Wild Things

A/N: The Sentinel belongs to UPN and Pet Fly, Something Is Out There to Columbia Pictures, Airwolf to Bellisario and Universal, Gargoyles to Disney and Buena Vista, Special Unit 2 concepts to UPN and Rego Park, Street Hawk to Universal. Airwolf is AU. Takes place after "Lakeside Thoughts". Joe Cortese played both Jack Breslin in SIOT, and Jack Pendergrast (Ellison's missing - and later deceased - ex-partner) in an episode of the Sentinel. (The Anatomy of Motive, by John Douglas and Mark Olshaker, is a cool book. Its subjects would make a good Major Crimes-type seminar... and probably have.)

~*~*~*~*~
Nursing an extra-large orange juice, Dr. Blair Sandburg slumped into his auditorium seat. Ow. I should have asked for an aspirin to go. "I have never, ever, seen traffic like that."

"L.A." Detective Jim Ellison perched on the edge of beige upholstery, scanning the echoing room. "They say rush hour causes more homicides than the Crips and the Bloods put together."

Blair skewed a glance toward his watch. "What rush hour?"

"If we didn't leave early, we wouldn't have gotten here on time."

Blair waved his seminar schedule. "When it comes down to a choice between taking the redeye flight so we can check into the hotel two hours early and missing Dr. Dalston's rehash of 'Guys Who Snap'...."

"And now we've got half an hour before it starts, Darwin." Satisfied there were no visible threats beyond eye-mugging beige upholstery, the sentinel finally deigned to sit down. "Just enough time for you to check out any of the ladies who show up."

"Getting a good look at the rest of the anthropological environment is not just checking out ladies, Jim." He heard the main doors clack; glanced back, taking in the blonde and brunette in charcoal-gray suits stalking toward the right-hand row. "Darn. How come the good ones are always Feds?"

Jim raised an interested brow. "And how'd you know they were Feds, Chief?"

"Institution suits, socially correct footwear instead of sneakers, definite dominant behavior - you mean I'm right?"

Jim tilted his head, obviously listening out in the hotel corridor. "How about these two?"

I'm an anthropologist, Jim. I'm supposed to study people, not classify them with one look. But it didn't hurt to practice. Did it?

Okay. Definite pair, coming in; walking almost in each other's personal space, but watching everyone else instead. The guy was dark-haired and annoyed in a gray suit and blue shirt, no tie. Cop, not a Fed, Blair thought. Wear mark on the man's belt, under his jacket, where a detective's shield might be clipped on a crime scene. Yep, cop. Seemed to be in good shape, but he held his left arm close, between himself and his partner, like he didn't want to jar it.

Definitely his partner, Blair nodded, looking over the tall blonde. Trying to see past the camouflage of white blouse, buckle-decked black leather jacket, biker boots, and jeans. Dresses like Vice, but she sure doesn't look like Vice. Man, if she went out as a prostitution decoy, they'd be hauling guys off the street all day. High cheekbones, lean grace, a slight wave to her hair-

The anthropologist in him bit, hard. Where does she come from?

America had ethnic blends the world had never seen anywhere else. But that combination of features, that walk, that wide personal space as she strode near others who weren't her partner....

Australia? New Zealand? Must be somewhere like that. Wow. I need to get Down Under more often. "Cop and foreign exchange," he said softly, knowing his partner would hear. "You think - Jim?" Please, not a zone. Not here.

No, not a zone. Not when Jim was that pale. "Jack?"

The cop threw his gaze their way. "Yeah?" He frowned, walking to their row. "I know you?"

"I...." The sentinel seemed at a loss. "Sorry. You looked like... somebody I knew. A long time ago."

"Possibly a relative?" The cop's partner had a polite smile Blair would have TA'd a dozen classes for. "From Milwaukee?"

"How'd you know Pendergrast was from Milwaukee?" Jim said awkwardly, splitting his gaze between her and her partner. "You look a lot like him. But that was years ago. And he was older-"

Blair nudged him.

Jim stuck out a hand. "Jim Ellison. Cascade Major Crimes." He nodded toward Blair. "My partner, Blair Sandburg."

Was it Blair's imagination, or did Jack hesitate half a second before he took it? But the handshake was hearty enough. "Jack Breslin. Robbery/Homicide. Whoa-"

"I knew we should have stopped for a sandwich." The blonde propped up her partner as Jack wavered back. "Ta'ra Andulon. Sit down," she said briskly, angling her partner toward a near row of seats. "I'm certain I can find something with protein in the lobby."

