't be sure how sensitive the temperature sensor had been, but if he hadn't given in to his desire and warmed Blair when he hovered on the verge of hypothermia.... Jim's very resolve to protect Sandburg from himself could have killed him.

Again.

Blair stirred and rose from his bed. Glowing neon color chased itself in ghastly patterns across his face as he twitched the curtain aside and vanished behind it. He clearly meant to spare Jim from the disturbing lights. He hardly made a ripple in the curtain when he pressed against the window, only his ankles visible below the folds. Jim lay still, regarding him quietly. Neither of them could fall asleep, and he knew Blair's wakefulness wasn't just because of the twin sets of snores rumbling through the open door that connected them to Simon and Joel in the adjacent suite.

Just like him, Blair was processing. Jim was familiar with the routine from other stressful cases, particularly those where Blair was targeted as a victim. He needed to make sense of what had happened to him and come to terms with both the violation of his security and the stress and terror he'd endured. Jim suspected that part of his stress had been due to his fear that when the bomb detonated, it would take Jim and their friends along with him. To cap it all off, he had to be wondering about Jim's promise and request, both given and exacted under duress.

Sandburg wasn't the only one with a lot to process. Jim had his own issues chasing their tails around and around inside his brain. He wasn't fully prepared to face the emotions that had arisen in him and manifested between them in the canyon or the bargain he'd made and the reasons he'd made it. He felt fear, always fear-- fear of consequences, of rejection, of the unknown, of opening himself up and then losing Sandburg. It really didn't matter whether he lost his partner to time, to his own clumsiness or stupidity, or to the crazed machinations of a criminal like Brackett. Jim swallowed hard. That last option had always loomed large; he and Blair seemed to draw trouble like a magnet draws iron filings. Now he was forbidden by his own promise to do the one thing he had believed he should do: to free Blair from the greater part of that risk and make sure he moved on to the life he'd originally planned for himself.

He rose from the bed without letting himself consider what he would say if he had to speak. Moving to the curtain and pulling it aside, he slipped in next to Sandburg between it and the window and let it fall to conceal them again. In the distance, the lights of the strip danced in garish neon, wild colors pulsing and flickering in monotonous but eerily compelling patterns. The puff of a theatrical explosion visible for an instant in the corner of Jim's eye, making him wince at the irony of a town where such a horrible destructive force was rendered a commonplace entertainment. The town was full of gamblers and tourists and dealers and residents and the pimps and their girls-- and nobody knew how close they'd come to having that entertainment cut short at least until an alternative electrical source could come online. If worst had come to worst... without the loss of power, they'd have hardly noticed the passing of the dam, and precious few of them would have cared to hear that men had died attempting to defend it.

He slid his arm around Sandburg's waist stealthily, drawing his partner up against his side. They leaned against the cold glass pane together, watching the headlights of cars streaming past on the highway and watching planes circle and land at the nearby airport. They stood there as false dawn waxed toward true dawn, content to share the quiet time processing together. Time crept by almost unnoticeably for a long while, until at last Blair slipped free of Jim's arm and gave him a gentle tug, urging him back toward the beds. Jim hesitated at his side for an almost imperceptible moment, weighing the lure of Blair's touch versus the presence of Simon and Joel in the next room, but Blair continued to move, separating them, so he went to his solitary bed. Jim went to his own, and not long after, the rhythmic shush of Blair's sleeping breath lulled him to find his own rest.

When he awoke, Sandburg was gone. He launched himself from his bed and into his few remaining clothes, then charged into the next room while still working to fasten his jeans. Joel greeted him with an amused grin, turning with his hands busy buttoning his cuffs. "Sandburg went downstairs. Said something about buying you a shirt."

Jim snatched the nearest article of clothing at hand-- Simon's jacket, a red satin holdover from Major Crimes' investment in Little Stogie-- and banged his way out. He snapped it closed over his bare chest as he caught the elevator down to the lobby.

Sandburg was there in the hotel gift shop, an empty hanger in his hand and his wallet on the counter, paying for a new shirt. He looked up, a little startled, as Jim barged in under a full head of steam, then returned his attention to the cashier calmly. He accepted his receipt and the bagged shirt before turning to meet his partner. Jim was already beginning to feel ridiculous standing there in his tattered jeans and the ugly borrowed jacket, wondering why he'd raced down here in a panic. Blair's slightly startled, still-exhausted expression suddenly mellowed and warmed, his mouth tilting upward in a half-smile. He came to Jim across the store, holding out the bag with the hotel logo stamped on it.

"You'll need something to wear on the plane." So normal, his tone of voice. Mundane and calm, with no hint of strain or discomfort behind it. Jim hesitated, caught in a no-man's land of confused emotion. He wanted simultaneously to crush Blair to his chest and to run from him, to flee and escape from his own promise and from the openness and vulnerability it might entail. Blair's eyes were blue and happy, and he held a new shirt in his hand that he'd paid for himself. He'd after gotten out of bed in the exhausted aftermath of his ordeal and come down to the lobby to shop without even shaving, probably because the first thing he'd thought of when he woke was Jim not having a shirt to wear. Jim's eyes stung, his throat thick with emotion.

"There you two are." Simon's voice caught him on the cusp of deciding to hug Blair and the moment passed. Jim took the bag and turned to his boss. "Our plane leaves at four-thirty. Get upstairs and get into that shirt and then come join us for lunch." He paused, frown growing stern. "Or maybe I should say breakfast. And put my jacket back in my suitcase while you're at it." He abruptly broke into a wide grin and stepped forward, slinging his arm around Sandburg's shoulders with rough, casual affection. "You'd better hurry before the kid eats all the pancakes."

"I'll be right back, Chief," Jim promised Blair, nodding absently at Simon without breaking the gaze he and Sandburg shared. "You eat all the pancakes you can hold." He remembered a time not long ago when Simon had been too aloof to hug Blair; perhaps this ordeal had changed his perspective, as well.

"I'll be sure to eat enough that I can get sick on the plane," Blair promised him in a solemn voice, deadpan humor betrayed by the smile in his eyes. The elevator dinged and discharged Taggart, who ambled over to join them.

"I'll be right there waiting to hold your forehead for you," Jim promised equally soberly, then grinned when his partner's smile finally broke through. He headed for the elevator as Blair, safe between Banks and Taggart, led the way toward the hotel dining room with something closely approaching his normal exuberance.

He decided to linger for a quick shower, then toweled off hastily and dived into his clothes while he was still damp. He made a face at his grubby jeans and washed his hands again after he fastened them up and laced his soggy hiking boots. All his spares and his camping gear had been destroyed when the boat exploded. Fortunately Sandburg's wallet had been in his pocket. He put on the new shirt, unsurprised that it fit him perfectly.

By the time he made it down into the dining room, four steaming plates of ham and eggs and pancakes were being set on the table, and Blair was halfway through a gigantic glass of orange juice, whereas Joel and Simon were each working on a second cup of coffee. Jim ordered his first cup before the waitress left. They were all hungry enough that the meal passed without much conversation, food vanishing in a flurry of elbows and maple syrup and silverware.

Jim sat next to Blair in the small booth, his thigh pressing against Sandburg's comfortably. His earlier panic had evaporated without a trace in the satisfaction of having plenty of good, hot food for the first time in a week. He stayed unobtrusively in contact with Blair as much as possible as they checked out, then continued to stick close at the airport. On the plane, Blair soon closed his eyes and fell asleep. His head tipped over to rest on Jim's shoulder and Jim laid his own cheek against the brown curls, giving in to the temptation of slumber himself. The landing woke them, Jim blinking sleepily into the weary blue eyes so close to his, surprised but shyly pleased to find them there so close to him.

