By

D.L. Witherspoon

~PROLOGUE~

Elmendorf Air Force Base

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Sergeant Roger Melton smiled and shook his head at the airman. It took a while for the new ones to realize that protocol was often brushed aside at the Alaskan base. With so few chances for speaking with actual civilians, civilian-speak had crept into the base so that family members could understand them when they went home. "What is it, Williams?"

Airman Marcus Williams shrugged. "Shouldn't this be going by military aircraft?" He indicated the package the supply sergeant was wrapping.

"Budget cuts, son. Do you know how much it costs each time one of our planes go up? Now, if we could wait until we had a craft heading to Colorado then cost wouldn't be a factor. But they want this at Cheyenne Mountain A.S.A.P. That means we take advantage of the commercial airlines."

Williams sighed, confused. Elmendorf was the regional headquarters for NORAD-- North American Aerospace Defense Command. It was a joint U.S. and Canada entity that monitored man-made objects in space and warned of attacks against North America by aircraft, missiles, or space vehicles. It also provided surveillance and control of Canadian and American airspace. Cheyenne Mountain Air Station was the central collection and coordination facility for NORAD. Therefore it made sense that whatever one of the regional headquarters discovered would be shipped to Cheyenne Mountain--especially since the Commander in Chief of NORAD was quartered at Peterson Air Force Base which was just a stone's throw away from the Mountain. What didn't make sense was why NORAD was interested in the package in the first place. The two-kilo container had been retrieved from the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. What did that have to do with air defense?

"We don't even know what it is," Williams said aloud.

"Don't know. Don't care to know. Trust me. You'll go farther in the ranks by how much you don't know."

"It could be something dangerous." It didn't look particularly dangerous, but by the time it had reached Elmendorf and the mailroom, it had been placed in a sealed carrier.

"Probably is. That's why we're gonna wrap this gaily colored tape around the outside to label it as hazardous material. Then you're gonna carefully drive it to the airport, and hand it off to the cargo handlers, and save Uncle Sam several thousand dollars."

"Yes, sir."

Melton sighed. "You know, Williams, you're gonna have to learn not to sweat the small stuff."

"Yes, sir."

The sergeant shook his head and continued to wrap.

~CHAPTER ONE~

Cascade International Airport

Blair Sandburg watched the people who occupied the terminal of Cascade International with all the intensity of the anthropologist he was. He really couldn't understand people who didn't think people were interesting. They had rituals, like the couple who were sharing a brief kiss as the husband's row was called for boarding. They had strength, like the woman who was waving goodbye to her two children walking hand in hand with a stewardess. They had dignity, like the older gentleman who was walking with two canes but held his head up proudly.

"Achoo! Damn. Did she have to douse herself in CK?"

And then there were people like his partner. "Are you really disgusted by her perfume, or is this just a subtle dig about the test we did at the mall the other day?"

Jim Ellison fished a tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose loudly. "What do you think? I can now name each scent that drives me nuts. How useful is that?"

"Jim, you were nuts long before you started smelling stuff."

"Ha ha."

"You two planning on taking this act on the road?"

Jim glared at the man sitting next to him. "Bauer, I am not in a good mood, so I advise you to keep your mouth shut. And if you don't stop tugging on the cuffs, you're gonna find something else wrapped around you a lot tighter and a lot higher than your wrist."

Blair watched Bobby Bauer, master forger and all-around bad guy, slump dejectedly in his seat. He would feel sorry for him--being handcuffed to a pissed off Jim was a unique torture--but Bauer had bilked a lot of senior citizens out of their pensions, so the jerk didn't deserve any pity.

"I'm doing this for you."

"I know, Jim," Blair said patiently.

"You're the one who wanted to go to Chicago to see some traveling exhibit."

"I know."

"Why else would I volunteer to take this piece of crap to the Chicago authorities? Don't know why the Chicago people couldn't come for him themselves like they were supposed to. Imminent police strike. I don't even want to think about it. But that's Chicago for you. No one in Cascade ever strikes."

"Too busy dodging bullets," Blair mumbled.

"What was that, Chief?"

He knew Jim had heard every word clearly. "I said that's what makes Cascade such a lovely place to live."

"That's what I thought you said. Remember the last time we had someone in our custody?"

"Yeah, you decided to take the scenic route hanging from the bottom of the train. Just remember: planes are supposed to be ridden from the inside."

"Bauer's right, you should take this act on the road. Far away from me."

Blair sighed and checked his backpack to make sure it was securely closed. "You gonna bitch the whole way?"

"Probably."

"Cool. Forewarned is forearmed, you know."

"Speaking of armed, I am."

"Yeah, watch me quake in my boots."

"You tell him, Sandburg," Bauer said.

Blair shook his head. "The one thing you don't want to do, Bauer, is tick this man off. I can cook, and I know his favorite recipes; I have some use. You, on the other hand, are going to prison; your pain won't affect his future happiness at all. C'mon, guys. They're calling our row."

He felt the two men follow, and smiled. He'd been telling the truth when he said Jim's bitching was cool with him. He understood where it was coming from, and why Jim thought it was necessary. It was an anthropological sorta thing, and since he was an anthropological scholar, it made perfectly good sense to him. In a society where men didn't give other men gifts out of the blue, Jim had given him a gift. A fully paid trip to Chicago to see an exhibit he'd been dying to see. Since he'd done something that men didn't generally do, Jim had to make it appear that what he'd done had been a "noble" sacrifice. Hence, the loud and obvious bitching. It said, "Yes, I did the unusual and now I'm suffering for it. Pity me." And actually, it had garnered him some pity at the station. "You're a good man, Ellison," one of the detectives in the Homicide Unit had said, when he thought Blair's attention was elsewhere. "I know the kid's been through some tough shit, and you're hoping this will make up for some of that, aren't you? But that's what makes us decent cops; able to sacrifice big time for our partners."

Jim had just nodded, a smug look of suffering on his face. Damn, studying cops was fascinating, and it was no hardship at all to keep notes about the bogus diss on cops as a subculture. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if that shouldn't be his real diss. There were a lot less inherent problems with it. Jim wouldn't be exposed. It wouldn't be as hard a sell to his dissertation committee. Jim wouldn't be exposed. His faculty advisor could stop taking Prozac. Jim wouldn't be exposed. See? There were all kinds of advantages to changing his topic. He'd already hesitated on writing the paper. A year's worth of observing Jim had given him more than enough material for his diss. A year's-- Whoa. It had been a year, hadn't it? A full year tomorrow, in fact. He wondered if Jim was aware of the date.

How utterly naive he'd been just twelve months ago. "Sure, I'd love to be your partner, Jim." He'd been so eager and so cocksure and so far in over his head so fast. Bam! He was on a bus with a bomber. Bam! He was toppling over drink machines onto gun-totin' terrorists. Bam! Lash was strapping him to a chair and force-feeding him a sedative. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! His heart pounded and he quickly looked back at Jim, who stood in line behind him. No response. Good. He'd told Jim to turn everything down, especially his hearing.

Get a grip, Sandburg. An airport is not the place for a panic attack.

He'd surprised himself after the incident. Aside from a few nightmares, he'd come through pretty much unscathed. That was due to his "blessed protector." He smiled. He'd been teasing Jim when he'd called him that, but only someone who felt responsible for him would have been there like Jim. A soft "Chief" dragged him from his more vivid nightmares, and memories of Jim's appearance in the warehouse relieved the milder versions--the ones that didn't leave him shaking and drenched in sweat.

Too much television. That was where he'd gone wrong. He'd watched Starsky & Hutch, The Rookies, and S.W.A.T., and he'd thought he knew what working with a cop would be like. He'd thought it would be tamer because everyone knew Hollywood lied and exaggerated and made everything more spectacular than real life. But someone had forgotten to tell Jim that. He apparently believed in the Hollywood hype. He hung from helicopters, and swung from trains, and basically defied the laws of nature to "get his man." And as his partner, nerdy but cute, Blair Sandburg could do no less. Smiling at the stewardess as she took his ticket, he felt rather proud of himself. He'd been Jim's partner for a year, and neither Jim nor the bad guys had gotten rid of him. There weren't many who could say that.

"Great, a crowd."

Blair looked up at Jim's quiet gripe and saw that the single-aisle plane was pushing capacity. Some women's group apparently, because ninety-percent of the females were wearing some kind of badge. They were all ages, from older teens to grandmothers or great-grandmothers. There just had to be a story there. He couldn't wait to hear it.

Jim stood back to let him enter their row first. It was understood that Bauer would be between them. It was also understood that Jim would take the aisle seat. It was not only a protective measure--like taking the bed closest to the door in a hotel--but it was also very practical. Jim had a--problem--with flying. His body didn't react well to the pressure changes. By the time the plane reached cruising altitude, Jim's bladder would be screaming to him, and he was always careful about judging when they were about to descend, making a preemptive potty run in order not to rush off the plane in search of a restroom. Jim was mortified by the whole situation, and Blair did his best not to call attention to his partner's predicament. But it would definitely make an interesting chapter in his diss.

Blair sat down, then pulled down the arm rests so that Jim would have a place to attach Bauer's cuffs. While his partner secured the prisoner, he turned to the women sitting behind them. "Hi, my name is Blair Sandburg," he said with his best "I'm harmless" smile. "I could be rude and stare, or I could be horribly nosy and just ask."

The women smiled back. One took off her badge and handed it to him. Women of the Chicago Diocese.

"I'm Agnes, as you can read," the one who'd given him her badge said. She looked to be of grandmother age. "We're not a real group, but we had to come up with a name. Travel agencies think that's cute."

"Oh, hush, Ags," the woman next to her said. "I'm April, Agnes' sister, and from the way she's talking, you'd think we don't appreciate this trip, but we do. You see, a man in our neighborhood has this big company that gives out a lot of donations. Several months ago, he found out he'd been donating to one of those all-men groups who don't think much of women. Well, being a good Catholic boy and knowing just how important Mary is in the scheme of things, he felt ashamed that he'd been funding these people. So he decided to do something for the women in his neighborhood."

"He arranged an Alaskan cruise for any woman who wanted to go," Agnes butted in when April paused to take a breath. "April didn't want to go, said it was too far to fly, but I talked her into it. Both of us are widows, all of our children are out on their own. There was no reason why we shouldn't go."

"How many of you are there?" Blair asked eagerly. He sat on his knees and leaned against the back of his seat.

"Sixty-three. The youngest is Joyce. She's sitting over there near the back. She's nineteen. And the oldest is Miss Odessa. She's--how old is Miss Odessa, Libby?"

The third woman in the row looked up from her novel when she heard her name called. "Ninety-two." She turned a page and went back to reading.

"Ninety-two?" Blair was impressed.

"Yeah, and she outran all of us," Agnes said with a grin. "From the early breakfast to the midnight buffet, Miss Odessa was there. The tour guides tried to stay away from her because she asked so many questions."

April laughed. "Somebody told her she was gonna kill herself running around like that. Miss Odessa said that was okay by her. If she had to die, she'd rather it be while she was doing something she enjoyed." April scooted forward and lowered her voice. "Said if she'd died while having marital relations with her husband, now that would have been a damn shame."

Blair and the women hooted in delight.

*****

Jim just shook his head. Leave it to Sandburg to have older women sharing risqué tales with him within ten minutes of making his acquaintance. He listened to the honest joy in his partner's laugh and smiled. After a rather harrowing year, it was good to know the kid still had that. Hell, that they both were alive and capable of interacting sociably, and unmedicated, with the general public was a miracle in itself. There had been long, dark moments when he'd wondered about Blair's future--and there had been deeper, darker hours when he'd debated his own future--whether he'd have one or not.

What he'd experienced after the stakeout of the Switchman had seriously rocked his barely stable world. Painful lights, agonizing smells, peculiar tastes that had him accusing restaurants of trying to poison him. Simon thought he was whining because of the long hours, and Carolyn thought it was stress. And what had he thought? At first that it was just a simple case of stress, perhaps even a prelude to a more serious burnout. The bomber, after all, was targeting him, making it very personal by playing upon his biggest failure. A whole unit lost in Peru. Fuck. Not your fault, the Army shrinks had told him, and obediently he'd nodded in agreement, all the while knowing that it was just--wrong--that he was alive and everyone else was dead. If it wasn't his fault, if it wasn't the commander's fault, then whose was it? His superior officers certainly weren't taking responsibility, and the chaplain had clearly stated that God wasn't to blame. So that left only one. Captain James Joseph Ellison, who'd apparently saved his own ass at the expense of his men's. How? He had no idea. There was a whine, a flash of light, and he'd awakened to a nightmare of blood and burns and body parts. Had they told the families? That some of the remains weren't exactly intact? He'd tried to fit the puzzle pieces together, but his head had been pounding as he dug the graves, and his vision had blurred at odd moments. He just wasn't sure if….

Pain. He looked down to see his nails cutting into his palms. Back off, Ellison. You're heading into dangerous territory. He took a deep breath and tried to remember what he was supposed to be thinking of. Yes. Being stressed out tracking the bomber. One part of him had figured that after a few days of downtime he'd be good to go. Another part of him had been signing up for a battery of neurological exams. That was what the good shrinks would call a schism, right?