"Ta'ra, I don't-"

She shot him a fierce, blue glance.

"Yeah, right," Jack sighed, dropping into the aisle chair. Wincing as his left arm brushed beige padding. "Okay, okay. I've heard the lecture before...."

"Yes; perhaps one day you'll pay attention to it." Biker boots stalked back uphill, on the trail of something with meat.

Blair let out a low whistle; Jack's left shirtsleeve had ridden up, showing a gash of pink scar. If that's just the tip - man. "What happened to you?"

The detective followed his gaze, tugged the sleeve back down. "Disagreed with something that tried to eat me." He wiggled his left fingers absently, checking they were still there.

"I hear some people keep lions in their apartments around here." Jim looked as if he wanted to peer through cloth, disapproval creasing his frown.

"That, and worse. Hollywood, what a town." Jack shrugged.

Something off about that, Blair thought. Why would a detective who'd been attacked by someone's exotic pet have such a wary look in his eyes? Something about the attack he doesn't want us to know? Oh, for goodness' sake, Sandburg, relax; you don't tell perfect strangers about the caiman, either.

"Anyway, I got lucky," Jack went on. "You can still do paperwork in a sling."

And paperwork was the major component of a detective's job, car chases aside. Blair rolled his eyes. He'd certainly been stuck with enough of Jim's to know that.

"So what brings you two to the Lecture from Hell?" Jack lifted inquisitive brows. "Word on Cascade is, last thing you guys need is refresher courses in psychos."

"True." Jim looked grim.

"Actually, I think that's why Simon sent us," Blair put in, picking a seat nearby. Maybe the lecture would be a wash, but at least someone interesting would be in study range. "If we brush up on the warning signs, maybe we could avoid some trouble before it happens."

Jim snorted. "I doubt it, Chief."

Blair bit back a rude word. I made it to almost thirty without ever laying eyes on a psycho, Jim, he felt like shouting. You nearly got eaten by a Peruvian demoness. And you think I'm the one who attracts trouble?

"You all right?" Jim frowned at Breslin.

The L.A. cop waved off his sudden pallor as more arrivals trickled through the main doors. "Ah, just a... headache. Low blood sugar." He brightened. "Ham and egg. Ta'ra, you are a lifesaver."

"It is my preferred line of work." A pale hand reached past Jack's shoulder, holding out a napkin-wrapped biscuit. "Though there is a definite satisfaction to a properly processed crime scene as well."

"Nothing like catching 'em before they can do it again, huh?" Jack unwrapped his sandwich, bit in.

Blair sipped at his juice to hide a sudden frown. Ta'ra handed it over his shoulder.

There was no way Jack could have seen the crime scene analyst's package. Much less known what was inside.

Unless....

Give it up, Sandburg. You've got Sentinels on the brain. Jim would've told you if he saw another spirit guide.

He hoped.

He could just have enhanced smell. Or - and more likely, geez, think, Sandburg - she's his partner. He likes ham and egg, she'd get ham and egg.

"You know anything about those two?" Jim let his glance indicate the two Feds. "They seem a little... on edge."

"Special Agents Daphne Wyeth and Parthenope Addison," Ta'ra nodded. "They're good, from what we've seen. Shut down a major artifact-smuggling ring with links to Mexico and Columbia just recently." She smiled wryly. "They only wish all their cases could go so well. But one simply refuses to break their way, and they cannot let it go."

Mid-chew, Jack swallowed. "Parthenope?" He kept his voice low.

"I'm afraid so."

"Sheesh." Jack shuddered. "No wonder she goes by Addison."

"It's better than 'Danger-prone Daphne', I would think."

"One of their cases hit a stone wall?" Blair pounced, making a mental note to ask Jim what was so interesting about two more aggravated Feds.

Jack snickered. "Their boss has them on Santini Air. Talk about your exercises in frustration."

"What's Santini Air, and why would the Feds be interested?" Jim skewered the detective with a glance.

Blair blinked; he'd seen suspects fold under those eyes. Breslin only shrugged. "Ah, nothin' much. Dominic Santini runs pilots for hire out of Van Nuys. Lots of charters, lots of stunt work. Some of which," he allowed, "Goes south of the border."

"Right." Jim looked grim.

"No one working for Dominic would ever touch controlled substances, Detective Ellison." Ta'ra drew back in her seat. "They loathe narcotics. And they love flying too much."