Jim's truck awaited them in long-term parking. After Simon admonished them to get some rest and wait for his call before coming in to the station, they climbed in and headed for home. On the spur of the moment, Jim decided they should pause to make a few small purchases before the stores closed. The strip mall he selected was an odd mix of stops including a hardware store and a drugstore, but they were closely juxtaposed, so Jim went into one store while Blair visited the other. After about half an hour of shopping they finally headed for home, packages in their laps. Some of Jim's nervousness returned in the quiet of the truck; he carefully neglected to look closely at the white plastic bag Blair carried.

When they arrived, Sandburg sighed and stretched, gazing around the loft as though he'd almost forgotten what it looked like or as though he'd never truly expected to see it again. The loft was hot and Blair was sweating; his thin cotton t-shirt stuck to his ribs where the residue of the duct tape still clung to his skin. Jim reached for him automatically, not thinking to check for permission before he lifted the hem and peeled the cloth away from his chest. He realized Sandburg was watching him intently, but did not lift his gaze to meet the steady regard. Instead he opened the crumpled paper sack he'd dropped on the couch and studied the bottle it held, though he'd already read the instructions on the label.

The solvent was supposed to be safe for skin, but Jim pulled on rubber gloves anyway. There was no way to protect Sandburg similarly. Jim began to work efficiently, opening the bottle and dampening one of the cheap dishcloths he'd bought with the solvent, then applying it gently to Sandburg's chest. It didn't take long to realize that they were in the middle of a mess: the nasty gray glue had matted into Blair's chest hair and it clung there viciously.

Sandburg winced as Jim scratched lightly at the hair with his nails. Jim frowned, then rose and padded to the bathroom. He returned with his own comb-- Sandburg's wasn't fine-toothed enough. Experimentally he wetted it with solvent and tried inserting it at the base of the uppermost patch of trapped hair. Blair bit his lip as Jim nudged and tugged and finally pulled out the first small wad of gunk, along with a few hairs. It wasn't working well, but at least it was working. It might to take all night at this rate, but Jim might as well do the hard part first.

They sat there for a long time as Jim worked steadily, sharing the eerie silence that had prevailed ever since the canyon. Blair's normal volubility seemed quenched and the habit of quiet had settled around them firmly. It was easier than speech, and their concentration on the task at hand prevented the silence from growing awkward. Moving down, Jim tugged the comb through the wiry hair just below Blair's pinkish-brown nipples, trying not to notice how they hardened involuntarily at the contact.

Then he had to clean them as well, circling each one with his cloth-covered fingers. The solvent loosened the adhesive and he gradually coaxed it off the tender flesh. He rinsed them pink and clean, enjoying the sensation of the stiff little nubs under his fingertips. Blair cleared his throat; Jim swallowed and backed away from the erogenous zone so close to his face.

He clamped down on his unwanted emotions and set to work methodically, progressing across and then down. He was glad when Blair's chest hair narrowed to a relatively thin line, trailing down his belly. Sandburg could have done this himself, but Jim had volunteered to help. He'd jumped right in and taken over without thinking, and now he was moving downward along that dark, tantalizing line. At the edge of his thoughts, he was constantly aware of where it would lead if he followed it to its end.

Sandburg sat quietly, head bent over as he watched Jim's progress toward his navel, his belly taut and still. Jim kept up his cycle of wetting the comb, extracting adhesive, and wiping the comb on the cloth. Slowly he removed more and more of the hateful evidence of the bomb that Sandburg had borne so bravely. "I'm glad you're not an "outie," he mumbled as he worked his way around Blair's navel, and Blair laughed very softly, the muscles in his belly jumping as Jim dipped the cloth into the shallow depression and cleaned it even though there was no tape residue there.

He moved downward to finish, having delayed as long as he could. The tape had worked southward as Blair wore it, gradually migrating toward the narrowest part of his waist, and Jim's fingers trembled as he worked the buttons of Blair's fly. He was glad that the pain of the combing had discouraged Sandburg's body, or else he was certain Blair would be erect now; his respiration had heightened and his muscles were taut.

He focused on his task with determination, the division of his senses keeping him from zoning. He let himself experience the acrid oily tang of the solvent burning in his nostrils and eclipsing Blair's natural scent. The gum of the adhesive felt noxious even through the rubber gloves he wore. There were reddened welts of heat prickle on the abused skin, and he winced with sympathy as he drew back the flaps of Blair's jeans to reveal the final inch or so of matted hair. It was thicker here, the narrow ruff beginning to widen as it neared Blair's--

Jim swallowed hard and began to work again, this time from the bottom up. He combed against the grain, discovering that it worked faster that way; he would have begun here if he'd known.

Blair slouched slightly, hands clenching on the arm and cushions of the couch as Jim tugged at the hair. Finishing with the hair at last, Jim nearly collapsed with relief. He changed his gloves and dampened a clean cloth, bathing Blair's skin with soapy water to remove the worst of the residue. He rinsed twice and then began to work on Blair's bare skin. The gum came off of bare flesh much easier. It rolled off in thin ropy strands after just a few moments of soaking pressure from the solvent-damp cloth Jim wielded. Blair sat up straight for him, and Jim eased himself behind his roommate to make the job easier. He turned Blair to face the arm of the couch, firmly rubbing adhesive off his back with the rough terry-cloth towel.

It felt good to wash away this residue of Brackett, to eliminate it, to remove it from Blair's body. Jim wished he could do the same with Sandburg's heart and mind, freeing them of their lingering residue of fear and tension. He realized abruptly that maybe he was; Blair was very nearly purring, arching back into the rough strokes of the cloth. His curls tumbled down over his nape and onto his shoulder blades. They smelled clean and fresh, tempting Jim nearly as badly as Blair's nipples had, brushing lightly against his face when he bent forward to apply extra leverage to a stubborn patch of adhesive.

His world resolved into a soothing, repetitive cycle: scrub, discard used cloth and gloves, then rinse with mild soap and clear warm water. By the time he finished half of the remaining skin, the water was cooling. He moved to change it, conscious of Blair waiting for him, unmoving, letting himself be tended. It seemed Sandburg instinctively understood Jim's need to do this after his relative helplessness in the canyon and on the river.

Jim returned and slipped behind his friend again, touching him and bathing him gently. His senses wandered and he tuned out the pungent odor of the solvent. He could hear Blair breathing, hear the soft sighs he made and the sweet wet clicking of his tongue inside his mouth and his throat when he swallowed. He lifted Blair's arm and helped him turn to face the back of the sofa, working on his ribs. He resisted the longing to bury his face in the small wiry tangle beneath Blair's arm, but he could scent its musk strongly even over the solvent's burn. Blair was tense and quivering again, perhaps sensing his partner's arousal in the way Jim touched him. Jim realized his strokes had slowed sensually, so he began to move more briskly again.

After he rinsed Blair's side, Jim turned him forward again and knelt between his parted knees. They were both trembling slightly by the time he arranged himself, Blair's knuckles white where his hand rested on the arm of the couch. Sandburg's jeans were still unzipped, his plaid flannel boxers visible at the apex of the opening. He was starting to harden now, his wakening cock pressing against the cotton cloth. The opened jeans barely worked to restrain it, the zipper edging down a notch even as Jim glanced involuntarily downward.

He had to hurry to finish before one of them lost control, so his strokes grew strong and aggressive. The adhesive on Blair's waist peeled away quickly, leaving scrubbed red skin behind. Finishing at last, Jim did not pause to rinse this time. He rose to his feet, ignoring the crackle of his knees. "You should go wash that off," he commented gruffly, feeling Sandburg's eyes follow him. "It might burn your skin."