Oh sure, he could sort of laugh it off now, but back then he'd been terrified. He glanced at his animated partner. Did the kid realize just how badly frightened he'd been sitting in that examining room, wondering if he was going insane? Such a diagnosis would have been the end for him. When he'd been recovered from Peru, he'd had to spend time in the psych ward under observation. Those had been three of the most chilling days of his life. There was no way he was going to spend the rest of his life in his pajamas, wandering institutional beige halls in a drugged haze.

And there had also been a gnawing sensation that what he was experiencing--the sights, sounds, goddamned voices in his head--wasn't as unfamiliar as it should have been. He'd tried to figure out why, and that was when he'd discovered the dark patches in his past, parts of his childhood that just weren't there. He'd read the articles, seen the movies, hell, even cleaned up the aftermath of people who blanked out instances in their past. Uh uh. Before Jim Ellison went postal and shot up a lot of people, he'd just calmly turn his gun on himself.

Those had been his thoughts when Dr. McCoy/McKay came into the room and changed everything. Hope in run-down tennis shoes. Then he'd found the "good doctor" in a supply closet at Rainier University, bastion of the liberal arts, and the hope started to fade. Ten minutes of babble about ancient watchmen and pre-civilized throwbacks, and hope died. Frustrated and broken, he'd nailed the charlatan to the wall, then left. A frisbee had sailed overhead and the next thing he knew, he was lying in the middle of the street with Blair on his back and a garbage truck just beyond. Hope returned.

"What the hell's the hold up?" Bauer muttered.

"Eager to get to that cell in Chicago, huh? What? Your boyfriend's waiting?" Jim questioned dryly. Then he realized they had been on the tarmac for a while. He turned up his hearing, zooming in on one of the few male voices on the plane.

"Senator McCain, welcome aboard. I'm Captain Alan Pierce."

The voices came from the other side of the divider separating First Class from Economy. So that's why I pay taxes.

"Sorry about the delay, Captain. Senators get caught in traffic jams too."

"Of course they do. How else would any highway construction bills get passed?" the captain joked, obviously at ease with having a "celebrity" aboard his plane. "As soon as you're settled, we'll be taxi-ing out. Have a good flight, sir."

Jim drew his hearing back. A senator. Good. Probably meant they'd miss a lot of the "unavoidable" turbulence they usually ran into. He turned to tell Blair what he'd heard, but saw that his roommate was still chatting away, his hands full of snapshots. At this rate, the women were going to remember him with as much fondness as their vacation. There was this sweet young man on the plane who kept us so entertained on the way back that we barely remember being in the air.

Jim grinned, then sobered. So many things had gone wrong this past year, so many things that could have ended badly. The Switchman. The police department being taken over by terrorists. An exploding drug lab. A crazed serial killer. That was when he realized Sandburg wasn't playing with a full deck. Because any sane person would have been insane after being kidnapped and drugged by the very killer he'd been tracking. Blair knew every step Lash would take, knew the exact route his death would take--from drugged to drowned--and knew that Lash would keep "trophies" of him to add to his collection. Damnit! The fucker deserved more than the five bullets he'd pumped into him. If he'd had a choice in the matter he'd have taken Lash to the duck pond and tied a fucking yellow scarf around his neck.

And what the hell is wrong with you, Ellison?

Jim shook his head, trying to figure out why he was suddenly obsessing over past fears. Why this sudden review? It was like he was staring death in the face and-- A shiver ran along his spine.

Okay. You've been living with the kid too long. Sometimes a cigar's just a cigar. And sometimes the universe really is out to get you.

He debated whether banging his head against the seat in front of him would be too dramatic and was saved from having to make the difficult decision by the sound of the PA system being clicked on.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? On behalf of Western Air, I'd like to welcome you aboard Flight 919. My name is Linda, and I'd like to point out some of our safety regulations."

Blair, having turned around and settled in his seat when the attendant began to speak, noted that Jim seemed to be listening to her intently--too intently. "What's up, man?" he whispered so softly that even Bauer couldn't hear him. But of course Jim did.

"Nothing, Sandburg."

Bauer looked back and forth between them, confused.

"You aren't getting ready to freak on me, are you?" Blair asked worriedly. Jim was one of the most "unfreakable" people he knew, but if something was happening with his senses--well, Jim still wasn't rational when it came to his gifts. He used them, but Blair saw his reluctance in the stiffness of his shoulders and the jut of his jaw. There was a story there, something in Jim's background that was making him fight his talents so fiercely. There were cops who would love to have special advantages like Jim. There were cops who would use those special advantages zealously to increase their closure rate. There were cops who'd use those special advantages to take advantage. Maybe Jim's reluctance stemmed from that. Maybe he'd witnessed abuses of power and--

"Ah, whatsa matter, Detective Jim? Are we afwaid of flying?" Bauer said mockingly.

Blair shook his head. The stupidity of the average crook never failed to amaze him. "Man, the only reason the captain authorized my coming along was to keep Ellison from accidentally bouncing your skull against the floor. Keep it up, and I might just close my eyes and let him have his way with you. So zip the lip. Now, Jim, tell me what's happening."

"I'm not freaking," Jim said, glaring around Bauer.

"Then what is it?"

"Just someone walking across my grave."

Walking across-- "Are you having some kind of premonition?" Blair asked excitedly.

"No."

"You are! This is so cool. Let me get out my notebook and--"

"Bauer's isn't the only skull I can bounce."

Blair held up his hands. He'd forgotten his eagerness had a tendency to push Jim's buttons. Of course, Jim's buttons rivaled grains of sand in number. "I hear you, man. See me backing off."

Bauer opened his mouth. Blair shook his head. Bauer slumped back against the seat.

A premonition. Proof that more than five of Jim's senses were heightened? Or just pre-flight anxiety? He glanced nervously around the plane, trying to see if he could figure out what had activated the sentinel's early warning system. As he expected, nothing seemed out of the ordinary to him. Except Jim: tense, alert, a dog on point.

Suppressing a shiver, Blair checked his seatbelt.

~CHAPTER TWO~

Flight 919

Jim gave a silent groan as the plane gained speed down the runway. How could he have been so stupid? The kid wasn't going to leave this alone now. There would be questions, or worse, there would be looks and supposedly surreptitious glances throughout the flight. Hell, it wasn't like he wasn't used to playing his hunches. It'd saved his life both in the Army and on the streets of Cascade. But Sandburg wasn't going to think of it as a hunch. No, he'd called it a premonition, as in a sixth sense--as in another heightened sense. Weren't five of them enough for the intrepid boy researcher?

He closed his eyes as the plane lifted into the air. Hadn't the five screwed up his life enough? There had been a time when a plane trip wasn't a big deal, when he could have read or slept or talked through a takeoff without knowing the exact number of feet the plane was in the air or how much thrust the engines--

Stop, Ellison. It's a bad sign when you start lying to yourself.

Fine. It was true that all his aviation knowledge didn't come from being a sentinel. It came from being in a helicopter crash and a need for control of his environment. So yes, he had the schematics of every military chopper memorized. And he knew that at the moment he was aboard a Boeing 737-series 500 jet with General Electric CF 56-3 engines which had a maximum thrust of 22,000 pounds. The plane's maximum range was 2,730 statue miles, its fuel capacity was 5,311 gallons, and the typical cruising speed was 495 mph or 0.745 Mach. And yes, he was borderline obsessive-compulsive when it came to aircraft, thank you very much.

But it was only because he'd lost so much of the precious commodity called control. After years of independence, he now needed someone to hold his hand when he crossed the street, for Christ's sake. How pathetic was that? Jim Ellison, Special Forces soldier, liaison to the CIA, black ops specialist--a man who can't be trusted to live alone. The kid was supposed to stay a week and here it was closing in on a year, and he was still there. Why? It certainly wasn't out of convenience. Blair hadn't said anything, but Jim knew it had to be cramping his style, not having a place where he could get "comfortable" with his date without someone coming home early from a stakeout. And God knew, living with a sentinel wasn't easy. The idea of privacy was a social lie to make the situation tolerable. So why was Blair there? For the same reason Simon hadn't commented on the anthropologist's place in his life. No "When is the kid moving out?" or even a teasing "He's lasted longer than Carolyn." Simon knew what they all were avoiding saying. Jim needed a babysitter.

Like he didn't know. Like he hadn't consciously redrawn his personal borders so the kid would feel comfortable. Like he hadn't changed his whole life around so Blair wouldn't leave, because if he was honest with himself, he'd admit that no one was more scared than he. Not for his life, but for the innocent lives that he could put in danger if his senses went to hell on him. He could zone and burn his apartment building down. Sunlight glinting off a car could cause him to crash. A loud sound could keep him from stopping some crazed gunman. And the only thing standing between him and these tragedies was a man who wanted to study him, put his life down in black and white and analyze every nuance. From American hero to lab rat.

The plane leveled out, the seatbelt light blinked off, and Jim headed toward the back. Another damn something he couldn't control. If it wasn't so pathetic it'd be funny. Blair said it didn't have to be a permanent dysfunction, that he could manage it like he was managing the senses. He was still wondering how Sandburg kept a straight face when he said that. Because everyone "in the know" knew senses management was under the direct aegis of one Blair "No Middle Name" Sandburg.

Jim sighed, figuring if he couldn't be honest with himself while slinking towards (he really didn't want anyone noticing he couldn't hold his water five minutes) a public bathroom, well then, when could he be honest, huh?

So glad you cleared that up, Jimmy.

You're welcome.

Blair had saved both his sanity and his life by helping him cope in a world that was too detailed. Take, for instance, a lovely, harshly disinfected public bathroom. He opened the door. Without Blair, he wouldn't have been able to take it. The smell alone would knock him out cold, and then he'd wake up to find himself face to face with stuff only he could see, and he'd pass out again. But thanks to Blair and his patient teachings--and the fact that he was the first person to use it after it'd been cleaned at the airport--he could do his business and get out while remaining completely upright. All he smelled was a hint of disinfectant and-- He frowned and sniffed again. What was that? Careful not to go too far, he cranked up his sense of smell and-- Damn. Gun oil. Heavyweight gun oil. An automatic weapon. Possibly an assault rifle. On an airplane. With a U.S. senator.

He wasn't traveling with anyone in handcuffs again.

*****

Blair worriedly watched Jim make his way to the restrooms at the back of the plane. By the jut of his jaw, there was something serious weighing on his mind. Was it the premonition or just the same old bitch about the senses? If Jim spent half the time working on his senses that he did worrying about them, he wouldn't have anything to worry about.

And then he wouldn't need you.

He knew that Jim didn't give a damn about his dissertation, that the entire reason he put up with having a "partner" was because he was scared. In a way he felt guilty about that because Jim was getting too dependent on him. It was true that sentinels had companions in the bush, but Jim wasn't in the bush. There were enough distractions in the modern world to keep him from focusing too much. He should be teaching Jim to split his attention when he concentrated on one sense instead of pulling him out of zones. He should-- Hell, should he be teaching Jim anything at all? That in itself assured that his dissertation was going to be flawed. A researcher never did anything to affect the outcome of his work. But here he was, telling Jim, showing Jim, pulling and pushing Jim. You're screwed, Sandburg. You need distance from this man. For both your sakes.

He thought back to the flyer he'd found in his campus mailbox. Dr. Stoddard was getting together an expedition to Borneo. Maybe that was something he should consider. He definitely needed to get a perspective on this whole sentinel thing, because he'd lost all objectivity. He was going native, and that wasn't good. A year or so in Borneo would remind him of what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to handle his subjects, how he was supposed to observe but not participate.

"Blair, I guess it's our turn to be nosy," a voice called out behind him.

He smiled and turned around in his seat again. "Yeah, Agnes?"

"First, is your friend okay?"

"Jim? Yeah. Just a nervous flyer." Oh, boy. Jim was going to thank him for that one--not. Agnes must have overheard some of their conversation.

"Are you a police officer?"

"No, ma'am. I'm just a grad student. I'm doing my dissertation on sub-tribal communities in a supposedly tribeless modern world. That sorta translates into I'm writing a paper on cops, and Detective Ellison, Jim, allows me to ride along with him, seeing the police community from the inside."

"Your dissertation? That means you're going for your doctorate?" April asked, leaning forward.

"No, he does not want to meet your granddaughter," Agnes said before Blair could answer her sister. "Melanie's an airhead, just like her mother. How you ever let your son marry that--"

"She might be a piece of fluff, but she's sweet. So is Melanie, by the way," April added, smiling at Blair.

"And she would bore you to tears in five minutes, Blair," Agnes counseled. "Melanie needs to find herself a nice accountant or banker, who's even more boring than she is. You, on the other hand, Blair, need someone who'll intrigue you, someone who'll make you think, and keep on thinking."

Got one of those already--and he's a handful. "Thanks for the advice, Agnes. I'll keep that in mind." Actually she was describing Maya to a tee, but Maya…. Quite frankly, he'd rather think about Lash than Maya. "So how many grandkids do you have, April?"