"Drugs ain't what the Feds are looking for, anyway," Jack said absently, eyeing the stuffed suit heading for the stage, laptop and notes in hand. "Uh oh. This, does not look good."

As Dalston's fifth Powerpoint slide flashed up, filled with dotted text that rehashed in Latinate obfuscation things they'd all heard in a thousand police roll calls, Blair had to agree.

~*~*~*~*~
I was your average street cop. Name: Jack Breslin.
Then I met your average not-bad-looking alien from another planet, who crashed on Earth and was stuck here.
We work pretty well together. 'Cause, I know my way around, and - well she can read minds. Among other things.

~*~*~*~*~
"...The ur-theory of the unconstrained id...."

Oh, god, Jack groaned silently. This was Vic's revenge. It had to be. Lieutenant Maldonado had finally snapped and sentenced him to death by terminal boredom. Not just his boredom, but the vague annoyance, frustration, and occasional all-out homicidal fury leaking past his shields from the thirty-odd bored cops sharing the auditorium. Please, somebody, kill me now.

You think that's annoying? Ta'ra's hand on his arm dripped her impatience into his veins. There's a detective from Seattle's Homicide squad on the far left singing under his breath to those three computer-animated frogs that infest your late-night TV.

Jack lifted a stunned brow. You're kidding.

"Bud. Weiz. Er."

Ouch.

Jack felt her roll of eyes. What was that anxiety when Ellison touched you? she asked.

Don't know. He didn't like admitting being afraid, even of a guy with a known Army Ranger background and a rep as the most stiff-necked cop on the West Coast. Who would? But while Ta'ra might not be able to read everyone reliably, she could pick out his emotions clear as headlines on the morning paper. He felt - off.

Unstable? A wash of caution; Ta'ra had dealt with more than enough psychos herself. She knew how normal they could appear. Even to a full telepath.

Which I'm not, Jack thought gratefully. No, not unstable.... He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to nail it down. More like - intense. Like Angel? Only a lot more... feral.

Hmmm. Ta'ra arched a blonde brow at him. Angel's not human.

I know that. Which gave him the willies, sometimes, when he thought about how tightly most of Santini Air was tied to her. But Angel was clear, innocent calm, compared to this raw surge of emotion. Ellison felt human, just wild. Like he used to be tame, and lost it somewhere. The detective blew out a breath. It didn't help when Sandburg shouted at me.

That was scary. He was almost used to picking up Ta'ra by now. Almost. At very close range; usually, skin-to-skin contact. Picking up a complete stranger....

He does project very clearly. Ta'ra slid a cautious glance toward Ellison's partner. A Peruvian demoness?

Makes you think, doesn't it? Though it hadn't looked, in that flash of twisting, feathered shadows, anything like the tendril-wreathed thing he'd faced in Dion's apartment.

The creature that had left him injured far more deeply than any eyes could see.

Fingertips caressed his knuckles. Jack? What's wrong?

The detective swallowed. "When does this stop, Ta'ra?" he whispered. She had better hearing than he did; and if she couldn't pick the words up by ear, she'd catch them by thought. "When do I stop hearing, stop... feeling...."

I want to be normal. I want to be me.

"I don't know." Troubled blue eyes fixed on his. "Your control is better now."

"And the better that gets, the worse it gets." The tighter he could weave his shields, the more he picked up any time he let them slip. Not much, not fast - but it just wouldn't go away. "Ta'ra, I want it to stop."

"I don't know how to stop it, Jack. Not yet." She leaned against him, a blend of worry, warmth, and weariness. "Hang on. Just try to hang on."

~*~*~*~*~
Holy- Jim tried not to stare as the lecturer droned on. The L.A. cops had been speaking too quietly for anyone but a sentinel to hear, and he definitely did not want to clue them in that he'd been listening.

Serious injury means ICU means isolation. Maybe not the wilderness, but cut off from ordinary human contact. Add that to the constant contact between the two, the too-low whispers, and Breslin's end-of-his-rope plaint- "Heads up, Chief. We have a situation."

"What, them?" Blair eyed the pair. "I thought you were worried about those two." He nodded toward the Feds.

Chin on one hand as she doodled, Daphne appeared to have resigned herself to death by lecture, while the blonde was definitely squirming. "Addy, calm down," Daphne murmured.

"I hate taxis." Lips lifted off teeth, flashing a snarl.

"...so ironically, it is the person who complains the most who is most likely to have committed the offenses to begin with," Dalston droned.