"Thanks," Blair said softly. He rose, leaving the living room with his jeans riding low on his hips.

Jim cleaned up the mess, tying up the used cloths and the gloves and the grubby adhesive residue inside a plastic bread wrapper before depositing it all in the trash. He scrubbed his hands all the way up to the elbow, rinsed and dried himself, and turned the vent fan on high to pull the chemical scent out of the room. Opening the door to the balcony for extra ventilation, he gazed into the night and decided it was cooler outside.

Cracking open a beer, he went out and sat down in the lounge chair, propping one foot on a convenient plastic settee and staring up into the sky. Slitting his eyes, he watched wisps of cloud scud lightly across the stars. The sky's crystal purity was further hazed by the film of light from the city catching on and reflecting from the molecules of humidity and dust and gases that made up the atmosphere.

The sound of shower water seethed at the edges of his consciousness, reassuring him with its reminder of Blair's presence nearby. Jim listened half-involuntarily as Sandburg soaped himself and scrubbed and then rinsed, over and over. He felt his cock stir, blinked a little at its enthusiasm, and then let himself admit that he knew very well why Blair was taking such care to clean himself so thoroughly.

The evening air moved warmly around his body. It smelled of the city, the salt of the bay, and the faint tang of Blair, who was silently readying himself to accept Jim's promise. A promise given in haste and in need, but honest nonetheless. Jim shifted slightly, discomforted by the knowledge that he was glad he'd been forced. He was more than faintly distressed by the fact that he was glad he wasn't keeping his vow to put more distance between himself and Sandburg right now. If his vow had held, he would have let the kid struggle with the gunk himself. He might have hauled off to finish briefing Simon or gone in to the office to write up his official report or just gone out driving while Sandburg coped on his own. Instead he was here and he was waiting for Blair to emerge; he was waiting to become Blair's lover. The thought sent a thrill of arousal shivering through his body.

The shower stopped and Blair climbed out, feet wet on the bath mat, the thirsty cotton fibers making a soft susurration as they expanded from the water that seeped into them. Jim could hear them soaking up water, could smell Blair's shampoo and the soap and the faintest lingering hint of the solvent on his skin. He could almost feel the rustle of each individual strand of Blair's hair brushing against its neighbors and the sweet moist purr of his wet hairy thighs sliding together as he dried himself.

He took a swallow of beer, pressing the cold condensation-beaded bottle against his forehead and rolling it against his sweaty skin. The bathroom door opened but Blair hadn't dressed. There hadn't been time, and Jim hadn't heard him do more than tie a towel around his lean hips. The lights in the apartment flicked off and Jim sat still, feeling the air currents shift infinitesimally as Blair moved toward him from afar. Blair's scent eddied and swirled, strengthening; the sounds of motion filled Jim's ears. He clung to them fiercely, distracting himself as much as he could from the pounding of his heart.

His stomach tightened nervously, adrenaline soaking through every fiber of muscle and tendon in his body. Taut with anticipation, he trained his whole being on Blair's progress through the apartment: soft footfalls and the sound of flesh on flesh, the sweep of wet curls and the trickle of cooling water droplets, the scent of soap and a hair-thin whisper of nervous sweat. Then came the infinitesimal, pillowy thud of fingertips against wood, the much louder squeak of the hinges on the French doors, and the quiet slap of damp bare feet on concrete that still radiated heat from the day of sun.

He opened his eyes in spite of himself to finding Blair's silhouette. His gaze took on a will of its own, running over Sandburg intently. His eyes devoured the gleam of water on bare skin, the dark, lank wet curls releasing beads of water to course down over Sandburg's shoulders, and the wet chest hair Jim had combed so carefully. His eyes fell on the tempting nipples-- they were erect again, evidencing Blair's arousal. He held his towel loosely closed around his waist and Jim was absurdly glad that there was no moon-- this vision was vouchsafed only to him, only his to see.

He swallowed thickly, the aftertaste of beer harsh in his mouth. He deliberately set the bottle aside, its charms forgotten in spite of his dry throat. Unable to speak or blink, he felt himself open his hands on his thighs, turning the palms up in subtle invitation. His partner stepped forth, the subdued white glow of the towel falling away gracefully as Blair came to him, body mapped in starlight-silver and nightshade.

Blair slid in and out of shadow, seeming unconscious of his nudity or the exposed location of their balcony. He stepped around Jim's bent knee to stand between his thighs, warm and solid against them, a smile playing on his mouth. His erect cock bobbed between his thighs, drawing Jim's gaze inevitably. Blair stood still for a long moment and let Jim examine him, letting his Sentinel pull his scent into lungs already filled with it.

Then Sandburg's hands rose, the backs of his knuckles grazing Jim's jaw gently. Jim let his lashes sink shut, leaning into the light caress, and Blair's fingers lingered briefly to stroke him before sliding back to firm behind his neck. Blair's strong hands pulled him forward gently, and Jim opened his lips, anticipating, then felt hard velvet nudge past them.

His entire body tingled, electric arousal shooting through him as Blair pressed forward slowly, taking his offered mouth. Sandburg's fingers tilted his head tenderly; he paused on Jim's tongue to let him acclimate, thumbs soothing the taut muscles in Jim's neck and jaw. Jim moved his tongue experimentally, not quite sure how to proceed, feeling the ridge of a strong vein on the underside of Blair's cock. He traced it experimentally with his tongue, then with more confidence as he heard Blair sigh.

Blair tasted of salt and heat, bitter but tantalizing-- he drew back and licked at the broad, flared crown, then pushed forward again, a little further than before, his hand sliding up Blair's thigh to the crease of his hip. Blair's fingertips wandered into his hair, caressing his scalp lightly, encouraging but not demanding.

He tried suction, tightening his mouth around the thick shaft, and Blair quivered. The strong thumbs brushed his cheeks tenderly and warm damp palms settled against his face, sending the sure but quick beat of Blair's pulse singing along Jim's own veins. He heard Blair tilt his head down and opened his eyes to gaze up. Blair's eyes were dark and hot, his lips parted, his expression wondrous and tender. Jim felt shyness leave him, taking uncertainty with it.

His hands settled on Blair's narrow bare waist, its spare, hard curve fitting them perfectly, hipbones protruding into the hollow of Jim's palms. Blair exhaled a low breathy moan, and smiled. He seemed devastatingly beautiful, eyes hidden in shadow penetrable only to Jim, lips curling very slightly in amusement. Then his head fell back as Jim pushed forward again, sucking hard, taking him in until the crown of Blair's shaft nudged the back of his throat. He wanted to take it all but he didn't know how, so he settled for establishing a rhythm: playing his tongue against the sensitive spot where crown met shaft as he pulled away, sucking hard as he pushed back down.

It seemed to work; Blair's hands tightened in his hair and his hips firmed, the muscles quivering under Jim's hands. Jim relaxed, letting technique recede to the back of his mind. The taste filled his mouth now and he was growing used to the sensation of hardness in him, accustoming himself to the contours of the head and the texture of the thin skin of the shaft. Blair's soft cries, half-vocalized, filled his ears and his body trembled. Jim suddenly realized that though Blair had guided him to this, had asked for it, that he was the one in control and Blair was the one who was vulnerable.