Blair listened to the women bicker about their children and grandchildren, and he laughed inside, their love and closeness so tangible. He hoped that if he'd been fortunate enough to have a sibling, that they would have been like that. Best friends. Like Jim was becoming. But Jim was just a research project--

"Sandburg." Blair turned his head toward Jim standing in the aisle. "If you would excuse us, ladies," the detective said politely, motioning for Blair to climb over Bauer.

"What's up, man?"

Jim handed him a credit card. "Get Simon on the horn. Tell him there are weapons aboard and Senator McCain."

Blair's eyes widened. "Damn. Another twenty bucks lost."

"Told you you'd be better off betting on the ponies than on our not getting into trouble on this trip. Remember our last vacation?"

"That's why I thought the odds would be in our favor this time." Surely a mob assassination attempt at a monastery couldn't be topped.

"That's what's wrong with you scientist types: you actually believe in odds. Call from the phonebank in the back. Less chance of being overheard. I'm going to see if I can sniff out the suspects."

"Careful, man."

"You too."

Blair moved to the back and followed the instructions for the Airfone.

"Banks."

"It's me, Simon."

"Why? Shouldn't you be halfway to Chicago with my prisoner by now, Sandburg?"

"That's why I'm calling." He heard a heavy sigh.

"What's gone wrong?"

"We're 35,000 feet in the air. Jim smells weapons. And Senator McCain's onboard."

A curse. "Where's Jim now?"

"Canvassing."

"Canvassing. That's just great. Don't hang up. I'm going to use the other line to contact the airport. Ah. I knew I had your flight information on the desk. Who else is on the plane?"

"A bunch of Catholic women."

"Please don't tell me they're nuns."

"They're not nuns, but one of them is ninety-two years old."

"Mother Theresa. A senator. And you and Jim. This was just a tragedy waiting to happen, you know that, don't you? Next damn time you two go somewhere, I'm going to make sure you're surrounded by mimes. Nothing ever happens to mimes, even though it should. Hang on, Sandburg."

Blair scanned the rows of seats as he waited for Simon to get back to him. He saw Jim up near the First Class section, seemingly chatting up the stewardess. Had he told her his suspicions? Had she believed him? He had no proof, nothing to back him up at all, except his badge, and that was something Jim wouldn't want to be flashing around. Blair saw the stewardess stiffen and glance around warily. Of course she had believed him. Jim had one of those faces that said, "Trust me." Well, so did he. But they were two different kinds of "Trust me"s. Jim's said, "Trust me. I will protect you." His said, "Trust me. Does this look like a face that would lie to you?" A whole different vibe.

"Sandburg, you still there?"

"Yeah, Captain."

"The airport's trying to contact the pilots. Hopefully, we can get the plane on the ground before the people aboard are any the wiser."

"Okay. Listen, Jim's on his way back. I'll let him talk to you."

Jim grabbed the phone. "Simon, I count at least two suspects in Economy. And I'm pretty sure there's more in First Class. But I'm afraid of tipping my hand if I go up there to look around. The two I have are Mitsuo Ishimaru--I-T-S-U-O--yeah, and Kunishige--K-U-N-I-S-H-I-G-E--Ogawa. Yeah, just the way it sounds. Both Asians--Japanese, I think. No, I don't know if that means anything. What? Simon? Simon? Damn."

Blair paled when Jim hung up the phone. "What, man?"

"They've cut the connection. Let's get back to our seats. And from this moment on, we're strangers."

Blair frowned, then realized what Jim was saying. If something happened and Jim got exposed as a cop, it wouldn't do them any good if Blair's connection to the police came to light. That would be their secret weapon. Damn. Jim was making contingency plans.

He looked at his friend. "This is going to go down, isn't it?"

No hesitation in the sentinel's assessment. "Yeah, Chief, it looks that way."

Blair nodded and kept walking, mentally erasing all doubts about Jim's premonitions.

Gift number six, man. Gift number six.

Cascade Police Department

Captain Simon Banks slammed the phone back in its cradle and yelled for two of his detectives. Henri Brown and Brian Rafe practically ran across the squad room.

"Captain?" Rafe asked, looking down to make sure he hadn't scuffed his shoes.

"Ellison and Sandburg," Simon began.

"Traffic accident on the way to the airport?" Brown asked.

"Mad bomber at the toll booth?" Rafe inquired.

Then the two detectives looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Hostage situation!"

Simon lifted his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How about a hijacking?"

"Car?"

"Plane."

"Damn," Brown murmured. "On the ground or in the air?"

"What do you think?"

Rafe shook his head. "Has the airport been alerted?"

"Yes, but I want someone out there to make sure they keep on this. They seemed a little hesitant to just take my word for it that there was a problem."

"But it's Ellison and Sandburg," Rafe protested.

"Yeah, well, they haven't dealt with them like we have. After this is over, they'll understand. But until then, I want to make sure they don't drop the ball. And the Feds will be called in, so be careful of stepping on toes." He held out the flight information he had.

"The FAA?"

"And others. A U.S. senator's onboard."

"Who?"

"McCain."

"Damn. It would have to be one I voted for," Brown mused. "We're on it, Captain. And don't worry. Rafe here will fit right in with the Feds." He grinned at his suited partner. He, of course, was in his usual floral print shirt and jeans.

"And you'll stand out like a pineapple. Why do you insist on dressing like an extra on Hawaii Five-O?"

"Hey, we can't all be McGarrett," Brown said as he followed his partner out of the office. "Aloha, good people," he called as they crossed through the bullpen.

Simon sighed and hesitantly eyed his Rolodex. He really didn't want to do this. And he was way overstepping the bounds of his authority. But his duty was to provide backup for his men, even if that meant dealing with the devil. He flipped through the cards, took a deep breath, and dialed.

"The Federal Bureau of Investigation, Seattle Office. If you know the extension number of the agent you would like to speak to, please enter those digits now. If not, please choose from the following options: to report a narcotics deal, please press 1; an arson contract or a potential bombing, press 2; the possible location of a serial killer--"

Simon dialed the four digits on the card before he talked himself out of it.

"Jefferson."

Simon cleared his throat. "Hello, Sarah. It's Simon."

Silence. "Simon who?"

"The man you left standing at the altar--Captain Simon Banks of the Cascade P.D."

"Captain Banks. What can I do for you, sir?"

"Actually, Agent Jefferson, it's what I can do for you."

"Simon, if this call wasn't being monitored, I'd tell you exactly what you could do for me."

"Which is probably the reason why you're stuck in a basement office in Seattle and going nowhere fast." How dare she cop an attitude. She'd been the one to leave him! "And if you know what's good for you, you won't hang up this phone."

"What is it? Cascade's in the middle of a crime wave? Everyone knows that already, but it's not a federal matter."

"But a U.S. senator aboard a hijacked plane is."

"What?"

Simon smiled in satisfaction when he heard her gasp. "Senator Robert McCain is aboard Western Air Flight 919, originating out of Anchorage, Alaska, and en route to Chicago, Illinois. Also aboard the flight are two of my officers, and at least two men carrying assault weapons."

"How do you know this?"

"One of my men called from the plane."

"Have any demands been made?"

"The actual hijacking hadn't occurred when I was speaking with them, but then we were cut off."

"What do you mean, 'the actual hijacking hadn't occurred?' What are you pulling on me, Banks?"

"Listen. I trust these men. If they say a hijacking is about to happen, you can bet your ass, Agent Jefferson, that a hijacking is imminent. Now, you can sit around and wait until this spirals out of control and Washington sends in real agents, or you can contact the airport, and show them there's already an agent in charge."

"Simon, I know we hurt each other pretty badly when we split, but don't--"

"Sarah, this has nothing to do with us. I have two men on that plane, and they are going to need help."

A grunt of acceptance. "Okay. Tell me what you know."

~CHAPTER THREE~

Flight 919

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Pierce. I'm afraid that we've had to turn off all extraneous communication devices, and I'm going to have to ask you all to return to your seats." The words flowed from the intercom, quieting the whole plane.

Seconds later, nervous chattering began as people waited for more information. Were they flying into a storm? Was there an engine or power problem? Were they going to have to make an emergency landing? And where the heck had the flight attendants disappeared to?

"Ladies and gentlemen," the intercom came to life again. "This is Benjamin Kuroda, and I am your hijacker. Actually, one of your hijackers. Show yourselves, gentlemen."

Two men stood, both with automatic weapons in their hands. Blair looked at Jim and the detective nodded. Yes, those were the suspects he'd named. Movement ahead revealed four men being prodded from First Class by another gunman. Three of the men were shoved into empty seats. The fourth remained upright with a gun muzzle against his temple.

Another man appeared with a microphone in his hand. Blair figured this was Kuroda.

"Now, you may be wondering why you are our prisoners. This man, for those of you who are neither from Washington State nor students of politics--or maybe you are from Washington and just never gave a damn about your representatives--is U.S. Senator Robert McCain. He sits on the Commerce Committee, a committee which is currently pushing the Pacific Rim International Commercial Exchange Agreement. It is my opinion--and I think that you will all agree that my opinion is very important at the moment--that PRICE comes with a hefty 'price' tag. It will basically limit the trade partners of the Pacific Rim countries to the U.S. and whoever she deems worthy. Now, don't believe that we in Japan aren't grateful that you didn't nuke all of us, but we of Asian descent are tired of being led around by the U.S. We have tried to discuss this peacefully and in a civilized manner, but the cry of the American dollar is far louder than our pitiful voices, so we are forced to show, rather than to speak, our displeasure."

"What do you want from us?" a man asked.

"From you, absolutely nothing. From the American public, outrage and disgust, and a chance to share our views. Even as we speak, air traffic controllers are trying to contact this plane. We are both off course and unresponsive. News of this will make the wires and soon everyone will be asking why this is happening. That will be the time that people will listen."

Blair groaned. Political fanatics were second only to religious ones on the nut scale--and not by much. "We are so screwed," he whispered.

"Where's your observer ID?" Jim asked urgently.

"In the bottom of my backpack."

Jim nodded. "Good. They shouldn't search you too closely. Just stay calm and passive."

"Hey, man, I was born passive." Blair glanced across Bauer to look at his partner. Not an iota of anxiety showed, even though he had to know his whole body screamed "authority figure". If anything drew the hijackers' attention to him, he was going to be busted in a flash.

"We'll be okay as long as there are no heroics," Jim warned softly. "This isn't some loud-mouthed drunk or a kid high on something. Grabbing and subduing these professionals is out of the question."

"You're preaching to the choir, man. But is the preacher himself listening?"

"I'm outnumbered at least four to one, Sandburg."

"And I'm to take that as being indicative of what?"

"That I'm smart enough to wait for reinforcements. I'm sure the captain is gathering the necessary ground forces."

"The captain?" Bauer's eyes went from one to the other. "You knew this was going to happen? You brought me on this plane knowing that--"

"Don't get your panties in a wad, Bauer," Jim snarled. "We didn't know before we took off."

"But you knew it later, right? And you didn't bother to tell me?"

"Bauer, you're no better than they are. Why would I tell you jack?"

Bauer's eyes narrowed. "I'm no better than they are? Fine." He raised his free hand. "Hey, Chink! You got a cop sitting back here!"

Blair and Jim both reached out to cover Bauer's mouth, but it was too late. Jim shook his head and Blair sat back in his seat, scared that Bauer had just signed Jim's death warrant.

Kuroda walked back to them, one of the machine gun-toting men with him. "Someone here requested my attention?"

"Yeah, you stupid people didn't even think to check who else was going to be on the plane, didja? Well, you have a bona fide Passenger 57 right here in your midst--Detective Jim Ellison and--urk!--and he told me he was gonna kick your ass."

Blair watched Jim's hand move back to his part of the seat and wondered what his partner had done to keep Bauer from naming him.

Kuroda gestured and the muzzle of the automatic pressed against Jim's temple. "Put your hands on your head, Detective, and stand very slowly."

Jim obediently put his hands up, but then gave a wry smile. "I have on my seat restraint."

Kuroda lifted a mocking eyebrow. "Do you always follow orders so well, Detective?" He reached down and unsnapped the wide fabric band.

Jim stood. "When they are to my benefit."

"Please step into the aisle."

The detective submitted to the thorough search without a flinch. Both the gun in his back holster and the one at his ankle were discovered and handed to Kuroda.

Kuroda caressed the pistol in his hand, and smiled. He brought it to bear on Bauer. The con man blanched, and pressed back into his seat.

Kuroda fired. Blair flinched, scrambling back against the side of the plane. He squeezed his eyes shut and tensed in anticipation, sure he was next. He could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, and a ringing in his ears. When nothing happened after a few frantic heartbeats, he opened his eyes and looked around. He could see people screaming, and their eyes full of panic. He couldn't hear them. Blair's gaze drifted to Bauer.

A hole marred the man's forehead. Dark, unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. Blair shuddered and tore his eyes away, only to spy the headrest behind Bauer. He gulped. Ah. So that's where all the blood and gore had gone. Except that the headrest hadn't caught everything. He stared at the spray that covered his left shoulder. So close. The ringing in his ears stopped; the thunderous roar of his heartbeat didn't. Fearfully, he glanced at Kuroda.