"I told you," Daphne sighed. "It's not a curse, it's just bad luck. Soon as we get out of here, we'll both hit that garage. Badges, guns, the works. We'll get your car back."

"Which leads to the question." The gray-suited man might have been trying to look resolved; his face never made it past mildly annoyed. "Do we reward the aberrant behavior? Or do we dismiss it, thus increasing the later risk to the perpetrator's co-workers-"

"Nooo." A weird light flickered in Addison's gray eyes. "Why - won't - he - stop-"

"Ah, Addison must visit the local big cat exhibit a lot," Jim shrugged. "She smells a little like a-"

"Rrrowwl!" Fingers hooked into claws. Teeth bared into fangs. A gray suit rippled into a wave of tawny, light-spotted fur.

"Cougar," the sentinel finished lamely.

Dalston shrieked. Half the room bolted for the doors. Daphne sat frozen in place, eyes wide, pen still dangling from twitching fingers.

Snarling, the cougar-that-was-Addison lunged for the lecturer-

"Ah, hell!"

-Crashed into the seats just short of the stage, taking down half a row in a screech of torn steel and plastic, a swearing Breslin gripping the end of her cream-tipped tail.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, Dalston ran for his life.

Fluid as only a puma could be, Addison curled on herself, slashing out with gleaming claws.

Shrriiiip!

Jim kept the cushion of a shattered seat between him and the snarling were-cougar as Ta'ra dragged her partner clear of the wrecked row. Holy-! What is she? Hitting the chairs like that should have broken her bones, not steel frames-

With a shriek, the were-cougar bolted out the doors.

"And I thought that lecture would clear the room," Blair said into the sudden silence, waving a hand in front of Daphne's wide-eyed face. "Miss? You all right?"

"No," the Federal agent said numbly. "What. Just. Happened?"

Jim ran after the cat, stopped in the claw-torn doorway. Echoes, shrieks, echoes... a crash of glass, and sudden horns on the road outside. "Damn! She's out of the building."

"Did she mark you, Jack?" Ta'ra was patting her partner down, paying close attention to his shredded sleeve.

"Didn't touch the skin," the detective gasped, lurching toward the hall. "What the hell... she wasn't a werewolf."

"No, definitely not," Ta'ra murmured, steadying him as he got his breath back. "But what was she?"

"My partner turned into a cat," Daphne trailed in their wake, leaning on Blair to walk. "My partner turned into a cat."

"Looks like," Jim agreed, staring down the approaching concierge before he could whip out his clipboard of damages. Werewolf? Breslin's dealt with a - later. Ask later. "Come on!"

Shards of glass spread from shattered windows to the parking lot, marking the trail of a berserk cougar as it had leapt from car to car. Paw-prints dented the roofs of Corvettes, SUVs, a BMW-

"Aw, no," Blair groaned, at the sight of cheap Korean steel and plastic crumpled in on itself like black-painted tinfoil. The hood had been shredded by massive claws, and unidentifiable fluids dripped from the undercarriage. "Simon's going to kill us...."

Jim's teeth ground. So much for their rental.

But pale fur was just flickering out of sight around a corner of the block. Moving fast. "We need a car."

A dark blue Cutlass Sierra rumbled to life; Jack backed up, avoiding sprayed glass, and waved them in. "You still see her?"

Jim snatched the front passenger seat as the rest piled into the rear. Typical detective's car; neat, but littered with stray coffee mugs and brown paper bags, obvious residue of late-night stakeouts. But what on earth had someone done to the stereo system? "That way."

Breslin pulled into morning traffic with a glance and a screech of wheels. Jim grabbed for his seatbelt, belatedly switched on the detective's red light on the dash. Don't watch the strobe. Don't watch the strobe. "You're the local, Breslin. Who do we call for Animal Control?"

"Animal Control?" Agent Wyeth latched onto his headrest from her spot in the center of the back seat, hard-eyed with steadying anger. "You are not sending the dogcatcher after my partner!"

"In case you hadn't noticed, she came half a foot from pureeing that guy," Jim pointed out. "Left, Breslin. And whatever she is, she's loose. In L.A."

"Don't think Animal Control's up to it," Jack noted dryly, making the turn. "They still don't have silver bullets." He waved a hand vaguely back toward the shattered mess they'd left in the parking lot. "And if that didn't hurt, I don't know how on earth we'll be able to trank her." He glanced back at Ta'ra.