He pushed forward, coming out of the chair and settling himself on his knees. His hands controlled Blair's body, his mouth still working Blair's hard cock. He tasted wonderful, tasted of love and passion and pure pleasure; Jim drank greedily of him, letting his teeth stroke the length of the shaft just to feel Blair shudder and hear him gasp. So good, this power--intoxicating like the taste and the heat and the slide of his lips over slick wet velvet. He felt rough brick against the backs of his hands and realized he'd pushed Blair against the balcony wall. Sandburg braced there and stilled, then his hips pressed forward and he rocked into the motion of Jim's mouth.

Jim shifted his knees to ease the pressure of his pants against his own hardness. He never paused in his rhythmic motion, taking Blair more easily by the moment. Blair's trembling hands shifted his head and Jim followed him blindly in a circle, keeping his mouth on Sandburg's cock, letting himself be backed against the balcony wall. Then Blair's hands stilled his head as he took over the motion, fucking Jim's mouth slowly at first, then faster. Jim felt his heart race with excitement and want; he opened his mouth as wide as he could and tilted his head back. Blair paused, unexpectedly. Jim opened his eyes in time to watch Blair's lids fall shut as he pushed forward. This time he sank into Jim's mouth all the way to the hilt, his length filling Jim's throat.

Jim blinked, swallowing on the shaft, unable to breathe and uncomfortable. Blair's low, quavering moan of pleasure shivered through him to the soles of his feet, so he swallowed again and then pushed Blair's hips back. He took a breath as the obstruction retreated, then pulled Blair back into him again, feeling wiry curls tickle at his nose. Suddenly Blair was fucking his mouth desperately, plunging deep and out of control. Jim found a rhythm for his breath around the lunging thrusts, his eyes fixed on Blair's face, watching his expression with wonder and growing lust. He'd never seen Sandburg so abandoned, so totally lost in bliss, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips open and wet. But even in the heat of his passion, his hands were gentle, fingertips stroking through Jim's hair lovingly.

Jim felt Blair's hips tighten under his hands, heard the harshness of his gasps, and guessed he was close. As though Blair had overheard the thought, he cried out and suddenly pulled back, the head of his cock escaping Jim's lips. A single warm wet pulse struck Jim's face as Blair tried to pull away but he followed his lover, opening his mouth to catch Blair's essence. He pulled Blair forward onto his tongue again, savoring the bitter along with the sweet.

Sandburg's cock pulsed on his tongue as it filled his mouth with the sea-salt taste of semen, a complex living blend whose motion he could feel, tickling the inside of his mouth. He swallowed automatically, lashes sinking shut as he experienced the new sensation. The soft tickle kept him from zoning on taste.

Sandburg's fingers trembled at his temples, his breath coming in heavy gasps. Finishing, he pulled his hips back and this time Jim let him go. He lifted his hand to wipe at his wet cheek, then licked it, experimentally re-tasting Blair's essence. He was surprised at the shudder of desire that tingled down his spine as the unique bitter savor exploded across his taste buds again, caressing his tongue.

He lifted his eyes to Blair, who seemed undone, his lashes shut and his lips trembling. Blair's hands caressed his face continually, fingertips stroking over the curl of Jim's ears, thumbs warm on his cheekbones and brow. Jim felt himself smile, liking the sight of Blair in the throes of aftermath. Sandburg had obviously needed this badly, had needed to reclaim some measure of symbolic control over his life by taking charge and asking for exactly what he wanted. Jim was glad he'd been ready to give it.

"You OK, Chief?" Jim pushed lightly, moving his lover back far enough to rise to his feet. Blair's eyes opened and he nodded, his hands trailing down Jim's chest as Jim rose to his feet. He looked at Jim's mouth, uncertainty growing in his expression.

"I'm sorry, Jim, I didn't think. Shit!" Blair leaped headlong into guilt and Jim shook him gently.

"Hey. Stop that." He pulled Sandburg close, enfolding the trim bare body against his shirt. Blair felt good, warm and strong and alive, his heartbeat and the pulse of his veins strong against Jim's body. Just the sound of his breath was intoxicating. Jim bent his head and nuzzled into the soft damp ringlets of Blair's hair, giving comfort for more than just Blair's embarrassment.

"I think you were thinking just fine." He gently steered Blair toward the door, worrying that he would grow chilled in the night air; the water from his shower was still drying on his skin and in his hair. "You tried not to come in my mouth," Jim reminded him reasonably. "Very considerate."

Blair blushed, his face burning hot against Jim's chest, and stepped into the loft. Jim snagged the dropped towel and closed the French doors behind him. He paused and let Blair continue without him, enjoying the sight of his bare body catching the light that slanted in from across the bay. He hadn't had time to properly appreciate it yet, hadn't yet had a chance to learn the smooth curves of Blair's ass and shoulders or to trace them with lips and tongue and fingers. He physically needed to learn the textures of Sandburg's skin and the different scents and tastes of each part of him...

Blair hesitated, seeming lost for a moment in the no man's land between the sofas and the balcony. With a single glance back, he squared his shoulders visibly and angled his path toward the stairs to Jim's bedroom, walking with calm firm steps. Jim shadowed him in silence, tossing the towel over the sofa for the moment. He wondered if Blair could hear him following, faintly amused by testing Blair's courage. Surely Blair had always known that wherever he went, Jim would follow. He might bitch or complain about the little things, might deny the big ones.... He felt a pang of guilt at that, remembering his ill-advised words in the hospital after Alex. Maybe Blair didn't know for certain how Jim really felt. How could he?

That made him feel remorseful for teasing, so he skipped a step and closed the distance between them, his hand falling on the small of Blair's back gently. He received a smile to reward his considerate gesture, delivered seductively over Blair's shoulder. He answered by sliding his hand over the hard, sweet curve of Blair's ass. Blair's smile turned positively wicked and he darted away, fleeing up the stairs and flopping into Jim's bed with a soft squeak of springs settling under his weight. Jim paused for a moment, a feral grin curling the corner of his own mouth, and let Blair hear each solid, assured footfall as he moved up the stairs. He savored the thrill of the hunter who knows his quarry has gone to ground, waiting to be taken.

Cresting the stair, he found Blair waiting in his bed and paused to take in every detail. Blair lay on his side, arranged casually and without artifice. Though he hadn't moved after he landed, Jim found every line of him beautiful and seductive. He stalked forward, aware that Sandburg was watching him with equal hunger, the rise and fall of his chest quickening. When his thighs struck the mattress Blair lazily rolled to his back, legs parting slightly. His arms fell to either side of his head with hands open, fingers curled slightly back over his palms. Jim was suddenly struck by the image, reminiscent of a wolf offering its belly in deliberate surrender, not quite submission.

No, not submission at all, Jim decided, feeling the heat in Blair's eyes lick his skin with flame.

He laid his hand on Blair's flat stomach, luxuriating in the slight quiver as it involuntarily tightened under his touch, feeling the warmth and texture of Blair's skin as he hadn't allowed himself to do when he cleaned away the adhesive earlier. Blair reached for him, one hand sliding up his forearm to his elbow, the other touching his waist. Jim abruptly realized that he was still completely dressed; he'd been so absorbed in Blair's beauty that he'd never remembered to undress.

Blair's quiet courage in exposing himself abruptly hit Ellison hard, humbling him. Blair always managed effortlessly to do things that would take more bravery than Jim possessed. He couldn't have been sure how Jim would react when he offered himself. Jim's hands rose to his neck and he fumbled with the buttons there, telling himself that the collar of his shirt was responsible for the sudden choked tightness in his throat.

Sandburg's eyes, gleaming dark with lust, followed his hands as they moved downward. Jim matched Blair's courage with some of his own, continuing to remove his clothes even though he felt nearly paralyzed by the hunger in Blair's expression. He hadn't ever felt self-conscious about his body in front of his roommate before, but the way Blair's eyes devoured him now made him feel shy, oddly inadequate and painfully exposed-- and he hadn't even slid his shirt off his shoulders yet.