But Kuroda only had eyes for Jim. "You're the only one who wasn't surprised, Detective," he said wonderingly.

"A betrayer is not an ally."

Kuroda nodded. "Once he betrays, he will do so again. You are a fellow student?"

"A warrior is always learning."

"You know the Way?"

"I seek the Way."

Blair saw a spark of hope in the situation. Jim was bonding, creating a relationship with the leader like a professional negotiator. Which Jim might very well be for all he knew. Even after a year, he didn't know the man--Jim Ellison without the badge or the senses--very well. One would think that due to all the life and death crap they'd been through together, not to mention living together, they would know everything about each other. But while Jim was open with his affection and even his trust, he was close-mouthed about his past. Of all the tests and demands he'd made on the man, getting him to discuss his past was the one ordeal Jim balked at. He didn't even know if Jim had any family still living.

Movement from Kuroda made Blair leave his musings, and he watched in horror as Kuroda sighted the gun again. He gasped when a bullet buried itself in Jim's thigh. Jim gave a stifled grunt and sank to the carpeted floor.

Kuroda stared at Jim in rapt fascination. "You weren't surprised again."

"Ken No Sen," Jim hissed. He leaned against the seat arm and peeked at Blair, warning him against a personal reaction. "Forestall the enemy by attacking."

"The Way of Strategy. Ni Ten Ichi Ryu. Not an easy path, fellow Warrior."

"But a worthy one."

"This is true, my friend," Kuroda said with a smile.

Blair shivered. If Kuroda could so coldly shoot someone he considered a friend….

"You will join me and the good senator in the cockpit," Kuroda told Jim. "We shall discuss the necessity of wielding the long sword properly and how to know when we are approaching the Void, while we wait for those on the ground to react and advance."

Jim grimaced, and gripped the seat arms on either side of him to brace himself as he rose. He stood unsteadily and Blair winced sympathetically.

"Wait," Blair called as Jim limped toward Kuroda. "Can't we at least keep him from bleeding to death?" he asked carefully.

"And you are?"

"Blair Sandburg. I'm a grad student."

"And a caretaker of your fellow man," Kuroda praised. "By all means, bind his wound, Mr. Sandburg."

"Here, Blair." Agnes tossed him a T-shirt that read "My Grandma went to Alaska and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt (I Don't Think I Want To Know What's In Her Will)."

Blair shrugged out of his jacket and his topmost flannel shirt, climbed over Bauer's body and knelt in front of Jim. The wound was bleeding profusely, and even worse, there was no exit hole. He didn't want to consider what additional damage was going to occur from Jim moving around with a bullet inside. Not meeting Jim's gaze, he folded the T-shirt, ripped the sleeve out of his worn flannel shirt, and tied the wadding over the wound.

"There you go, man," he said, still keeping his eyes averted. Just one look and Kuroda would know he wasn't just a random, concerned humanitarian.

"Thanks, Chief. That should hold me."

Chief. Blair moved into the seat Jim had vacated and watched Jim limp up the aisle behind Kuroda, the gunman following. Christ, this was quickly becoming his worst nightmare. And given his life of late, that was a very big deal.

"You okay, Blair?"

"Yeah, April." He took a deep breath, and did what Jim expected him to do--take care of the immediate tribe. "How're you doing?" He sat up on his knees and leaned over the back of the seat like he'd done before takeoff, ignoring the remaining gunmen. "Everyone okay?"

"We're a sturdy bunch," Agnes answered. "I think Libby here is trying to decide what she's going to wear when we go on Oprah. Isn't that right, Libby?"

Libby looked up from the book she'd picked back up when Kuroda left. "Doesn't matter. As long as you don't wear that lime-green thing you wore to Mary Louise's wedding."

Agnes grinned. "That'll be perfect. Maybe I'll even wear it on the back of the book we co-write about this experience."

Libby rolled her eyes and went back to reading.

"You know, I sort of feel bad, Ags," April said, and Blair thought he was going to hear the true feelings of these courageous women. Then April winked and he knew their spirit had no boundaries. "I haven't listened to Father Michael's sermons for the past six months. Think that means I'm going to go to Hell?"

"Father Michael's sermons are Hell, Ape. And as soon as we're on the ground, I plan on telling him. Maybe he'll have one of those apoplectic fits and the diocese will send us a new priest. One of those young ones, with all the muscles and cute smiles."

"Why? So Miss Odessa can have a reason for drooling other than poorly fitting dentures?"

Laughter sprang out around them, and Blair could hear the joke spread from row to row. He lowered his head to the top of the seat. If it weren't for these ladies, he would be insane by now.

Blair Sandburg, secret weapon.

He wasn't ready for this.

Cascade Police Department

"Mitsuo Ishimaru is a fugitive from Japan," Sarah Jefferson said without preamble when Simon answered his phone. "He's wanted there for suspicion of conspiracy to bomb a U.S. Naval Base."

Simon snapped a pencil. No, a pen, he corrected as he tugged at a box of tissues to clean up the sticky mess. "And Ogawa?"

"Kunishige Ogawa is a mercenary whose grandparents are a couple of those shadows burned into Hiroshima buildings."

"Uh, I take it there's no love lost for the U.S.?"

"Got it in one. I'm heading to the airport right now. You want in?"

Simon grabbed his jacket. "Yes. I have two men already there. I would appreciate it if you'd let them stay as well."

"As long as this stays in my hands, it's fine. But I have a feeling this is going to be big. I might get replaced."

Simon snorted. "Don't forget I know you, Jefferson. You'll only be moved if you want to be moved."

"See you at the airport, Banks."

Simon smiled and hung up. He went out to talk to his P.A. "Rhonda, I'm going to be at the airport if anything comes up."

She gave a quick nod, her eyes damp. "Bring them home, Captain."

He squeezed her shoulder. "I'll do my best."

"Hey, Simon. You heading out?" Captain Joel Taggert asked, ambling into the bullpen.

He nodded at his good friend, not surprised that the whole station--or at least those who were familiar with Ellison and Sandburg--seemed to know what was going on. "Yeah, Joel. You want to come?" The captain of the Bomb Squad had a soft spot for Sandburg. Something to do with the two of them being held hostage by the Sunrise Patriots. Simon shuddered, remembering that his son shared the same bond.

"Sure, but the Feds are probably going to kick us out."

"It's Sarah, Joel."

Joel's eyes widened. "Then I know she's going to kick us out."

"We're not two crazy college kids anymore. We're mature enough to work together without our past getting in the way."

Joel didn't say anything as he followed Simon into the elevator. As the floors passed by, he commented, "How did she get the case? I thought she handled--"

"Lightweight stuff? Yeah, but we both know she can do more."

A raised eyebrow. "You called and gave her a heads up. Why?"

Simon shrugged. "I needed someone I could trust on this. Besides, I'm less bitter now that I'm divorced. It means Sarah was right all along: I'm not husband material."

"Either that or you have lousy taste in women."

"We can't all find the perfect woman like your Anna."

"That's true," Joel said smugly. "So what's the full situation? Brown and Rafe were a little vague on details."

"That's because the details are vague. Jim suspects there are weapons aboard his flight. Given that the two men he fingered have been identified as bad asses with well-documented grudges against the U.S., I'm pretty sure the situation is going to deteriorate rapidly." He reached for his ringing cell phone. "Banks. Wait a minute, Brown. I'm in an elevator. What is it?" he asked as he and Joel stepped into the parking garage. "Got it. There's a federal agent heading your way. Don't deliberately piss her off and there's a chance you can stay. Captain Taggert and I are on our way too. If the situation changes, give us a call."

"What's happening?" Joel asked as Simon stuck the phone back in his jacket.

"Air traffic control can't get the pilots to acknowledge them, and the flight's off-course."

"Is it losing altitude or flying erratically?"

"No. She's quite steady."

"Well, that's something."

"Damn little if you ask me," Simon grumbled as he maneuvered his sedan into traffic.

"Little is more than none. Besides, Sandburg's a scrappy fella and Jim's one of your best men. If there's a way out of this, they'll find it."

"Have that on good authority, do you?"

"Oh, yeah."

The sedan took the onramp and headed toward the airport.

Somewhere Along The I-5

Sarah Jefferson eyed the sign and moved to the right lane: Cascade Airport--Exit 2 Miles. Granted Cascade was a fairly large city, but the amount of serious and/or international crime that occurred there was getting ridiculous. A terrorist group taking over police headquarters. A serial killer who masqueraded as an FBI profiler. A rogue CIA agent trying to steal a top-secret plane. Damn. Maybe the Bureau should open a branch office in Cascade. No. It'd be just her luck that they would send her there, and because it seemed that the Major Crime Unit was always in the middle of the biggest messes, her bosses would tell her to make Captain Simon Banks her best friend--and it was much too late to go back to being Simon's best friend. It'd been too late the moment she'd decided she couldn't marry him.

They had been very much alike, she and Simon--both ambitious, goal-oriented, intelligent, responsible persons. It was those similarities which had attracted them to each other. They had both been Criminal Justice majors, both driven to show the world that blacks (well before the term African-American became vogue) were equally as effective at law and order as they were at anarchy and disorder. Ah, the idealism of youth. The only thing they had disagreed on was which was the better arena for their talents. She had pushed for the FBI, saying that a bigger difference could be made at a national level. He argued that being a cop made more sense because of the direct access to people.

But if she were honest with herself, none of that had anything to do with leaving Simon at the altar. No, she'd refused to marry him because--because she thought he'd hold her back. God, she was a fool. She had it completely backwards. Here he was, captain of an elite unit and here she was, the federal officer you called to find out if Albert Nustermeier could be trusted to sort mail or when you needed a really fast typist to transcribe a wire-tap. Mere grunt work. Not that she was paid a grunt's salary. Oh, no, they had promoted her faithfully, giving her all the benefits her years at the Bureau demanded. No reason at all to accuse them of racial or sexual bias. Yep, she had all the benefits--and no responsibility. Some would consider that the ideal job. She considered it a reason not to look at herself too closely in a mirror.

Face it, Jefferson, Simon wasn't the only one you screwed that day. You might have left him stranded at the Justice of Peace's office, but you also stranded yourself. And what's his reaction to your selfishness? He hands you the case of a lifetime, giving you a chance to pull yourself out of the mire. Fuck this up and you might as well go shoot yourself in the head--or teach elementary school like your mama.

God, that bullet was gonna hurt.

Sarah shook her head at her foolishness and reached for her ringing cell phone. "Jefferson. Yes, A.D. Richards? Yes, sir, I'm on my way there now. No, sir, I don't think this is a hoax or a scam. Captain Banks assures me that his men are not the type to overreact or leap to unjustified conclusions, and considering the backgrounds on the two potential gunmen-- I understand that this could rapidly become a significant international event, but to ignore such evidence--fine, sir, to ignore such speculation just doesn't seem prudent. No, sir, I don't plan on alerting the media or panicking the public for no apparent reason. Yes, sir, if I find myself getting in over my head, I will certainly call for supporting agency resources. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She clicked the phone off, and tossed it onto the passenger's seat.

Well, Banks, I just sold my soul on your word. I guess I've grown over the years, 'cause if that ain't commitment, honey, I don't know what is.

~CHAPTER FOUR~

Ennis, Montana

Zechariah McHattie fiddled with the knobs on his shortwave radio. He wasn't expecting to pick up anything exciting. This time of the year there weren't that many hikers or campers in any of the various nearby national forests. But as a retired search and rescuer, he couldn't help but keep his "ears" on. Just two years ago his diligence had paid off when a group of college students got lost in Gallatin. That had almost made retirement worth it. Almost.

"Flight 919. This is Cascade Tower. Please respond."

Zechariah looked up from his roast beef sandwich. The message was repeated, and he was sure there was a healthy dose of desperation involved. A missing plane? Cascade. Wasn't that up there just south of Great Falls? The county was called that too, wasn't it? He put his lunch aside and reached for his road atlas. Yep. There it was. On the I-15 between Helena and Great Falls. Didn't look like it was big enough to have an airport. Probably just a private airstrip or something.

"Western Air 919, please come in."

Western Air? That was a major airline. What the-- He picked up the phone and dialed. "Son, it's Dad."

*****

Philip McHattie pinched his nose, only then realizing he'd been staring at the computer screen too long. Running a small television station was more about number juggling than creativity. Wait a minute. That was creativity, wasn't it? "Hey, Dad. What's up?" he asked, smiling at himself. Way too much time in front of the computer.

"You heard anything about a missing plane?"

"No. Why?"

"I picked up a call on the radio."

"A distress signal?"

"No. It was Cascade Tower trying to contact a Flight 919--a Western Air Flight 919."

Philip blinked. Western Air? His fingers flew across the keyboard, bringing up the latest wire reports. Nothing. "I don't even think Western Air can fly into our Cascade, Dad. Let me check…. Damn--um, sorry, Dad."

"That was your mother's rule, Phil. Now that she's gone, you can curse in front of me."

"And have Sheila jump all over me? No thanks. I'd rather watch my tongue." His wife refused to let him swear, saying that not only was it un-Christian, but it made him sound like street trash.