"I didn't bring it," Ta'ra sighed.

"You what?"

"It was only supposed to be a seminar," she defended herself. "I didn't think we'd need it."

"Ta'ra, we're in downtown. What if we needed a parking space?"

"You'd stun someone for a parking space?"

"Guys!" Blair gripped white-knuckled onto the right side of Jim's headrest. "Where are we going?"

~*~*~*~*~
Rick Roth wiped greasy hands on a red rag, grinning at the sweet little Corvair abandoned in the middle of his garage. Pretty simple problem with the engine. For another guy - even for a lady, who knew the game, knew he deserved a kiss and a dinner and maybe something more - he'd have had it fixed inside an hour.

But no. Not for Miss No-First-Name Addison.

She'd just have to wait. And wait, and wait, as long as he could drag it out, with more storage fees tacked on every day.

Serves her right, the mechanic thought, letting a wrench scrape carelessly over silver-gray paint. Frigid bi-

And there was a shriek, and a snarl, and a sudden, shredding blackness.

~*~*~*~*~
"C-c-claws..." the blubbering lump in the middle of the wreckage that was Roth's Motors babbled. "T-t-teeth...."

Jack whistled, taking in the garage's tangle of fallen shelves, scattered parts, and fang-gnawed air hoses. Almost as bad as my apartment after the Xenomorph came through. "Somebody should've told the tornado t' knock."

"Richard 'Rick' Roth," Daphne identified the greasy lump as the paramedics pulled up. She nodded at the Corvair in the middle of spilled oil and jumbled tools, itself untouched besides an odd scrape down the hood. "That's Addison's car he was working on. Or not working on."

Studying an oily paw-print, Jim frowned. "You were planning on coming down here after the seminar?"

"Right after today's lectures." Daphne smiled sourly. "He might jerk around one woman, but two Feds? Most people have better survival instincts than that."

Jack's phone shrilled. "Ah, sorry." He waved Ta'ra to keep checking the scene, even as he dropped back to a quiet corner. Funny; the way Ellison winced, you'd think the phone had hurt his ears. "Breslin."

"Jack! Where are you?"

Vic. Of course. Sometimes, life truly sucks. "Morning to you too, Lieutenant."

"Don't you Lieutenant me, Jack." Flat plastic rattled against wood; Vic, slamming down a three-ring binder. "Not when I know you were in the middle of this."

Uh-oh.

"I send you off to a seminar," Vic growled. "A nice, quiet seminar, to take the heat off the rest of the division, who would rather have their toenails pulled out than listen to Dr. Dull-as-stones Dalston, not that I blame them. You go, we cut down the grumbles that you're back on rotation. Everybody wins. Right?"

"Ah, yeah-"

"And what do I get?" Vic rolled on, in a fine Italian fury. "I get ninety-thousand plus in property damage coming in from the hotel. Traffic accidents for twenty blocks down the boulevard. A dozen scared out of their wits witnesses and thirty-odd freaked-out cops who say some idiot set a lion loose in the middle of the lecture-"

"Cougar."

"Say what?"

"Cougar," Jack repeated, ignoring the sidelong glance he was getting from Ellison. Sheesh, if Ellison was looking at him this weird now, what would he do if he could hear Vic's half of the conversation? "Puma. Mountain lion. Whatever you want to call 'em. Looks like Agent Addison lost it big-time."

"And let loose a cougar?"

Jack winced. Stretched his sore arm; damn, he could feel the bruises already. That's what you get for grabbing a tiger by the tail. "Not exactly."

"Oh, no." A subtle smack of flesh against flesh; Vic, burying his retreating hairline in his hand. "Don't tell me...."

"Sorry, Vic."

Vic groaned. "Why do you do this, Jack?"

"What, me?"

"I got someone else on this line? Yes, you! You always do this, Jack! Psychos in wax museums. Rogue agents in burning bell-towers. Werewolves on movie sets. I can't even let you loose on a camping trip!"

"Vic-"

"Just try to keep down the body count this time, will you, Jack? I hate breaking in new commissioners." Click.

Fingers found his sleeve. Oh, dear, Ta'ra sighed in his mind.

Jack rolled his eyes, tucking the cell phone away. Take it you got that?

More than enough, yes. Why in the worlds does he believe it our fault? Simply because we happen to be the ones in the division with the most experience in the unusual- oh, stars.