I was lying to myself when I thought I could push him away so easily. The thought startled him, but he could sense its truth. He wouldn't have gone, not without putting up a hell of a fight first-- a fight I don't think he'd ever let me win. Sandburg's eyes were all he needed to see to verify the truth of that; the intensity in them almost terrified Jim. Partner, Guide, best friend, lover, mated spirit. Blair breathed and held Blair's soul because Jim had somehow done the impossible and reached beyond death to bring him back... he was enmeshed with Jim on every possible level of life and beyond.

Blair's eyes were wide now, sober and awed, and Jim realized his thoughts had played themselves out in his expressions. He had no idea what his face looked like now: raw and naked and open, the incredible fierce tenderness that he felt pouring out of his eyes? Could Blair read his devotion?

Whatever his face showed, emotion was building in him uncontrollably, burgeoning to unbearable heights. He couldn't wait any longer. Toeing his shoes off hastily and leaving his shirt dangling open, he eased himself down over Blair and took his mouth softly, remembering their wordless kisses in the canyon. Just as it had then, heat flared the moment they touched. Jim reined himself in tightly, branding light kisses against Blair's open lips, forcing the heat to crest before letting himself dip inside to taste his lover's slick wet tongue. Too late he remembered what had been in his mouth, flinching slightly as he thought of women who didn't want to kiss him after oral sex, but Blair was blessedly oblivious to such concerns and readily touched Jim's tongue-tip with his own.

Warm, callused hands slid into his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. Jim accepted Blair's certainty again, following his confident leadership. He groaned softly into the kiss, expressing pleasure rather than consent, and let Blair's strong hands move his arms and wrists, maneuvering the shirt off his body. He sank down, enjoying the small but joyous miracle of living skin against him. As always, it came as a surprise-- the sheer vitality of another person under him, the warmth and motion and incomparable texture of life and flesh. This time there were even more surprises-- the tickle of wiry hair, the hard flat chest an unavoidable reminder of Blair's masculinity. His heartbeat, quick and strong, reverberated against Jim.

Jim laid his palm on the center of Blair's chest, cupping his hand over the steady beat. He marveled at its presence, thanking every power he'd ever revered that it was there. He cradled the pulse of Blair's life under his hand, lashes sinking shut as he sank toward zone-out, blissfully losing himself in Blair's life... but then Sandburg's gentle hands pulled him to the surface again, fingertips circling lightly on his left shoulder and his cheek.

"I want you to fuck me," Blair offered in low, husky tones, his intelligent eyes keenly aware of the erotic weight of his statement. Even as his arousal spiked and soared in a dizzying burst, Jim understood: Blair in control of what he took was also Blair in control of what he gave. Safe with Jim, he could command surrender and also offer it, reclaiming the power of choice that Brackett had taken from him. Jim nodded wordlessly, not needing speech now that Blair had given both their desires voice.

He leaned in for more kisses, and the sensation of Blair's heartbeat faded into syncopated harmony with his own. He couldn't control the heat any longer; it melted into the kisses and deepened them, fire flowing between their mouths with each lazy sweep of tongue and lip. He hadn't come yet, and his cock ached insistently, enjoying the warm pressure of lying against Blair's thigh.

He rocked against Blair, who arched up cooperatively. After a few blissful moments of friction, he pulled away, pausing for a moment to confirm whether Blair still intended his offer. Blair's hands answered by pushing Jim to his side and then sliding down his belly to his jeans, working the top button. "You get rid of these and I'll be back."

Jim did, turning onto his back and shoving them down quickly. They were lying on the floor before Blair's feet hit the second step; he frowned a little and wondered what Sandburg was doing. He blinked as Blair began to descend the stair, automatic defenses and paranoia kicking in with a vengeance. He isn't coming back. You just-- but he-- he didn't mean it. Doesn't want you. No! Jim struggled against the unreasoning fears, staring up at the skylight while his hearing tracking Sandburg through the loft with merciless radar-accuracy. He was humming, his steps light and relaxed. Jim clung to that as tangible proof that Blair would be back and relaxed just a little, his neglected erection pleading for attention from its place on his belly.

The soft patter of steps returned from the downstairs room and crossed to the stair. Jim exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes as Blair's curly head appeared beyond the top step. He suddenly understood the unexpected errand when Blair crested the stairs and he saw the foil packet, the towel, and the bottle in Blair's hands. He grinned a little shyly, feeling his cheeks redden.

"I would've stashed this up here earlier, but I..." Sandburg's customary certainty suddenly wavered briefly, revealing a flicker of diffidence that tugged at Jim's heart. "I didn't have a good opportunity and I wasn't sure we'd need it."

"The only sure things in life are death and taxes," Jim intoned, anxious to put both himself and his lover at ease. "...And the fact that if you don't get back in this bed, I'm going to hunt you down all over again if I have to and put you here myself." He rolled to his side to meet Sandburg's gaze full-on, then had the pleasure of watching Blair's pupils dilate in appreciation. He casually moved his thigh to reveal his erection, posing himself.

"Man, if you think you could keep me out of it right now, you've got another think coming." Blair grinned at him wickedly, but didn't step closer. Instead he tossed the packet onto the bed and moved to stand by Jim's chair. "I've never done this before," he confided, then lifted one foot onto the seat and braced on the other, nimbly opening the bottle and squeezing gel onto his first two fingertips.

Jim's eyes popped and his penis jerked desperately with arousal as Blair leaned forward and calmly slid his fingers into himself. He swallowed hard, reflecting desperately that there was no telling how Blair knew exactly what would drive him right up the wall-- but somehow, he did. "Feels funny," Blair admitted, wrinkling his nose a little, his mouth curling into a smile that blended shyness with seduction. "A little cold at first, but better now. When I fuck you, we'll have to warm it up before we get started."

When he... Jesus! Blair wants...! Jim's reason abruptly ignited. A brief vision of himself on his knees for Blair coalesced and danced in the flames, intoxicating and terrifying at once. "Get your ass over here," he commanded urgently, hearing the rough heat in his voice.

Blair righted himself and wiped his hands, then walking toward Jim slowly, a devil of mischief dancing in his expression. "If you're sure you're ready."

Jim just growled impatiently, reaching for him. Blair evaded him, deftly tearing open the condom packet and moving close to roll it expertly over Jim's cock. Then Sandburg sank into his arms with perfect yielding grace, their bodies aligning naturally. They lay quietly for a moment, sinking into the most comfortable position and savoring the exquisite warmth of skin on skin, relaxing gradually into unaccustomed masculine intimacy.

Jim couldn't remain still for long, his mind and libido still reeling from the image of Blair bending over and preparing himself. His hands wandered slowly down Blair's back, seeking his hips and sliding over them with wonder. Distracted, he lifted his mouth for Blair's kiss, anticipating how it would feel to part the smooth muscular cheeks, how it would feel to slip himself between them and press into Blair. He tightened his grip experimentally, muscle sliding luxuriantly beneath his palms. His fingers sank into springy flesh, pushing the cheeks apart.

Blair murmured approval, nipping lightly at Jim's neck, then sat up to kneel over Jim's waist. He stretched lazily. Reaching back, he closed his fingers around Jim's cock, a speculative light dawning in his eyes. Jim groaned, pushing into Blair's palm, moving on instinct alone, his hands stilling on Blair's ass, holding him open. Blair smiled, then shifted to move back... and suddenly Jim felt warm slick flesh touch the tip of his cock through the condom and understood that his exploration had been interpreted as an invitation.