"So what made you risk the wrath of Sheila?" Zechariah asked with a chuckle.

"I typed in Cascade to search the archives. There are a number of cities and towns with that name, but one seems rather prominent--a Cascade, Washington. Seems in the past year they've had a militia group take over the police station, a serial killer who liked to tie scarves around his victims' necks, and an ex-CIA agent who stole the Ebola virus from a university there."

"Sounds like if anybody's got a missing plane, they would be the ones."

"Yep. Listen, Dad, I need to make some calls."

"Okay. You'll let me know, right?"

"Uh huh. And you'll do the same if you hear anything else?"

"Will do."

"And, Dad? Thanks."

"Anytime, son."

Philip broke the connection, flipped through his Rolodex, and dialed.

"KCDE. How may I direct your call?"

"Yes, I'd like to speak to Don Haas."

Flight 919

Blair turned around and slid down into his seat. A spot on the aisle runner caught his attention and he felt sick. Jim's blood. If Bauer wasn't already dead…. His gaze went automatically to the corpse and he knew if he had to look at the wide-eyed, slack-jawed visage one more minute, he was going to start screaming and never stop.

Had it only been a few months since he'd followed Jim into the house to find Susan Frasier in her bathtub with a yellow scarf wrapped around her neck? The sight had been horrifying, and had haunted him until Lash decided to make the nightmare even more real to him. But that had been several bodies ago and now, he was sitting calmly--well, reasonably calmly--beside a dead body, trying to figure out where he could stash it before rigor mortis set in. It wasn't like forensics evidence or anything was needed. Cause of death: bullet to the forehead. Perpetrator: one fucked up guy who'd pulled the trigger without any warning. Same fucked up guy who'd put a similar bullet in Jim's leg. God, he really needed to get Bauer out of sight.

"Hey, man!" he called out to the gunman. It didn't matter which one answered, just so one of them did. "Is there someplace I can stow my seatmate?"

One of the men sauntered back to him, the weapon aimed confidently. "Getting ripe, is he?"

Blair nodded. Decay hadn't set in yet, but death caused muscles to relax and when they did, certain bodily functions occurred. Wonder why that never comes up in the movies?

"I was gonna tell you to dump him in the galley in the back, but he's handcuffed to the seat. Guess he stays."

Blair fumbled in his pocket and came up with a key. He quickly opened the 'cuffs. He looked up to ask the gunman if he was gonna help and found himself staring straight into the barrel of the gun.

"Why did you have a key for the 'cuffs?" the man questioned warily.

Shit. He always had a spare key because Jim said it was asking too much of fate to allow him around handcuffs and not expect some sort of "cuff accident". Blair remembered giving Jim the finger in reply, but he'd faithfully taken the key. "The cop palmed it to me when I was working on his leg."

"Oh."

Blair breathed, slipped on his jacket and buttoned it up. It was already bloodstained; no use in getting anything else all gory. "Gonna help me?" he asked as he stood and grabbed Bauer's shoulders. The ruined head flopped against his jacket. At least it wasn't his leather one.

"Nah." The gunman patted his weapon. "I got my hands full."

"I'll help."

Blair looked around the gunman and saw one of the few male passengers stand. He had gray hair at his temples, but looked fit. "Okay, you grab his feet after I pull him into the aisle."

The man nodded, then did what he was told. "I'm Harry."

"I'm Blair." The gunman walked ahead of them, probably to make sure there were no weapons in the galley. Yep, he was probably worried they might fork him to death.

"It was good what you did for that detective."

Good? For all he knew Jim could be bleeding to death in the cockpit. "I just want all this over with, man." He stopped and shifted his grip. Damn. He now knew where the term "dead weight" came from.

"I hear you. I was so excited about getting back to Chicago that I never even considered…."

Never even considered you wouldn't make it back. "Yeah, I know what you mean. You get on in Cascade or Anchorage?"

"Anchorage. I'm a salesman for a hardware company. About once a year, we send someone up to Alaska for a few weeks. We make contacts, hand out our website information. Alaskans order a lot off the Internet, and seeing an actual representative --even if only once a year--gives them confidence about using our company. Alaskans need lots of tools."

"I bet." They stepped into the galley alcove and awkwardly dropped the body. Even though Bauer was scum, Blair hadn't meant to drop him. But the muscles in his arms were burning from effort.

"Wonder where the attendants are?" Harry asked, eyeing the items in the galley.

"Probably under guard up in First Class." He didn't care what the gunman standing in the doorway thought. He grabbed a stack of napkins and wiped at the blood on his hands and jacket.

"So that means there are five of them?"

Blair tossed the soiled paper in the trash. "More likely six. Gotta be another one in the cockpit with the pilots."

"You ladies about through?"

Blair rolled his eyes and headed back to his seat. The other gunman called out something in Japanese, and to Blair's surprise, the terrorist behind him replied in kind. After the exchanges he'd had with the man, Blair had figured the only thing Japanese about the guy was his features.

Blair turned his head a little, and saw that the gunman was staying at the back of the plane. Must have been what they were deciding. So there was one at the front, one at the back, potentially one in First Class, one in the cockpit, Kuroda, and Kuroda's bodyguard.

Six terrorists versus one detective and one police observer. Didn't have to be a mathematician to know those odds sucked.

*****

Jim was grateful for the pain in his thigh. It gave him something to focus on other than the bodies of the flight attendants that were tossed about the First Class cabin. As they passed through the area, he saw no outward display of how they had died, but his senses left him no doubt that they were still slightly warm, but all the way dead.

And that meant this was a whole 'nother ball game than he'd thought was going to be played. People looking to negotiate didn't start off murdering their hostages. Neither did people who were planning on walking away after their caper. No, this had all the makings of a suicide mission. At 35,000 feet. Yo, Jimmy, you couldn't have had the premonition earlier, like *before* you got to the airport?

His expectations sank even lower when he saw the dead pilots in the cockpit.

A quick glance at the control panel showed the autopilot was working--well, the autopilot light was on and they weren't plummeting to the ground, so he assumed it was functioning. That was a plus, but as far as he knew, even the most sophisticated auotpiloting systems couldn't manage human-free landings. Maybe Kuroda or one of his men was a pilot. Or else they were completely screwed.

Which one do you think, Ellison?

Kuroda motioned for the ape with the automatic to dump the bodies out of the cramped cockpit, then indicated that Jim should sit. The senator was forced to keep standing aft, his back against the door and the gunman pressed close, as Kuroda took the other seat and put on a pair of headphones.

"So, you are a detective. But that was not always so. You stand too straight. You study the Way, the Book of Five Rings. You were a soldier?" Kuroda asked conversationally.

Maybe it was time to get rid of the crewcut, Jim thought dryly as he listened to the voice coming from the headphones. Cascade Tower was starting to sound desperate. Roger that, Cascade Tower. "Yes. U.S. Army Special Forces." The only thing denying it would do was cause Kuroda to distrust him, and trust was one of the few things he had going in his favor.

"You left your brothers-in-arms. Why?"

"Politics." Kuroda looked at him questioningly and Jim decided to play along. Buying time was the only plan he could come up with. "I survived a helicopter crash which killed everyone else onboard. I lived with a native tribe in South America for eighteen months before the Army suspected that someone had survived. I learned a simplicity of life when I was with the natives and back stateside, I had trouble adjusting."

"You walked through to the other side of death, and found you weren't the same."

Jim nodded. "I couldn't blindly follow anymore. I couldn't sit back and let someone else make decisions for me. In the jungle, my life was in my hands. I couldn't let go of it again. I got out, but…." He shook his head.

"You were still a warrior."

"Yes. I could have done anything--gone back to school, gone into business with my father, or even sat back and survived on some investments I'd made earlier. But, and sometimes it shames me to admit it, I am happiest when I have a weapon at my disposal." A little confession should seal the bond.

"Don't be ashamed," Kuroda counseled, leaning back in the first officer's chair. "We are always, at the core, who we were meant to be."

"And you were meant to be a terrorist?" Jim asked.

McCain gasped at his boldness. Kuroda smiled.

"You have shocked the poor senator, Detective. He thought you were playing with me, deliberately working your way beneath my defenses. He does not understand that we merely talk as equals. He does not understand that if I was not sure of that, you would have been dead five seconds after your unfortunate prisoner."

"I don't have the patience to be a negotiator," Jim said. At least that's what one of his Army instructors had told him.

"But patience is part of being a warrior."

"There is a difference between waiting to act and merely waiting."

"And are you now waiting to act?"

"Yes."

Kuroda laughed. "Your truthful answers are going to give the senator a heart attack, I fear. His kind are so mired in their lies that the truth is something to be feared and hidden. What do you hide, Detective?"

"Nothing."

"What do you fear?"

"Everything. But a warrior knows which fears to indulge and which fears should be overcome."

"And do you know?"

Jim smiled and gave a small shrug. "I'm working on it."

"A good warrior is constantly in the state of becoming," Kuroda agreed. "To answer your question, I don't see myself as a terrorist."

"Then look beyond the veil you've placed over your eyes. According to the dictionary, terrorism is the deliberate use of terror to influence someone. You have everyone up here terrified. As soon as those on the ground, families and officials, learn of this, they will be terrified too. And according to the law, terrorism is the unlawful use of force or violence against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a government, civilian population, or any segment thereof, in furtherance of political or social goals."

"Something you had to memorize to become a member of Special Forces?" Kuroda asked. "Doesn't quite have the same lyrical quality as 'you can win by making the best use of the enemy's frightened rhythm.'"

"The flaw in that is that those you are frightening are not your enemy. I am not your enemy--at least I wasn't until you put me and others in danger. For all you know, I don't even support your enemy's politics."

"America gains economically from PRICE."

"Money is not everyone's goal. Economically-speaking, slavery was a good thing. But that didn't stop people from fighting against it--even those who would lose what they had. Face it, Kuroda. This has nothing to do with the Way of Strategy. You are merely a terrorist."

The Asian sighed. "You're not going to cut me any slack, are you?"

"I have the responsibility of approximately a hundred lives. I can't afford to give you any slack."

"They aren't your responsibility. They are McCain's and the other politicians'."

"No. They're mine. And yours," Jim argued, not flinching at the steely glance Kuroda gave him. "We are the warriors. How we wield our weapons will determine the outcome of this. Everything else exists on the periphery of the battlefield."

"Damn. You wouldn't happen to know my grandfather, would you? Your arguments are similar."

"You discussed this with your grandfather?" McCain asked in amazement.

"Of course. I sought a greater wisdom."

"But did not heed it," Jim said softly. Thank you, Kuroda, for giving me something to exploit.

"I was already committed before I consulted him. I was merely looking for a second opinion."

"Why are you doing this, Kuroda? If you don't see yourself as a terrorist, what do you see in the mirror?"

"A sacrifice for the greater good."

"Explain," Jim demanded, just as he figured Kuroda's grandfather had done.

"It's hard for Westerners to understand, especially Americans. Your culture has no heritage, no history. It's just a mongrelization of other cultures and pasts."

"Woof," Jim retorted.

"Detective!" McCain chided.

Kuroda laughed. "Aptly put, Detective. I apologize for the insult." He frowned at the man standing behind him. "And, Senator, I grow tired of your constant need for political correctness. Or are you just seeking to appease me? Which is it, Senator? Are you merely monitoring your soundbites carefully, or are you trying to make nice to the crazy Asian? Maybe I should have Ashimori here escort you to First Class whose current occupants you can't bore to death."

Jim tensed as he heard the anger in Kuroda's voice, and his thigh responded with angry throbs of its own. Damn McCain. If he wasn't careful, he was going to set Kuroda off and no one would have a chance of getting out of this alive. False civility aside, Kuroda was a terrorist, and Jim was beginning to suspect he was also mentally unstable. The callous reference to the dead flight attendants didn't jibe with the man's earlier statements. You've dealt with enough nutcases to know the signs of mental unraveling.

"So what is it that a mutt like me can't understand?" Jim asked, hoping to distract the man's focus from McCain. The one thing all nutcases seemed to have in common was the need to talk. He'd often wondered if the bad guys knew just how much plotting time they gave the good guys by meticulously explaining what they were doing and why they were doing it. He'd finally concluded that the bad guys were just too far gone to care.

"You can't understand how it felt for me to go to Japan and find myself. Who I am. Where I came from."

"Your grandfather?"

"Yes. He showed me my heritage and I reveled in it. I thought never to leave Japan."

"But?"

"But soon I was seeing the erosion of Japan as the United States constantly ran over us. You cannot know what this was like."

Jim flashed to a story he'd overheard Incacha telling the Chopec children. "It is told that there once was a child who watched what time did to his older friends and relatives. He thought: these are not the familiar people I have known; they change, and I will change. He was so frightened by that idea that he begged the gods to make him into stone so that he could remain forever who he was. The gods were amused by the wish, so they granted it. The boy became stone and his parents lovingly placed him on the edge of the tribe's territory so he could watch over the tribe. With mixed emotions, he looked on as his contemporaries grew old and weak while he remained strong. He was saddened by their deaths, but gleeful about his own unchanged existence.