What? Jack glanced in the direction of her alarm, caught Ellison giving them a distinctly unsettled look. Relax, Ta'ra. He may think we're weird, but there's no way he heard Vic-

Jack... he did hear Vic.

~*~*~*~*~
"Jim?" Blair murmured. The sentinel looked... well, it wasn't a zone. But nervous, yeah; that was Ellison nervous. He could tell by the grinding teeth.

"Still haven't seen their spirit guide."

"Their-" Oh boy. That's what he meant by situation. "You think they're...?"

"They've got the same kind of luck we have, he sounds about as stressed out as I was before the garbage truck, and it looks like she keeps dragging him back to reality. What do you think?"

At least you asked. "I think we should talk to them." Blair frowned; Jim was casting about, real worry creasing his face. "What's wrong?" He took in the amount of sprayed gas, oil, and paint on the scene, the chemical headache gnawing at his own sinuses. "Jim, dial it down. Stay careful, man. This is not good stuff to be breathing. None of us should be in here until it airs out."

"Doesn't matter." Tight frustration as Jim headed for the door. "Lost the scent."

Blair fell in behind. "But?"

"Runner's breath."

"Say what?"

"Addison's scent... under the cat, and the oil... she smelled like a marathon runner. Like a guy after a forty-eight-hour firefight." Jim leaned against the wall outside, took a deep breath of city air. "Exhausted."

"Ketones." Ta'ra's boots clicked decisively on the sidewalk. "From the damage done here, from the speeds she's attaining, well over thirty miles per hour... she's utilizing an incredible amount of energy. Far more than a normal body can maintain." The analyst's gaze was troubled. "She's metabolizing her own energy stores."

Blair whistled. Biology hadn't been his favorite subject, but that part he got. "You're saying she's burning out?"

"I fear so."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa - you can smell this?" Daphne thrust herself into the knot of cops. "What's going to happen to Addy?"

"With fortune, nothing permanent, so long as we can get her to medical attention in time." Ta'ra touched the agent's shoulder. "But she is in grave danger."

Daphne drew in on herself, looked over the scene one more time. "Okay." She bit her lip, glanced up and down the street. "Okay. Think. She's hurt, she's scared, she's mad as hell. Where would she go...."

"It seemed that she pounced on Dr. Dalston because he annoyed her," Ta'ra said thoughtfully.

"And she went after Roth because he was a chauvinistic idiot," Blair put in.

"So who else has ticked her off this much?" Jim finished.

Daphne paled.

Jack hit his cell's speed-dial. "Dispatch. Detective Breslin. Get me Traffic. I need to know if anybody's spotted a cougar heading north on the San Diego Freeway!"

~*~*~*~*~
Oh, yeah, Major Mike Rivers thought, leaning back in the chair he'd dragged outside, mug of hot coffee in hand and this month's Playboy spread across a borrowed tool-bench. His team had gotten back from an Aleutian mission last night, no one had any more holes in them than they'd started out with, and he had the next two days free to laze around the hangar and let California sun soak Alaskan ice out of his bones. Presuming, of course, Jason Locke didn't come up with a do-or-die mission in the meantime. Life is good.

A clatter of steel on asphalt and a pair of soft curses - one Italian, one Vietnamese - marked where Dominic Santini and Stringfellow Hawke had twisted themselves under one of Santini Air's birds. They'd been running through a practice take on a war scene last night when the Huey had decided to throw a fit, and those two had been tracing down the problem most of the morning.

"Santa Maria! Hit my head, next time, it'd hurt less!"

"Hydraulics."

"No kiddin'? I know it's the hydraulics, String. Now tell me where in the hydraulics!"

"Still looking."

"Huh! Could be here, could be there... at least the Lady tells you what's wrong with her."

"Yeah."

Well, mostly good, Mike decided.

He still didn't know what to think about St. John's admission: not only had Dom and String 'played dead' to force the Company to get Sinjin out of that Burmese prison, they hadn't even turned over the original Airwolf.

And all that time, they were running missions for Archangel right under our noses. Mike shook his head. And I call myself an operative.

Galling thing was, those three were good. String, Dom, even chatty, friend-to-the-world Caitlin - not one of them had let slip that they were still "in the business". They had - sudden emergencies. Last-minute changes of plans. Favors for friends, that just happened to take them out of sight for a few days.

Favors for a "friend", all right, Mike thought sourly. Sinj had had plenty to say about his younger brother's unnatural attachment to the Firm's Deputy Director. Spies that high up didn't have friends.