Even as Jim' eyes went wide with surprise Blair's closed and he pushed back steadily. Biting his lower lip between his teeth, he concentrated as he sank down by degrees. It was clearly an effort for him to accept Jim's substantial cock into himself; strain was visible in the hint of a frown that pinched between his eyebrows. Jim held his breath, hardly daring to believe what was happening, feeling the tight warm body slowly enclose him.

"Blair..." he breathed, his voice nearly shaking, hands moving to slide up and stroke Sandburg's sweat-slicked ribs, comforting and encouraging him. At last Blair's hips settled on him-- he was all the way down, pausing there, every muscle in his body tense. Jim lay perfectly still, letting him take things at his own pace, not rushing him.

Blair's eyes opened, clear and bright. Looking down at Jim with love, he moved. Jim groaned, struggling to keep from thrusting. He was keenly aware of Blair's discomfort, revealed in the stiffness of his body and the care with which he moved himself. "You OK?"

"Yeah." Blair's voice was strained. "It's just... well, it seemed easier from the other end." He looked embarrassed for a moment. "With a girl," he clarified quickly.

Jim couldn't help but smirk a little as he stroked Blair's sweaty back, smoothing his muscles in an effort to relax him. "I get the picture, Casanova. Maybe she'd done it before."

"Not Casanova any more," Blair stilled for a moment, looking down at Jim soberly.

Moved by Blair's quiet certainty and the answer to a question he hadn't dared ask, Jim reached up and Blair's soft lips pursed to kiss his fingertips. "Finally find what you were looking for?" Jim held his breath, hoping his tactless comment wouldn't be taken amiss.

"Yeah." Blair answered immediately, soothing his fears. Sandburg smiled and moved again, determined. The tight grip of his warm, slick body sent a tide of pleasure surging up Jim's spine. "I think so."

"God, that's good, Blair..." Jim scrabbled for Blair's hands, grasping them tightly in his own and lacing their fingers together. "Again?"

Blair tried again gamely, riding Jim's cock with a smile that was more fond than passionate as he watched Jim's face contort with pleasure. Through the fog of bliss and distant, gathering orgasm, Jim recognized Blair's continued discomfort and frowned a little. He wanted this to be good for Blair, not just tolerable. It was supposed to be good.... A memory tugged at his mind, offering a possible improvement. He'd learned a lot in Vice, some of it information a heterosexual man didn't always have.

"Lean back a little," he murmured through gritted teeth, and Blair obliged him, holding on to his hands for support. Sandburg moved again, and this time Jim thrust as he settled, angling forward.

"Jim!" Blair's startled cry of pleasure washed through him with the renewed burst of sensation, and then it was too late for thought. Blair arched, his head falling back, and his sturdy legs tightened around Jim's waist. His muscles flexed, raising and dropping his body over and over in search of more of the tantalizing new feeling.

Jim thrust up more confidently, complementing Blair's increasingly frantic motions. Their lust seemed to multiply exponentially, Blair's tight body squeezing him mercilessly in its moving grip. Each of them forgot the initial awkwardness and sought urgently for climax, bodies moving hard and fast, perspiration slick between them, musk and sweat mingling in the sultry summer heat.

Too soon, Jim felt his balls tighten and tingle, and he thought of stroking Sandburg's cock to bring him off too, but Blair was clinging to Jim's hands tightly, using them for leverage. He panted for air, his nipple ring winking in the faint glow from the skylight.

Beyond speech, Jim tightened his hands on Blair's in a silent, ecstatic prediction, then surrendered to the pleasure of being inside his lover and thrust up one last time, coming with a choked shout. Blair released Jim's left hand and took himself in his fist, jerking himself off rapidly; he shot onto Jim's belly only a few seconds after Jim's orgasm crested and ebbed.

Heedless of the mess he'd made, Blair sank forward, clasping Jim in his arms, and nuzzled into his lover's neck. Jim slipped out of Blair's body and reached to fumble off the condom, tossing it negligently in the direction of the trash. He stretched for the towel, wrapped Blair in his arms, and turned them to their sides. After he finished wiping away the worst of the mess, he tossed the towel haphazardly at the railing and buried his face in the sweaty curls, enjoying the savor of Blair's scent, rich with salt.

"Where the hell'd you learn about that?" Blair mumbled, lips feathering against Jim's neck with pure contentment.

"Research on a case in Vice. Busted a gay porn ring," Jim stroked his palm along Sandburg's warm, damp flank. "I never thought I'd get to apply it to real life, though."

"Mmmm." Blair snuggled down as though he never meant to move again. "Glad you did." He sounded sleepy, near the brink of losing consciousness. "I almost went through the ceiling. Knew you'd love it... didn't know it would feel so good on the receiving end...."

Jim grinned a little, flattered both by Blair's pleasure in his prowess and by the notion that Blair had wanted to please him. He moved onto his back and pulled Sandburg half over him. Stroking his fingertips up Blair's body, he followed the line of his lover's back and absently counted each rounded vertebra.

"'S good to be home." Sleep slurred Blair's voice, his body relaxing into deadweight against Jim's side.

"Yeah," Jim agreed softly, pulling the sheet over them and caressing Blair lightly as his breathing subsided into the slow, shallow rhythm of sleep. The Sentinel stood vigil over his partner's rest for a long time before he also slept.

Jim woke when the first glow of impending dawn crept through the skylight, faintly illuminating Blair, who lay drowned in sleep at his side. Hard to imagine that it had finally happened; somehow Jim didn't feel different, as he might have expected. He lay quite still, taking advantage of the opportunity to study Blair, watching the subtle hues of chestnut gathering in his hair. As the sun rose, it washed his features in gradually strengthening increments of golden light.

This beautiful, competent man was inexplicably and astonishingly his through some fluke of fate: cosmic mercy, or perhaps some unexpected oversight. If so, it was one he was not prepared to relinquish politely. He stroked his hand lazily over Blair's belly and Sandburg stirred, nuzzling into his side with a small sleepy murmur.

He'd expected to feel different in the aftermath of loving a man, alien to himself. The feeling perversely failed to materialize, so he lay still for a long while, just savoring the simple comfort of lying next to Blair and watching the dawn brighten. Eventually nature summoned him and he answered. Once he was down, he decided he might as well take a little time to freshen, brush his teeth, and wipe his face and body with a warm, damp washcloth. It wasn't enough to remove the scent and sensation of Blair from his skin completely, but it made him feel alert, clean, and revitalized. He returned to the bedroom to dress, moving stealthily to spare Sandburg's rest, but when he reached his room he found Blair's sleepy blue eyes open, awaiting his arrival.

The tiny Mona Lisa smile on Sandburg's lips was perfect and seductive, an unconscious invitation to sin. Jim's mouth went dry and he felt his fingertips tingle, his face flushing hot with desire. Blair's bare limbs lay splayed languorously amidst the tumble of tangled sheets and blankets on his bed-- his bed, occupied by his lover. Blair. His Blair.

Words deserted him, leaving him helpless to express a sentiment of such raw power and ruthless gripping force that even a master rhetorician would have floundered speechless in its wake. Unequivocal, it left him with the desire to offer no less than everything to the man who had inspired it.

Jim crossed the room slowly, thoughts of dressing forgotten. The nakedness of his body served as an inconsequential but accurate reflection of the exposure of his deepest emotions. He leaned over Blair, too overwrought to pay heed to the fact that he was shaking with desire. He shifted his weight onto the mattress and knelt over Blair, kissing him softly but with heart-straining intensity, hands and mouth coaxing Blair from his lazy, quiescent pose into active lovemaking.