"Many generations later, he still felt smug--until the day one of his stone fingers cracked and fell to the earth. This cannot be, he cried to the gods. I am stone. I must stay the same. The gods laughed and pointed at the mountains surrounding the boy. They too are stone, they told him. But once they were higher and steeper, and full of sharp, jagged edges. Time alters all, boy, not just flesh. Then change me back, the child requested. If I am to change, let me do it with the swiftness of mortal flesh. The gods ignored him, and it took many generations of crumbling before the boy found peace with his ancestors."

"Speaking of the gods, I think they had a bit of folly putting your soul in a gaijin body," Kuroda said admiringly.

"Trust me, the gods were rolling in the aisles by the time they got through creating me," Jim replied dryly. "In fact, I suspect that every so often they still look to me for their amusement. I mean, they must be laughing their asses off just about now."

"Warriors are often tested."

"Is this what this is for you? A test?"

Kuroda sighed. "No. I've already failed that."

Jim straightened in the chair, not liking the sound of that. He truly and deeply hated suicidal nutcases. Shit. What was he supposed to say now? Sandburg was the psych minor, not him. "Are you sure? That you failed the test? Maybe the failure itself is part of the test," he babbled helplessly. He glared at McCain who apparently now had nothing to say. Jerk. He couldn't remember if he'd voted for him or not, but he knew whose name to avoid in the next election.

"Hmm. I never thought about it that way, Detective. Perhaps you have a point."

Jim blinked at Kuroda. Damn. He had bought that line of b.s.? Score one for living with Sandburg. The man kept him constantly on his mental toes.

"Flight 919. This is Federal Agent Sarah Jefferson. Please respond."

The female voice startled both of them, and Jim hoped Kuroda didn't notice that he, too, could hear the radio.

Apparently not, because Kuroda just grinned and swiveled the microphone into place. "Well, gentlemen, sounds like it's show time!"

~CHAPTER FIVE~

Cascade International Airport

Sarah flashed her badge at one of the airport's security officers and asked to be escorted to the control tower. As she marched beside him, her sensible heels clicking as they crossed the tiled floor, she went over proper procedure in her mind. Altitude aside, this was a basic hostage situation, something she'd studied extensively at the Academy because one of her instructors thought her voice had a "motherly" pitch. Guess that was about as close to being a mother as she was going to get. Not that she was too old. There had been a seventy-something woman in The Enquirer, right? No, what she was missing was a husband. Not for his sperm, of course; she could get that anywhere. But what she needed was someone who would raise the kid because there was no way in hell she could picture herself as a housewife, just as she couldn't picture herself leaving a helpless infant in the care of a nanny. Not after all the reports she'd fielded about babysitters and day care centers.

She wondered about Simon's wife. There had to be one because she'd read about his son being one of the people being held when the police station was taken over. God, he must have been frantic when that happened. And his wife probably gave him a good cussing out when he got home. Putting her baby in danger. The nerve of the man!

"Right in here, Agent."

She nodded to the security officer and stepped inside the busy air traffic control tower. One of the occupants hurried toward her. Two others, one in a suit and the other in a very loud, floral shirt, stayed back, but stared. She wondered if they could be the officers Simon had mentioned.

"Agent Jefferson?" the approaching man asked. She nodded. "Lee Forrester, tower supervisor."

She shook the offered hand, already liking Forrester. Some men didn't know whether to extend a hand to a woman or not. "What do we have so far?" she asked, and he led her to the banks of machinery that ringed the room.

"Flight 919 is not responding to calls and is currently off-course. The good news is that we have it on radar."

"Erratically off-course?"

"No, she's flying steady, so it's a definite course change."

"Any idea of the destination?"

"Too many points along that heading."

"What about the transponder? Have the pilots signaled a 7500?" All pilots knew that setting their transponder to 7500 or radioing "Squawk seven-five-zero-zero" meant a hijacking.

"No, ma'am. We still don't have a confirmation that it's been hijacked."

"But in your expert opinion?"

Forrester ran his fingers through his thinning blond hair. "If it was just that the pilots weren't answering, I'd say there could be a radio malfunction. But with the heading change…." He shook his head.

She pursed her lips, and made a decision. "Okay. From this point on, we will all operate under the assumption that this is indeed a hijacking." She looked at the two men standing quietly in the background. "You the gentlemen Captain Banks sent?" They nodded. "Here's what I need: information on how much fuel was loaded onto the plane and how soon will it run out; a confirmed passenger list; and embarkation points for Ishimaru and Owaga."

Flowered-Shirt answered. "We're on it, ma'am."

As they left, she turned toward Forrester. "I want to try my hand at making contact. This could be a power play, waiting until someone with authority makes the call." She looked around the busy room. "Is there somewhere we could get some privacy for this?"

"Yes, ma'am. I can transfer all connections to 919 to my office."

Sarah followed him into a smaller version of the room they'd just left. He typed commands into a computer, then motioned her into a seat. "Just press here and talk, ma'am," Forrester instructed.

She ignored the tremble in her hand as she obeyed him. "Flight 919. This is Federal Agent Sarah Jefferson. Please respond."

"Federal Agent Sarah Jefferson, this is Flight 919."

"With whom am I speaking?"

"Benjamin Kuroda."

She looked at Forrester and he shook his head. Quickly, he handed her a clipboard, the names of the pilots circled. "May I speak to Captain Pierce or Captain Randall?"

"No."

"Then may I assume you have taken command of the airplane?"

"A reasonable assumption, Agent."

"Mr. Kuroda, I'm legally bound to advise you that your actions are in violation of U.S. Federal Law--"

"Yes, yes. I've already been informed of your definition of a terrorist and I confess--I am one."

"Informed?"

"I have a walking, talking conscience right here beside me, Agent Jefferson. I assure you, he's doing an excellent job. Might have done some good if he'd been around earlier. But now it's too late."

"Too late for what, Mr. Kuroda?"

"Never mind. By the way, I am a political terrorist. Wouldn't want you running around trying to find some obscure religious cult in my background. I'm Baptist by birth and agnostic by reality."

Sarah rubbed a thumb across her forehead. "Is there some political faction that you represent, Mr. Kuroda, or are you freelancing?"

"In other words, 'what is my agenda?'"

"If that's the way you'd like it phrased."

"You know what the biggest problem is in most relationships, Agent? Lack of communication."

"There is someone you'd like to communicate with?"

"Yes, the American people."

"And what would you like to say to them?"

"That some things are priceless. Of course, there are other things that can be bought for a song, or a vote."

"I'm sure there is a clue in that, Mr. Kuroda, but if you could be clearer?"

"She wants to know who we are. Any suggestions, gentlemen?" Kuroda's voice sounded distant, as if he'd turned away from the microphone. Other indistinct voices sounded then laughter. "My conscience says we should be called the 'Price Is Not Right' gang. The American media should like that one. Please give my apologies to Bob Barker."

"When you say 'we', Mr. Kuroda, to whom are you referring?"

"The whole gang, of course."

"May I have their names? They, too, may have something they want to communicate." Thanks to the Major Crime report, she had two other names. Could there be more?

"No. They just came along for the thrill of playing with weapons."

"Weapons?"

"You don't think the pilots gave up the aircraft just because we asked, do you?"

"Has anyone been injured, Mr. Kuroda?"

A long silence.

"Depends on your definition of injured. Well, actually, my conscience counts, doesn't he?"

"Has anyone been harmed?" Sarah corrected. Another long, tense period of silence.

"I have a special guest who'd like to say hello to you. Senator?"

Sarah recognized the subtle raising of stakes. This Kuroda wasn't a fool. Nor did he sound like an indoctrinated pimply-faced kid brainwashed by some obscure faction. What the hell was this?

Act surprised, Sarah. "You have a senator with you?"

"Say hello, Senator McCain."

"He--hello, Agent Jefferson."

"Are you all right, Senator?"

"I'm uninjured. However--"

Transmission was cut abruptly.

"Senator McCain? Flight 919? Mr. Kuroda, please come in," she requested urgently.

Static, then, "Sorry about that, Agent. Just a glitch in the system, I suppose," Kuroda said.

"Then may I continue speaking to the senator?"

"No. The senator is taking a--time-out. And I think we all need one. We can speak again in twenty minutes. Flight 919 out."

"No. Mr. Kuroda--" The radio went silent.

Sarah's eyes darted to the radar console. The blip remained steady. With a sigh, she pulled out her cell phone. Perfectly manicured nails tapped as she waited for the voice she dreaded hearing.

"Richards."

"Sir, I have confirmation."

*****

Simon parked in the "Police Only" space in front of the airport terminal. "Well, I'm thinking about taking him with me to that conference in South America," he said to Joel, continuing their conversation as they got out of the car. "I think we need to get out of Cascade, find some common ground. The divorce has been hard on Daryl. Now, not only is he the son of a police captain, but he has the stigma of having divorced parents. The boy's got a lot to carry on those thin shoulders."

"That sounds like a good idea, Simon. I didn't have the opportunity to visit another country until it was on Uncle Sam's tab."

"And he even provided you with a useful trade."

"Yeah. Never thought I'd be defusing bombs 'cause I wanted to. And I'm starting to think the 'wanting to' part is wearing thin."

"Major Crime, my friend. Anytime you're ready."

"I'll keep that in mind." Joel squinted across the street. The sun was nearly blinding. But sunglasses weren't something you just kept with you in Cascade. "Isn't that the news guy who was all over that serial killer case a few months ago?"

"Don Haas." Simon scanned the curb and saw the familiar KCDE logo on the side of a car, not a van. Good. Whatever had brought Haas out wasn't worthy of a live report. Still…. "Let's hope he doesn't recognize us."

"Too late."

With a muttered curse, Simon tugged on the bottom of his vest and glanced down to see if his tie was straight as the reporter and his cameraman came toward them.

"Captain Banks, can you tell us the current status of Flight 919?"

Simon froze. How the--? Damn, the last time Haas showed up he was being fed information by the suspect. That couldn't happen twice, could it? "Haas, if you don't want your own arrest on film, I suggest you tell your man there to take a break."

Haas nodded to the cameraman, then turned to face Simon. "No need for the threats, Captain."

"What the hell do you know about Flight 919?" Simon demanded.

Haas looked taken aback his vehemence. "C'mon, Captain, you know how much I respect your unit," he began.

"The question wasn't a rhetorical one, Haas."

"Just that air traffic control has lost communication with it."

"And how do you know that?"

"You know I can't reveal my sour--" Haas put up a trembling hand as Simon advanced on him. "A ham operator picked up the calls to the plane."

Simon sighed. Fate was just not going to give them a break today. "How widely known is this?"

"I don't know. A sister affiliate in Montana called it in. For all I know, the network could have been informed as well." Haas adjusted his tie nervously. "You and I both know that this can't be kept under wraps for very long, Captain. All I'm asking for is honest information to help squelch the rumors that will inevitably be started. We don't want the public misled."

"And your ratings don't have a thing to do with this," Simon said dryly.

"Quid pro quo, Captain Banks. I can act as a buffer between you and the rest of the hounds when they come sniffing around."

"I'd love to make a deal with you, Haas, but it's not my show."

"Federal? I understand, but you could put in a good word for me, couldn't you?"

Simon shrugged. Knowing Ellison and Sandburg's penchant for "big" events, it was almost guaranteed this was going to have the networks circling like blood-lusting sharks. Maybe a shark of their own wasn't a bad idea. "Why don't you hang around for a while, and I'll see what I can arrange."

"You wouldn't just be humoring me, would you?" Haas asked suspiciously.

"No, I'm not. And I'll expect you to hold up your end of the bargain. You'll run interference?"

"My word, Captain."

"Think that was smart?" Joel asked as he and Simon walked away. Haas was chatting animatedly into his cell phone.

"It buys us time, Joel." Simon moved toward one of the security guards and flashed his badge.

"You going to the tower, sir?" Simon nodded. "I just escorted a federal agent there," the guard said. "Is there something my supervisor should know about?"

"I'm sure Agent Jefferson will be contacting your office shortly. At the moment, I'd appreciate it if you would keep on alert for the press. Keep them outside as much as possible. Except for that man and his people over there." He pointed to Haas.

"This is something big, huh?" the young guard said as he led them toward an escalator.

"Yeah, son. Something big."

Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado

"What about the object, Major?"

Major Barry Soren stood at rest before Colonel Wentworth's desk. "Retrieval was successful, sir. The object is currently en route."

"ETA?"

"Approximately 1700 hours, sir."

"Approximately?"

"It's being delivered by civilian air, sir."

"Goddamn budget cuts! How are we supposed to get our work done when everyone's scared to death that if they go over budget their base is going to close?"

"I don't know, sir."

"I hate politicians."

"Yes, sir."

"Is the lab ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Inform me when it arrives."

"Yes, sir." When the colonel didn't make another comment, Soren took that as a dismissal and left the office.

"Here."

Soren looked gratefully at the steaming mug held by his officemate, Captain Lola Fairchild. "Thanks."

"Figured you needed it after all those 'yes, sir's. He always asks for you when he needs them."

"That's because he knows he won't get them from you. Why did I get to be the resident ass-kisser?"

"Because you want general stars, and I just want my pension. So what's he pouting about today?"

