Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, and no profit is made from these stories. (But I do have fun writing them: )

Jack squinted as he entered the bar; the dark atmosphere was a shock after spending several hours riding in the bright sunlight. His hair was damp with sweat, the result of wearing a motorcycle helmet on a hot July afternoon. It was another sign that he was getting old; years ago, he preferred vanity to safety.

He had pulled off the Interstate in search of a place like this, and even though it seemed dingy and depressing, he was damned glad to have found it. He didn't care what the place served, as long as it was wet and alcoholic in nature; riding in the dry, unforgiving climate had made him thirsty as hell.

Besides, he liked the camaraderie of such a bar, even though it certainly wasn't what he was used to. The bars he frequented in New York were dark but inviting, the kind that attracted blue-collar workers and businessmen alike in the search of relaxation after a rough day. This, however, was the kind of place that attracted "rough trade," shadowy characters who were more likely to shoot each other than shoot the bull.

But Jack had always been somewhat attracted to the darker side of life; it was why he prosecuted criminals for a living. Even though he fought to win, he was fascinated by his adversaries' minds. Still, he'd never have set foot in this place if it wasn't two thousand miles away from home. No one knew who he was here; he wasn't putting himself in danger by fraternizing with the enemy.

He decided to stick with beer; scotch was too heavy for the road. Carefully he looked around the room, taking stock of his companions. Two burly biker types were playing pool in the corner; another nursed his drink while staring at a wrestling match on the fuzzy, outdated TV. The sound had been turned off in favor of songs by the Allman Brothers.

But Jack was most intrigued by the man sitting at the end of the bar. He appeared to be Jack's age, with long graying hair and a beard to match. Jack felt like he had seen this man before, even though that was patently ridiculous; this wasn't New York, and the chances of running into anyone he knew were slim.

The feeling nagged at Jack. The man seemed to be consciously avoiding him, like he had something to hide. He wanted to go over and introduce himself, but that seemed unwise; he might end up with a knife in his gut to show for it.

So he discreetly scanned the man's face, searching for anything he might recognize. An answer came, but it was so unbelievable that he immediately discarded it.

There's just no way, he rationalized to himself.

Or was there?

After resigning from the District Attorney's Office, Ben Stone had disappeared. He traveled in Europe for a time, but after that, even Adam didn't know where he was. The old man kept his feelings private, but Jack could tell that the mystery burned at him; he and Ben had been remarkably close.

There was no doubting that this man had Ben's boyish features, even though they looked worn and weathered. Jack might have been able to deduce the man's identity by looking at his eyes, seeing if they were as piercingly blue as Ben's. But the light was dim, and the man had turned his head in the other direction.

And, try as he might, Jack just couldn't picture Ben Stone – he of the moral high horse – disheveled and dressed in worn denim. His brain just wouldn't compute it.

Now, another patron – rakish, wrinkled, and tattooed – walked towards the mystery man, addressing him.

"Ready to go, Jack?"

The man shared his name! Jack listened for the answer, hoping to hear the man's voice, but it was inaudible. The tattooed guy signaled for the bartender.

Then the man spoke again, as he was paying the tab.

"Thank you, sir," he said quietly.

This time, there was no mistaking it. All Jack could do was stare in utter amazement as the man – Ben – and his companion left the bar.

Of course, Jack would never know why his former colleague had reinvented himself. But he preferred to believe that Ben's strong moral convictions, held for so many years, had just been a cover for a soul who had wanted to run free.

finis