He gently turned them both onto their sides, their hands and mouths busily exploring, conquering and rediscovering new territory neglected in the frenzied rush of the previous evening. From there it was easier to pull back and look into Sandburg's passion-darkened gaze with sober joy. Holding Blair's eyes, he gracefully lifted himself to his knees, parting them as he knelt, a silently eloquent offering.

Blair's breath caught; he seemed to absorb Jim's reverent silence. He moved to stroke his palm along the line of Jim's ribs and flank, gently caressing across Jim's muscular thigh and rounded hip as he raised himself to his knees. He slid behind Jim carefully, parting his thighs with the gentle seeking pressure of one hand, slipping first one knee and then the other between Jim's calves. Then he settled forward, chest covering Jim's back.

Blair's erection settled between Jim's thighs, the tip nudging at his testicles. Jim swallowed hard, letting himself feel the novelty and intrigue of the unfamiliar sensation of Blair's cock against him. He was finally beginning to feel the difference in himself now-- his heightened responses betrayed him, enhanced by his nervousness as uncertainty mingled with arousal. He was aware of his own rapid breathing, of a giddy sense of dislocation, and of simple fear fluttering in his belly. Fear of the unknown, of change, of being made less somehow by giving himself in this way. Fear, the product of a lifetime's conditioning.

Sandburg seemed to sense it, attentive to his Sentinel's well-being as always. He paused to devote his attention to soothing Jim, holding his body still and smoothing calm caresses over his arms and shoulders. He crooned softly under his breath, a low hum that wordlessly communicated reassurance, love, and pleasure. He stroked over Jim's back and shoulders, drawing his fingertips down the rigid expanse of his biceps and forearms. When Jim relaxed, he danced his fingertips across his chest, teasing lightly at his nipples and wandering down his belly. He laid his cheek against Jim's spine, creating a stubble-brushed patch of vibrant warmth.

He felt his chest rumble, the sound dark and needful, both moan and purr emerging involuntarily from the depths of him. Blair's responsive smile was tangible against him, a sweet bunch and play of muscle against his skin. Sandburg kissed him softly, a light warm pressure of lips followed by the wet hot swipe of his tongue. That made his cock jump. Eager sparks of sensation shot through his nerves, banishing the last of the trepidation he'd felt; Blair's knowing touch melted it right out of him.

Jim rocked back, hips nestling tightly into Blair's pelvis, the oddness of Blair's hard cock between his thighs all but forgotten. It was Sandburg's turn to moan. He rocked his hips back and forth, cock stroking Jim's soft inner thighs, a sheen of sweat easing the friction. Breathing heavily, Jim let his head fall forward and gave himself a moment to learn the patient, measured rhythm of Blair's considerate thrusting, anticipating its presence inside him. His cock bobbed, its tip cool where air struck the gathering drop of moisture clinging there. It wanted heat-- the tight clinging heat of Blair's body, the as-yet-unknown lush wetness of his mouth, the agile, skilled tunnel of his broad palm and pencil-callused fingers.

As though reading Jim's mind, Blair curled his hand around his cock. He pumped it once experimentally, then again, his grip tighter the second time. Jim gasped, pushing his hips forward into the wickedly knowledgeable touch, much more practiced than any woman's he'd ever known. Blair nipped lightly at his shoulder and sucked the bite, creating a glowing locus of pleasure in the nerves there. "Want you," he murmured wetly against Jim's flesh, punctuating his words with a leisurely stroke along Jim's hungry cock and a suggestive thrust between his thighs.

"Yes." Jim breathed. Yes. He wanted it; he wanted it more than the sum total of all the fears and uncertainties he'd ever harbored. He wanted the concrete evidence of Sandburg's body buried in him-- evidence of his devotion to Blair and of their need for one another. Evidence of how much Blair meant to him, how much Jim was willing to give: solid evidence of his feelings. A way to begin making up for the many times he'd failed to open himself as he should. But even more than that, he wanted to love Blair with all that he was. He needed Blair, desired him, craved his possession.

Leaning his weight on one arm, he reached awkwardly for the bed-table, fumbling almost frantically for the bottle that sat there and pinching a foil packet between his fingers. Sandburg understood and took the supplies from him, his sure hands hot in contrast to Jim's tension-chilled ones. A ripping sound ensued, then a pause. Jim looked back to find Sandburg rolling the condom onto himself, lower lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated on the delicate operation.

Their eyes met when Sandburg finished and Jim heard Blair's heart leap and race, heat flaring almost visibly between them. His eyes caught in the hot vise of Jim's gaze, Blair scrabbled with the cap of the bottle and poured some of the thick liquid into his palm. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a gleaming pink flicker that drew Jim's eyes. The sight sent a renewed spike of lust shooting through him along with a flood of lecherous images. He craved that tongue on his neck or chest, in his mouth or in his ass, or maybe curling around the crown of his cock and then flickering to taste the slit at the tip....

He groaned, as much at the image as at the sudden cool sensation of Blair's fingers smoothing the slick fluid onto him, soothing the heat of his flesh while paradoxically stoking his lust.

Never run. Never run again. The thought arced through Jim's mind, sparked by the sudden pressure of Blair's fingertip breaching his body, moving with patient care. Never run from Blair again. Not from the touch of his strong hand or the piercing light of his mind. Not by shutting Blair outside reinforced walls of emotional pain and denial, not by standing obstinately still while Blair's life outpaced him, not by pushing him to greater speed or by pretending indifference to their conflicting goals and decisions.

Fingers circled inside him, opening him, exploring Jim's surrender. He willingly pushed back into the caress, urging Blair to claim him. It would be a relief to resolve the long pursuit in capture, though Jim might never be entirely sure who had run the hardest or the farthest.

"Have me." The plea escaped between teeth gritted with longing. It was answered in the affirmative by the firm blunt press of Sandburg's erection against Jim's body and the slow burn as he thrust forward. Jim gasped, savoring Blair's low hiss of effort, skin zinging with the sensation of pressure from the fingertips clutching his waist. He shivered, took a deep breath, and yielded himself wholly.

Blair slid unexpectedly deep, stretching Jim and filling him, a low groan straining in the depths of his chest. Jim felt his elbows wobble and he struggled to stiffen them, inundated and nearly overwhelmed by unfamiliar sensations. He felt a faint burn and pressure as Blair's hard length filled him up. He breathed, savoring the gentle swat of Blair's balls coming to rest against his ass. He held still and memorized the scratch of Blair's chest hair tickling against his back as Blair leaned forward and slid his arms around Jim's waist, exhaling a shuddering sigh against his back.

"God, Jim...." Blair licked along the blade of his shoulder. Jim stretched, struggling to meet his mouth, craving a kiss. Blair lifted his head and stretched to meet him, kissing him lightly.

"Do it," Jim whispered when the kiss ended, rocking back against Sandburg's firm thighs, feeling the sweet stir of Blair's cock buried inside him. "Fuck me."

Blair caught his waist between his palms and began, a long slow glide out of Jim and back into him, careful and tentative. He gained confidence as he moved again, adding a slight snap to his hips on the in-stroke.

Jim groaned and closed his eyes, red starbursts visible behind his lids as nerves fired all throughout his body in response to the sensation. Blair tried again, pushing harder, and struck Jim's prostate solidly, making him arch with shock. "Fuck!" Jim gasped, feeling beads of sweat break out all over his skin. Blair froze, uncertain, but Jim shoved back, reaching for the feeling again. Understanding the mute command, Blair obliged him. After a moment he found a quick, shallow rhythm, each push forward terminating in a bolt of pleasure up Jim's spine as his cock nudged just the right spot inside.