"His new toy hasn't arrived yet."

"Another Arctic special?" Soren nodded. Fairchild shivered. "Some things should be left alone."

"It's his life's work. He's never going to leave it alone."

Fairchild nodded and sat down in front of her computer. "He's obsessed. That's dangerous in its own right. But I'm afraid the object of his obsession will prove to be even more dangerous."

Soren wanted to scoff at her fears, except they were also his. "So far it's been contained."

"But what happens if--?"

"Let's just worry about that when it happens."

The captain rolled her eyes.

Soren sighed. "It's going to be a long day, isn't it?"

Fairchild grinned impishly. "Yes, sir."

~CHAPTER SIX~

Flight 919

"That was uncalled for."

Kuroda frowned. "You talking to me or him?" He tapped the groaning man kneeling at his feet for emphasis. McCain flinched as the gun made contact with his head again.

"Both of you," Jim said, frustrated by his inability to do anything. He'd watched Kuroda urge McCain toward the mike, stretching out one of the ear cups so that the senator could hear the agent. Then he'd watched the gun come up and strike the senator. And all he could do was sit there and bitch like a harried housewife. "If you were afraid he was going to say something you didn't want him to say, you shouldn't have let him speak. And you, Senator, could have at least pretended to have a brain in your head and spoken for a while with the agent before spilling whatever you were going to spill."

"Sorry I'm not living up to your expectations, Detective," Kuroda said, and he actually sounded like he meant it.

"I don't have any expectations. I just think that if you have people where you want them, it's stupid to rock the boat. You were talking to a federal agent. She was probably willing to give you your fifteen minutes of fame or whatever the hell you want. You didn't have to hit the senator. Now she's going to be wondering if negotiating with you is worth it."

"What other alternative does she have?" Kuroda asked curiously.

"They can blow us the hell up and blame you."

Kuroda looked at him wide-eyed. "Your government wouldn't do something like that."

Jim laughed. "You're talking to someone who worked for the bastards."

"Hmm. Maybe I was a bit too-- Should I call and apologize?"

Jim was beginning to wonder if he'd stumbled through a looking glass or something; this was becoming way too bizarre. Where was Sandburg when you needed him as a tour guide through his world? His hearing went out automatically, seeking his partner, but the hum of the plane was too overpowering. "An apology would be a nice touch, but first you need to know what you want. You're not an idiot, Kuroda, nor are you as insane as you'd like us all to believe."

"I hit the senator."

"And I'm still trying to figure out why."

"Because he's annoying and I'm short on patience these days."

"Why?"

"Because--" Kuroda stopped and stared at Jim admiringly. "You really are good. But it's too early in our relationship for such secrets. Ashimori, help the senator to his feet."

Jim studied the other Asian. Another part of the puzzle he wasn't getting. Where did the other three men fit into the scenario? He'd studied them as Kuroda ranted back in the economy cabin. They hadn't reacted one way or another. PRICE wasn't their motivation. What was? Why were they allowing Kuroda to lead them into whatever this was?

You know what it is, Ellison. Murder.

Okay, there was that, and that, as Sandburg might say, was a biggie. You didn't just kill four people--five, counting Bauer--and expect to walk away from it. And while he could buy Kuroda might be on a suicide kick, it didn't track that he just happened to find three other people with the same intention. He also didn't believe that bull about them just coming along to play with guns. The entire operation was too detailed for any one of them not to be fully committed to whatever the end goal was.

"Patience or not, this is not the place for a fight." Jim looked at the panels of buttons and levers and lights crammed in front, beside, and above him. "Whatever your intentions are, I'm sure they don't include crashing before you deliver your message."

"It really is quite crowded in here, isn't it? Ashimori, you and the senator have a seat out with the flight crew."

"What about him?" Ashimori asked, waving his gun in Jim's direction.

"If the plane makes any sudden heading change, shoot the senator. That's enough incentive to keep you from doing something foolish, isn't it, Detective?"

"You might be overestimating my regard for the senator."

"But not your regard for the public you've sworn to protect. The problem with honor is that it provides your enemies with hostages against you."

"Advantages and disadvantages. The Way is about balance." How fucking long was he going to have to spout this stuff? His leg hurt, he was getting claustrophobic, and he had no idea what was happening with Sandburg.

Patience, Grasshopper.

He gave a silent, frustrated groan, and focused on the game he had to continue to play.

*****

"So is this, like, a regular gig for you?" Blair asked the Asian he was standing beside at the back of the plane. Some of the women needed to use the rest rooms and felt better with him standing guard. As if he could do something to stop the large man next to him.

"Hijacking's usually a one-time appearance," the man replied.

"So why are you doing it?"

"You heard the boss. We're protesting PRICE."

"I don't think so," Blair mused aloud.

The man shrugged. "Don't sweat it, Little Professor. Nothing major is gonna happen. The boss is gonna have his say, then we'll land and that'll be it."

Blair stared at him unblinkingly. "Your story would be more believable if I hadn't been sitting next to the man you blew away."

"A con. I'm sure no one on the ground is shedding a tear over the loss."

"The courts won't care who the victim was." A snort interrupted the statement. "Well, they're not supposed to care. And it doesn't matter that you're not the one who pulled the trigger, you know. The felony murder rule says that if you're part of a felony and someone gets killed, you're just as responsible as the person who did the actual killing. Well, that's the state law, anyway. Considering hijacking is a federal crime, there's a possibility that there's an even stronger law, and--"

"You sure you want to be leading me down this particular path, Little Professor?"

Blair considered what he'd been rambling on about, and concluded he was giving the guy ample enough reason to slaughter every person on the plane--after all, you could only be executed once. He really needed to work on his negotiation skills. "My roommate says that my mouth gets ahead of my brain on occasion. So why do you sound more American than I do?"

"Southern California born and bred."

"Your Japanese is impressive."

"Spoke it at home. My mother never learned English."

"That had to be rough on her. Very isolating."

"Dad liked it like that. Liked the fact that she died in an E.R. surrounded by people she couldn't understand."

Blair paled. Insert foot #2, Sandburg. "I'm sorry, man. How old were you when all this was happening?"

"Fourteen. My grandparents came and took me to live with them in Japan. I came back here when I was eighteen and went to USC. Mathematics major."

"And now you're a--" Blair paused, not sure if he could come up with a polite term.

"A terrorist," the man said with a grin. "'Look, Ma! I'm on top of the world!'"

Blair flinched, startled by the Cagney quote. Wasn't the character killed right after that in the movie?

"Don't worry. It's all good, Little Professor," the man said soothingly.

For some reason, Blair didn't believe him.

Cascade International Airport

Simon and Joel stepped into the air traffic control tower, badges in hand. One of the men in the room looked up and pointed them toward an office near the back.

"What's your ETA?" Sarah was saying into a phone as they entered. "Good. I need an analysis as soon as possible." She hung up the phone and faced them. "Captain Banks, it's good to see you."

Simon shook her hand, rolling his eyes at her formality. Sarah was--still Sarah: a stickler for protocol, and beautiful. "Nice to see you as well, Agent Jefferson. This is Captain Joel Taggert, head of the Cascade Bomb Unit."

She stiffened. "Something else I should know?"

"No, he's just here as support staff. He knows the two men aboard. Any updates on the situation?"

"I just finished talking to one of the hijackers."

"Ishimaru or Ogawa?"

"Kuroda."

Simon bit back a curse. "So there are at least three of them."

Sarah nodded. "I have a negotiation team on the way, the FAA is en route, and your men are out gathering information for me. Thank you for that."

Simon graciously inclined his head. "You're going to have to go public with this quicker than I suspect you expected. Apparently some of the calls to the plane have been picked up by ham operators."

"Mr. Forrester, did you hear that?"

The other person in the office nodded. "I'm switching frequencies now, Agent."

Sarah turned back to Simon. "You want to assist with the press debriefing? Your town; you know the players better than I do."

"Just give me the word."

"I'm setting up a conference call now with the airport managers in Anchorage and Chicago. Give them a five minute start on their end, then go public."

The door opened and Brown and Rafe entered.

"Captains," Rafe acknowledged. "Agent Jefferson, here's the information you requested. Ishimaru and Ogawa got on here in Cascade."

"Do you remember seeing the name Kuroda?"

"No, ma'am," Brown said, grabbing the list from his partner. He scanned it and shook his head. "Either he got on in Alaska or he's traveling under an alias."

"According to your men aboard, Ishimaru and Ogawa are armed. I want to know how they got weapons."

"Yes, ma'am."

Brown and Rafe jogged out of the room, almost bumping into a man entering.

"Aaron Hurst, Airport Manager," he said, looking around curiously, not knowing who was in charge.

"Jefferson with the Bureau, Mr. Hurst," Sarah said, stretching out her hand. "These are Captains Banks and Taggert with the Cascade Police Department."

"Ah, Captain Banks, glad to meet you in person."

Simon shook the hand of the man he'd spoken to on the phone. "Sorry to spring something so big on you without definite proof."

"Well, I've learned my lesson, sir. The next time I get a call from Major Crime, I'm going to act first, and react later."

"Hopefully there won't be a next time, Mr. Hurst."

They both turned their attention back to Sarah who waited impatiently.

"Have you managed to contact the other two airports?" she asked.

While she discussed the situation with Hurst, Simon edged over to Joel. "Do me a favor and go tell Haas if he wants the biggest scoop of his life, he needs to be prepared to go live as soon as possible."

"Got it."

Simon leaned back against the wall, listening to the conference call between the three airports and watching the first woman he'd ever loved. And he meant that in every sense. He'd waited until college to have sex, his father having warned him over and over again about getting trapped with an unwanted pregnancy. That would have destroyed any chances of going to college and getting out of Rossburg. Not that it was such a bad town. He'd liked working in the hotel. But it was Rossburg, for Pete's sake, and he knew he could do better. He laughed, wondering what his fellow campus radical, Peggy Anderson, would say if she knew that much of his protesting nature was due to sexual frustration. Only Sarah's being on the pill and her matching or even greater desire not to get pregnant allowed him to explore intimacy with her--and even then, he never went without a condom. Hell, it took him six months to stop using them after he was married. Then he'd gone back to using them because Joan said Daryl was going to be it--she wasn't "birthin' no mo' babies!" He hadn't minded. He had a beautiful son, a challenging career on the upswing, and a house in the suburbs.

And less than fifteen years later, it was all gone.

No, not all. He still had Daryl and despite the problems the divorce had caused, he was sure he could get through to his son and regain the friendship they'd had prior to his moving out. He still had his career, which was getting more and more challenging thanks to a certain pair. And he still had his memories--of Joan and Sarah. God, had he really been that young? And had he really sported an Afro?

He grinned at the image and concentrated on the meeting being held before him. A little under three hours of fuel left. Motive still largely unknown. Destination unclear. Number of terrorists at three or better. He raised his brow at the next: a possibly injured senator. Oh yeah. Definitely time to take a vacation with his boy. Ellison and Sandburg could do their damnedest and he and Daryl would be out of harm's way in South America. Now that was a plan.

"Thank you, gentlemen. There are already agents en route to your facilities to assist you in dealing with the public and the press. We will attempt to keep the manifest contained until all family members are contacted, but to be honest, with an event this size, keeping anything under wraps is going to be difficult. If something comes up, please don't hesitate to call."

The connections were broken and Hurst left to prepare his facility for an onslaught.

"So you have no idea what these people are after?" Simon asked as Sarah scribbled something down.

"Just that their motive is political and some cryptic saying about 'my conscience says we should be called the "Price Is Not Right" gang.' I'm not sure about Kuroda's sanity. He seems disassociated with his conscience."

"The 'Price Is Not Right' gang?" Simon frowned.

"Yes. Why? Does that mean anything to you? I played the tape for the negotiation team, but they haven't gotten back to me yet. It's going to take them about forty-five minutes to get here from the main office in Spokane. Our Seattle office is more of a satellite facility. Just me and a couple of others."

Simon smiled. "You're enough."

"Thanks, I think. So, you getting anything from Kuroda's remark?"

"Isn't there an agreement or treaty or something that the government's thinking about passing called PRICE?"

Sarah muttered a word that working agents shouldn't say on the job. "And they wonder why we're the butt of so many 'how many agents does it take to screw in a light bulb' jokes." She stabbed numbers into her cell phone and Simon backed off, allowing her to lambaste her fellow agents in private.

"Is that the plane?" he asked the man who was sitting in front of the radar screen.

"Yes, sir. Lee Forrester, tower supervisor." He held out his hand.

"Captain Banks, as you've probably already heard. She still flying steady?"

"Too steady. The autopilot must be engaged."

"You think the pilots have been incapacitated?"

"Probably. The guy wouldn't let Agent Jefferson speak to either of the pilots."

"But they'll need the pilots to land, right?"

"Unless the hijackers are pilots."

"Captain Banks, ready to go tackle the press with me?"

Simon gave Sarah a grim smile. "Ready as I'll ever be." They walked out into the hallway. "Any idea of how many hijackers we're talking about?"

"We're going over all the manifests, looking for Japanese-sounding names."