And friends didn't talk a man's son into not telling him about his brother's secret missions.

Be fair, Mike told himself. Le Van doesn't tell them about yours, either. If he's not cleared for it, he's not supposed to know about it, much less talk about it. St. John and Jason agreed on that - and so did String and Archangel.

All of which frustrated the teenager to no end, so far as Mike could tell. "It's for your own safety," didn't cut much ice with a growing young man. Which was one reason Sinj and Jo Santini were out this morning; taking a charter up north to San Fran while the pair of them talked over what to do about convincing Le that there was a real danger, not just adults' paranoid thinking.

Well, we are paranoid. And they are out to get us. Mike stretched his shoulders, sighed. Military families were simpler. You got deployed, you risked your life, you came home. Your family might worry every day you were on duty, but when you were home, you were safe.

Ha.

Life in the Company - or the Firm - wasn't safe. Ever. String had damn good reasons for that cabin in the middle of nowhere; hard to sneak up on, harder to infiltrate without getting yourself killed in the process. Sinjin might live in town, but his flat could put Fort Knox to shame. Heck, even Caitlin never left her apartment without setting tells anymore-

What was that?

"Rrowww...."

Mike blinked. Sipped his coffee. Blinked again. No change.

There's a puma on the landing apron. He started working his way out of his slouch, froze when hot gray eyes fixed on him. "Guys, there's...."

"Snarrrrl....." Muscles bunched. Slit pupils narrowed. A white-tipped tail lashed.

Okay. Shutting up now.

Silence under the olive-drab helicopter. "String?"

"Yeah."

"We ain't in Texas."

"Yeah."

"Ah, hell."

Tawny fur streaked under the Huey.

~*~*~*~*~
"C'mon, c'mon, pick up...." Jack listened to futile rings, bit back a swear. Nearly cursed anyway, as Ellison took another corner way too close for comfort. Knew I should've let Sandburg drive. "Hey! This is a Sierra, Ellison. Not a Ferrari!"

"Oh, he drives everything like this," Blair confided from the back.

"Terrific." Jack blinked, trying to chase out Sandburg's too-vivid projections of crashes, near-crashes, and one or two explosions. Who insures this guy? An' how come his lieutenant hasn't sent him back for a refresher on defensive driving?

"Maybe they're not there," Daphne said hopefully. "Maybe they just forgot to turn on the answering machine."

Hate to burst your bubble, lady. "Uh-uh," Jack shook his head. Wishing Ta'ra were here... but given the situation, they were all better off with her heading for the lab and her medkit. "You've read their records, Wyeth. Santini Air's not what you call a big-name business. They can't afford to miss customers. If they're not picking up, they can't pick up - Ellison, we are smaller than the friggin' tractor-trailers!"

Paired horns howled behind them as Jim scooted out of the narrow gap. Jack leaned back in his seat, muttering one of Ta'ra's more useful alien imprecations under his breath. Never thought I'd wish I could hear more than I do... Angel? Angel, you listening?

Probably not. They were still almost a mile from the Van Nuys airport, the Santini Air pilots had one-way links to Angel only, and none of them knew he was heading their way-

And a tumble of fur-and-feathers bowled him over, a lightning-flash of worry and pilot hazard and happy-to-hear-Jack/Hawke at hazard/Dominic at hazard-

Angel, whoa! Lady, slow down! Jack clutched the dashboard, dizzied as the hurtling freeway was overlaid with asphalt and tawny fur and fear. Vertigo that was even more frightening when it threatened to settle; Angel pulled you in, whether you wanted to touch a mind or not. I can't help if you swamp me.

A mental whine; Angel drew back, trailing a static-sharp cascade of half-thoughts in her wake. Flash of fur - calculate. Options run/fight/other. Bluff move scent of ham claws scrape-

Slower, Angel. In, out, Jack told himself. Breathe. How the hell did Angel's partners deal with this? So everybody's safe?

Her lightning-snap of alien thought reached out, softened by relief. Hawke, Dominic inside Santini Air Huey. Currently uninjured.
Mike Rivers on hangar roof. Undamaged.
Cougar in threat stance outside Huey. Appears distracted by Dominic's sandwich.
Santini Air Huey in midst of overhaul. Not safe to take off.

Jack shook his head. He could almost hear Dom's "oops". Santini Air was pilot to the core; far as they were concerned, safe was in a helicopter, in the air. Well, one out of two....