Jim realized he was babbling, encouragement and curses falling from his lips, his dangling cock taut and aching for Blair's touch. Blair shifted and changed the rhythm again, drawing out the interval between each sweet punch of pleasure. His new rhythm teased and tantalized Jim, making each wave of sensation last longer, his cock rubbing leisurely against his prostate on its journey in and out. "Blair!" Jim choked out his lover's name, balancing on one arm and groping for himself needfully; Blair's strong hand came around to clasp him, pumping in time with the measured, powerful thrusts.

Jim braced himself on both hands again, feeling his balls tighten. Every brush against his skin flamed pleasure down his overstimulated nerves. Blair's breath stirring the fine hairs that downed his back was nearly too much to be borne in combination with the searing ecstasy of the rest, both inside and out. His body coiled tighter and tighter, release just beyond his grasp. He melted with gathering liquid fire, teetering on the knife-edge between ecstasy and agony. Then the coil sprang free; orgasm slamming into him so hard it forced a choked scream from his lungs. He collapsed, Blair atop him, still driving into him with powerful, urgent strokes. His cock pulsed beneath the weight of their bodies and his whole frame shivered with the bliss of release.

Blair's cock thrust inside him insistently, prolonging the slow ebb of his pleasure, until Blair stiffened too and came with a low wail, teeth nipping fiercely at Jim's throat. The bite and the warm wet gushes deep inside Jim sent an aftershock of pleasure zinging through him. Sandburg's fingers clenched on him with bruising force for a long moment, then he slumped forward, dead weight across Jim's back. He inhaled and exhaled a prolonged, sated breath, nuzzling his stubbly cheek against Jim. His lashes tickled Jim's skin as his eyes slid shut.

They lay that way for a long while in perfect contentment, drifting on the edge of sleep as the new morning sunlight shone dully through the skylight and played over their bodies. Jim stirred at last, feeling Sandburg's cock shrink and pull free of him. He felt stretched and vulnerable, the sensation a lingering tangible reminder of what they had done. Jim purred with pleasure, loving the open feel of his body and his heart, loving Sandburg's warm sleek weight on his back. Blair mouthed softly at his neck, warm sweet lips sensual, lazy, and loving.

"Again," Jim demanded, squeezing Blair's legs suggestively between his thighs, and Sandburg groaned, a laugh following quick on its heels.

"Maybe in a week or two when I recover, how's that?"

"A week? Two?" Jim mourned, and Blair swatted him reproachfully, but Jim could feel the grin against his back.

"Maybe a little sooner than that. If you behave." Sandburg nuzzled against him again, tongue tickling at his flesh.

Jim's cock gave an eager twitch and he mirrored Blair's grin, smiling nonsensically into the pillow. It felt good to be home and even better to know that Blair was safe again. Ironic, how Brackett had inadvertently given them this gift by threatening to take everything away...

The phone rang and both men flinched a little, startled by the unwelcome sound. Jim reached instinctively and covered Blair's hand with his own. He relaxed only slightly when Simon's voice spoke into the loft.

"I guess you two are still in bed--" Blair snickered and Jim shifted, poking him to make him shut up. "--So I'll make this short and sweet. I have good news and bad news. Every federal agency that turned up at the dam that night wants a piece of our hides, especially the Air Force. Among other things, they want to discuss a small matter of you and Taggart assaulting two military officers."

Blair swallowed hard and looked at Jim, who shrugged, his face tight. Simon continued. "I'm making a case that it was done in the line of duty. The bomb was right where you guys said it was, and there were less than 30 seconds left on that stopped timer. Success is the best defense and I'm not going to let them forget that you did the job while that general flapped his jaws and tried to cut everybody else out of the glory. They haven't got a leg to stand on." He paused, and his voice sharpened. "But I know your temper, Ellison, and I don't want you to set foot in this office till all this blows over, you hear me? I'll be in touch. I want you to fax your official reports to Rhonda before five!"

Simon hesitated again, and this time the tone of his voice turned grim. "That's the good news. The bad news is they found Lee Brackett's boat about fifty miles down the Colorado, but there wasn't a body in it. There were fresh tracks leading away to an ATV trail near the boat. Don't blame yourself, Sandburg. You did everything you could to stop him."

Blair rolled off Jim and punched the mattress savagely, his face contorting with helpless rage. Jim caught his arm and drew him in, calming his struggles and holding him until the message finished.

"You two did a good job, as usual. I just wish you'd consider finding a less controversial way of doing it next time." Simon paused to consider speaking further and the tape cut him off with a beep. A few tense minutes paused, but he didn't call back. Finally Blair's heart slowed back toward its normal range.

"We'll have to watch our backs a little more closely." Jim consoled Blair, stroking along the uneven velvet ridge of his spine. "Even if he made it, I think he won't be eager to tangle with us again. Last time he went to jail. This time he hardly survived. And now..." Jim tilted Blair's face up and kissed the frown-pinched forehead. "Now he knows we're ready for him."

Blair nodded, brightening slightly. "It shouldn't be as easy for him to use us against each other again," he agreed, relaxing. "His innuendoes won't scare me any more, that's for certain." He nestled his hips back into the crook of Jim's body, making himself more comfortable.

"Exactly, Chief." Jim lay back and considered the possibilities. It wasn't precisely true that they were safe from being used against one another; Brackett could still endanger one of them and use that to manipulate the other. But it was true that he wouldn't be able to part them as easily as he had, and that meant they'd be less vulnerable to him now. More in tune, more in synch, and closer... each of them protective and alert, prepared to defend the other's back.

He stroked Blair's side as Sandburg nestled close, pillowing himself on Jim's shoulder and chest. His curls smelled sweet with the tang of perspiration. It was clean sweat, born of pleasure and not of fear, and the scent sang joyfully in Jim's nostrils. Their increased closeness had its own dangers. It would make them vulnerable in ways they had never been before... but it also had its rewards, so sweet that Jim wouldn't give them up. Not for anything.

He let himself breathe, releasing the specter of trouble for the moment, a sly grin dawning on his face as he changed the subject. "So, Sandburg. I have to do the dishes for the next month or so, but a deal's a deal. No more tests till the New Year."

Blair shot upright, staring at him with amusement mingled with alarm and accusation. "Oh, no you don't. You never caught me. I let you catch up. I get to test you as much as I want from here on out, that's the deal!"

"No way!" Jim laughed as Sandburg climbed out of bed and started gathering Jim's clothes off the floor. "You didn't stay ahead for the whole week. Those were the terms of the bargain." He grinned at the tirade of objections, smugly dismissing them as inconclusive.

Sighing with satisfaction, he folded his hands behind his head and relaxed ostentatiously, closing his eyes. "Doing the dishes for a few weeks isn't such a bad bargain to get out of those tests for the next six months." He cracked one lid and grinned up at Blair. "Besides, I can think of better ways to spend the time, can't you?"

Blair paused in mid rant, one sock hanging from his hand. "Yeah, I guess so." Blair relented with a show of great reluctance, a naughty light dancing in his blue eyes. "Like racing you to the shower!" He sprinted off down the stairs. "Last one in has to cook tonight!"

"Cheater!" Jim hurled a pillow over the edge and scored a direct hit. Last one in? It was an invitation if he'd ever heard one. "I've still got it," he congratulated himself. Blair snorted loudly; he kept going and the bathroom door shut with a bang. Smiling, Jim got up and followed him.

-END-

End Quarry by Cara Chapel: cara_chapel@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.