"Racial profiling?" Simon asked distastefully.

"Look, I know how awful that sounds, but we're pushed for time here. We need to know who we're dealing with so that this situation can be resolved and ninety-eight people can walk off that plane under their own steam. Three of the known hijackers have Japanese names. They are protesting a measure that affects Japanese economy. It's not that much of a stretch to assume that their co-conspirators are also Japanese."

"Fine. But I suggest you leave that out of your press conference."

Sarah stopped and put a restraining hold on his arm. "Do I look stupid to you? If you have such little confidence in me, then why did you involve me in the first place?"

"On the contrary, I have enormous faith in you, Sarah. I was just pointing out that we all have to watch what we say," Simon explained.

"I'm not a rookie. I've been on this job just as long as you've been on yours."

But you're carrying a much bigger chip on your shoulder. "Sarah--"

"Agent Jefferson."

"Still as pig-headed as ever," Simon muttered. "You never did know the difference between condescension and support."

"Support or extra weight?"

"Support. I've learned to graciously accept help, Sarah. You need to learn the same."

"If you owe what you have to someone else, then you have nothing," she argued as they continued to walk.

He shook his head. "That crap might have sounded good in the seventies and the eighties, but it's old now, and still just as untrue. Why do you think I'm here? Why do you think Joel Taggert and the others are here? Because two of us, of our people--a group so diverse that we could be poster models for those rainbow families; hell, we've become a rainbow family--are in trouble and need our support."

"And you actually believe if it was you up there, they'd be here for you too?"

"I don't just believe it--I know it, Sarah."

"Please don't ell me you've been visiting some New Age guru."

"Actually, I think the term used was neo-hippie witchdoctor," Simon said with a fond smile. "Now we just call him the police observer."

She dramatically looked all the way to the top of his head. "I knew the air would eventually thin up there, Simon. A little bit of oxygen should--"

"Agent Jefferson!"

She turned around to see Forrester racing down the hall. "What's happening?"

"Kuroda's back on the radio, asking for you."

"Damn it!" She gazed up at Simon. "About that support?"

"Go. I'll handle the press release," he said grudgingly.

Sarah handed him the sheaf of papers in her hand and hurried away with Forrester at her side.

"Simon," Joel called when he saw his friend approaching. "Where's Agent Jefferson?"

"Kuroda called back. Guess I'm going to be handling the report." He held up the papers in his hand as evidence.

"Better let me straighten that tie if that's the case. Can't have you going national looking like a bum."

"National?"

"By the time I got back down here, Haas had already requested the live-report van and contacted the network. You're going live across the country, my man."

"I should have known. It's all their fault."

"Of course it is, Simon. Jim and Blair live to make your life miserable." Joel patted the tie in place.

"Just wait until I get them both on the ground," Simon muttered.

"Yeah, you can deck them. After I get my hugs in, okay?"

Simon grinned sheepishly at his friend. "Yeah, I hear you, Joel."

"Captain Banks, are you doing the honors?" Haas asked. "Good, good. You have a nice television persona. Dickie, get him miked up."

As Dickie, the tech, pinned a microphone to his lapel, Simon sighed and knew that he'd do this and more if it meant helping Jim and Blair. Family, he'd called them.

Family.

~CHAPTER SEVEN~

Elmendorf Air Force Base

"This is Geoffrey Hume-Graham. FBN has just received word of late-breaking news from Cascade, Washington. Western Air Flight 919, which originated in Anchorage, Alaska, made a stop in Cascade, and was supposed to proceed to Chicago, has been hijacked. Don Haas, a reporter at our local affiliate, KCDE, is reporting live from Cascade International Airport. Don, what can you tell us?"

Airman Marcus Williams sat open-mouthed, staring at the television in the base cafeteria. No, that wasn't--that couldn't be--oh, God.

"You breathin' over there, Williams?" one of his friends asked. "What's the matter, bro? You know someone on that plane?"

Williams shook his head. No, he didn't know anyone on the plane, but he knew what was on it, and he was pretty sure his superiors weren't going to be happy when they found out about the hijacking. And guess who had the joy of telling them. "Sometimes it doesn't pay to get up in the mornings," he mumbled, wrapping up the sandwich he'd just opened.

"I bet them poor bastards never thought they'd get hijacked."

"Yeah, I feel for them too. See you later, Mac."

"You didn't eat."

Williams shrugged. "Suddenly I'm not hungry anymore."

"You okay, man? There's sweat on your forehead and we're in the middle of Alaska."

"Gotta go see my C.O. Then maybe I'll check in at the infirmary."

"Hope it's nothin' catchin'."

"Me too," Williams muttered as he left the cafeteria. Hopefully, it was nothing catching. But then he didn't know what it was.

No one did.

Flight 919

"Do you believe in life after death?"

Blair was startled by the question and it took him a few seconds to respond . And then he didn't have an answer. "You mean, like, heaven and hell?"

Agnes shrugged. "I'm no religious scholar, but there are other forms, right? Reincarnation, Valhalla, Casper the Friendly Ghost…. Do you believe?"

Blair's eyes widened. "I have no idea. Really. Being an anthropologist, I've studied religion extensively. I mean, if you want to get to know a people, start off with their god, right? But I don't think I've ever sat down and decided for myself what my beliefs are concerning death. Which is strange, considering the kind of year I've had." He rested his chin on the back of his seat. It seemed like he'd spent ninety-nine percent of this trip riding backward. Good thing the pilots were skilled at avoiding turbulence. "Um, I know I have a problem with the concept of hell."

"You don't believe in punishment for sins?"

"It's the definition of sin that bugs me. How can murder and lying carry the same weight? How can having sex before you're married be as bad as, say, cheating on the person you're married to? Then there's the whole forgiveness thing where every sin can be 'cleansed' equally. It just seems to me that gaining forgiveness for kidnapping a person, drugging him against his will, and drowning him in a duck pond should be a lot harder than gaining forgiveness for a parking ticket." April stared at him. "What?"

"For some reason, I thought you'd be more liberal."

He flushed. What the hell was going on? He was more liberal, wasn't he? He was against the death penalty, believed in rehabilitation, believed in giving former convicts a chance after their imprisonment. In fact, up until the past year, he'd had misgivings about the use of prisons at all. How could any good come from locking someone up with others who were just as bad or worse? Then he'd started working with Jim and he'd realized that some people needed to be locked away to protect the public, that some had to…die. He'd tried to be angry that Jim had killed Lash--after he'd gotten over the joy and relief that Jim had done so. Lash was a prime example of a victim of society. His mother had abused him. His father had hated him. And no one had saved him from their "tender care." Not their neighbors. Not his teachers. Not the state. If he was twisted, he was made that way, and Blair knew if the case had been just something he'd read about in the Cascade Times, he would have been muttering about excessive force and trigger-happy cops.

But it hadn't been just a story he'd read in the newspaper. And he knew that Jim neither used excessive force nor was a trigger-happy cop. Jim had killed Lash because there had been no other answer, no other resolution to a problem that was so old that it couldn't be stopped any other way. Society had failed Lash long before he and Jim entered the picture. All Jim could do was add the final coda. And if Blair was honest with himself, he would admit to hoping that there was a hell--and that Lash was burning there for eternity. Shit. Naomi would have puppies if she knew what he was thinking.

Oh, Mom, I really don't think you want to read my aura these days.

"I know what I thought I believed in. I thought I believed that there were no bad people, only bad choices; that our court system was barbaric; and that the police were just one step above SS troops. But if one year of seeing from a different viewpoint has made me change my mind on all that, then I never really believed at all, did I? Because belief--faith--is much stronger than that. So, I can't answer your question on whether I believe in life after death, because I can't be trusted to know what I believe in."

Agnes smiled. "Do you always tie yourself up in knots like this over simple questions?"

"It's not a simple question."

"Yes, it is, Blair. Do you believe in life after death? Yes or no?" she ordered.

"Yes." He closed his eyes and realized the answer sat well in his soul. "But I'd rather not find out if I'm right or wrong anytime soon," he added with a limp smile.

April nodded. "I thought I was ready to die. I'm an old lady. My husband has gone on. I thought--" She grasped her sister's hand. "I don't want to die, Agnes. I've seen what happens with plane crashes. I've seen the reporters flock in and the people combing the area for bodies with luggage spread out everywhere. They find some kind of hangar or something and lay all the bodies out in long rows. It's all very sad and I get mad at the reporters for showing stuff like that because I know those bodies have family members and they're watching it and--and that could be our family, Ags."

"Look, no one's going to die," Blair said quickly. "I was talking to the goon at the back of the plane and he seems to think it's only a matter of them getting to say what they want to say, and poof, we're on the ground and safe at home."

"You really believe that?" Agnes asked sternly.

"I believe that wherever Jim is, he's working on a plan to make that a reality."

"You have a lot of faith in him."

"I've watched him play hero too often not to have faith."

"And what does he have faith in?"

Hmm. Something else he didn't know about the man he'd been living with for nearly a year. Maybe they needed couple's counseling or something, he thought with a private grin. "Jim believes in his abilities." Well, some of them anyway. "And in his training. He was a U.S. Army Ranger before becoming a cop. He also believes in team cooperation. Before the takeover, we alerted our captain. So we know there's at least one person on the ground who's trying to get us to safety and doesn't care about the political ramifications. Actually, we know there's a whole group of people who are focused on making sure we all get out of this safely."

"You sound surprised by that," April commented.

Blair shrugged. "I've spent a lot of my life alone. It was always just Mom and me, and once I got older, mainly just me. I was raised not to get attached to things, to people. So before I became a police observer, I was what a sociologist friend of mine called a 'social loner.' I was surrounded by people, but I wasn't a part of them, I wasn't attached to them. Jim's just the opposite. Jim appears to be a loner, but he's attached. What happens to the people around him, his tribe if you want to call it that, matters very much to him. Now I'm part of that tribe, and it's daunting to find that even if I don't attach myself to the others, they've attached themselves to me. I've become part of something bigger, and sometimes I don't like it--and sometimes it feels so good that I could cry."

"I think you've always been a part of something bigger, young man, only you refused to see it," Agnes said. "You're too generous with your spirit to be the loner you claim to be."

Blair snorted uncomfortably. "What about you, Agnes? Do you believe in an afterlife?"

"Yes." She coughed. "Sorry, but I find the air terribly dry on planes."

Blair gave a quick nod. "I'll be right back."

The Asian smiled as he approached. Gee, Jim, seems like I have a buddy, too. "Hey, man, the recycled air is getting to people. Think it'll be okay to get one of the attendants to pass out water or soda?"

"The attendants are busy, Little Professor, but if you want to do it…." He waved his arm toward the galley.

Blair wondered what the attendants were busy doing as he discovered a fully loaded cart in the galley. Playing hostage as Kuroda made his demands? Maybe-- No. Surely Kuroda wouldn't let his men rape the women. He seemed--well, they all seemed--rather civilized to be extremists.

He filled the cooler on the bottom of the cart with ice and tried to push the cart. When it wouldn't move, he examined it and found the little brakes on the wheels. Cool. He rolled it out, offered a drink to his Asian, then went to serve the passengers.

All I need is Jim's apron, he thought with a grin. At first, he'd been surprised to see how comfortable the man had been in an apron, but after just a month of living with Jim, he realized Jim had very few gender issues. Women cops were just cops. Women crooks--after he'd dated them a time or two--were just crooks. Nope. Not a hint of gender-bias in Jim. Still, Blair was smart enough not to remark that Jim, dressed in an apron and yellow rubber gloves with a dish brush in his hands, reminded him of an old Playtex Living Gloves commercial.

In honor of that "retro-mercial" flashback, Blair couldn't help but ask the next passenger, "Coffee, tea, or--"

"A flick of your Bic?" the woman said with him, eliciting smiles all around them.

Tribe's doing okay, Jim. Hope you are, too.

*****

Jim absently rubbed his throbbing thigh, the constant pain keeping him from zoning as he watched the non-changing scenery out the flightdeck window. Except for an obscuring cloud or two, it was a monotonous view, but less monotonous than whatever Kuroda was currently spouting into the microphone. He didn't listen to the rhetoric because he knew that was all it was. There was something else going on that had nothing to do with PRICE, but he still hadn't identified it.

Wish you were up here with me, Chief. Bet you'd have him analyzed in five minutes.

Jim sighed. This was supposed to have been some downtime for the kid, a present of sorts for having put up with a stubborn sentinel and grouchy cop for a year. Blair had been a good partner and a decent roommate. Jim always laughed when people assumed he had trouble taking in a roommate. He could count on one hand the number of years he'd lived alone. After his family, there had been roommates in college, bunkmates in the Army, trailmates in the jungle, and finally, a wife. Living with someone else just wasn't a problem.

It's the tribal instinct in you.

Yeah, right, Sandburg.

Jim wasn't sure if he bought into the whole sentinel package that Blair was selling. The senses were a given, but all this tribal protector mumbo-jumbo seemed over the top. He happened to be a cop; protecting was part of the job description. He'd become a cop because it just made sense after being in the Army. He'd become a soldier because…because it'd pissed his dad off. Destiny, fate, whatever, had nothing to do