Not funny! Angel lashed at him.
Can't get there in time.
Daylight.
Shouldn't be seen.
Cougar: FBI Special Agent Addison?!

Yep.

?!?

How'm I s'posed to know? Jack thought back. Wondering, privately, just what Angel was, that she didn't want people seeing her. Besides one of Michael Archangel's top-secret classified projects. Look, Ta'ra says she's hungry-

Annoyance crashed in, poured in a fiery mix of guilt and anger and confusion through the muscled hand on his shoulder. "Breslin, snap out of it!"

Aw, no-

Sight and sound and smell and god, too much, too much....

~*~*~*~*~
Jack Breslin!

Static. Tangled transmissions. A jumble of sensory and telepathic signals, all combining to overload the mind Airwolf had touched. She felt the detective fading, collapsing in on himself.

Hawke!

Her aircraft commander assessed the situation, gaze never leaving the gaunt cougar outside his temporary shelter. "Dom, see if we've got any snacks left in here." Can you shield him, Lady?

Not pilot.
Not linked.
Defenses limited.
Activating Bethancourt defensive protocol, "Dazzle Shield". Odds of success: unknown.

~*~*~*~*~
Cold. Bright. Sun-on-snow, edge-of-cliff, not-a-place-to-be-

Jim yanked his hand off the detective, confused as hell. Red stone, snow in the wind, a weird, metallic howl....

What the heck was that?

But they were almost to the commercial hangars, and Breslin was still staring at nothing, breathing shallow. Guy's still lost in the zone. "Blair, see if you can get him out."

"Out? What the-" Daphne peered around the seat. Narrowed eyes in a frown. "Breslin's not epileptic."

"First time for everything," Blair said glibly, reaching forward to knead the detective's shoulder. "Easy, man. Listen to my voice-"

Breslin yanked himself toward the window, barely skimming out from under the anthropologist's fingers. "Don't touch me!"

"Okay. Okay," Blair soothed, holding hands out and away as Jim slowed, looking for signs. "You okay?"

"I got the kettledrum from hell in my head - no, I'm not okay. Why the hell are you guys so damn loud?" The dark head jerked up. "There!"

He was out and running almost before Jim hit the brakes, Daphne behind him, both taking cover behind a red, white and blue jeep just as a tawny muzzle swiveled their way.

Blair shook his head, curls flying. "Are they nuts?"

"Her partner," Jim shrugged, scanning the situation before he dove in. Blond guy up on the Santini Air hangar roof, crouched a few feet back from the edge, sporting casual clothes, a shred of a girlie magazine, and a distinctly unhappy scowl. Two guys huddled in a clawed, partly disassembled Huey; one older, in mechanic's overalls, brown eyes wide as he watched the gaunt cougar finish the last scraps of three tossed MREs. The other crouched protectively between his co-worker and the claw-torn door; hair so dark it was almost brown, eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses, the warning scream of a gyrfalcon echoing about him-

Uh-oh.

Jim knew that gyrfalcon. Knew that silhouette, that protective rage. Knew the deceptive, white-clad raven that fury protected, that couldn't be too far away....

Hawke.

~*~*~*~*~
Oh, no....

Blair gripped the door handle, trying to clutch reality. No good. For a second the airport was gone, swept away in a dry howl of desert wind.

Gyrfalcon and osprey hovered, weirdly out of place over the Mojave, within the threatening reach of something that wasn't quite a cougar. The winged wolf he'd seen one haunted night in Cascade bared her teeth at the cat-beast from the ground; snowy hackles raised, but holding back.

A low growl beside him; the black jaguar, stalking near, ready to spring on its prey.

And for a second their enemy wasn't a cougar. Addison crouched on desert ground, twisted and bent, tears of pain dripping down furred cheeks-

Hissed, and flexed into the cougar once more.

A fragment of jaguar behavior floated through the anthropologist's mind. Jaguars and cougars try to avoid each other. But when they fight....

Fangs bared. Catlike forms coiled, snarling.

...The cougar wins.

"Jim, don't!"

Too late; his partner was on a tawny pelt, trying to pin emaciated muscle-

But not alone. The Huey door screeched open, the two pilots tumbling out onto twisting fur. Breslin was half a step behind, tackling a paw from behind the jeep. And Daphne-

"Addison." Daphne dove into the fray, grabbed a lashing tail. "Addison! Parthenope Addison!"

Fur writhed. The cougar wailed-

And shivered into a scratched, scrawny, weeping FBI agent.