This was something that came to me the other day when I was home sick. Another one of those stories that just flew out of my fingers. Hopefully I'll be writing more on this soon after I wrap up A Time For Miracles. This one is out of the Sam/Yvette universe, takes place after Season 5.

Falling Angels

By WritePassion

He'd forgotten how good he looked in his summer whites. White with brass buttons, gold on the boards, and a rainbow of colored ribbons tacked across the left side of his chest. The uniform still fit, even better than the last time he wore it, thanks to his dedication to getting back into fighting shape. As he straightened the nameplate, he thought briefly about the hearing where he wore the uniform last. It was more like a kangaroo court, attempting to drum him out on a dishonorable discharge set up by an admiral bent on destroying him. In the end it all blew up in the man's face. Sam Axe won with an honorable discharge, but it cost him a continuing career in the Navy. They sent him up with a nice pension, a set of clothes, and a one way ticket to his destination of choice, Miami, and so far, things were pretty good.

Up until the reason for his dressing in his whites, anyway.

"Sam, you don't have to do this," Michael spoke as he watched his friend standing before the mirror.

"Yes, I do, Mike. If my Fed buddies aren't going to talk to me down here in Miami, maybe in DC they'll be a little more forthcoming." He turned away from the mirror, picked up his cap, and said, "You want Fiona back? This is the only way I know how to make it happen." He set the cap precisely on his head. "You're my best friend, Mike. Losing her is tearing you up, and I'm not gonna let Anson destroy you like this. I'll be back when I get some answers, or I have Fiona with me."

Sam had never seen Michael look so distraught. He couldn't answer Sam, just nodded. But when he gave him a salute, his posture military perfect, the extent of Michael's appreciation was as distinct as a signal flare in the night over a dark, empty ocean.

Sam answered the salute and said, "I'll keep in touch, Mike."

The uniform commanded respect, especially to those who understood his rank, and that's the only reason he wore it. When Sam was discharged he ditched it, stowed it away with a lot of other things in a storage facility, and never expected to need it again until they buried him. And then he hoped it wouldn't fit and they would dress him in his favorite Tommy Bahama and khakis. But this mission required something that would make people take him seriously, so he dressed for the occasion. His plan was to fly to DC and start immediately meeting with people in the FBI, CIA, the Pentagon, anywhere he could get access to find answers. Someone knew where Fiona was. The FBI took her away, but he knew how easy it was for people to get 'lost' in the government shuffle. He would find her. There was no other outcome to this mission.

As he moved through the airport, he felt admiring eyes on him. Young, old, men, and especially women, looked as he passed. But he ignored them all. Passing through security, he sensed the reticence of the screeners, as if asking him to subject himself to the same checks and procedures as everyone else was somehow disrespectful. He didn't care. With a reassuring smile toward the lady on the other side of the scanner, he went on his way.

Sam glanced at his watch and noticed he had plenty of time before his flight, so he stopped in one of the airport bars to catch up on the baseball game on the television and grab a mojito. His phone rang, and he picked it out of his pocket.

"Hello...Maddie. Hey, what's up?"

"Sam, Michael told me what you're doing. Are you sure this is such a good idea? What if you get that admiral all riled up again?"

He chuckled. "I'm not worried about him, Maddie. I doubt I'm even on his radar anymore. It's been a few years, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. I just want you to be careful, Sam. This whole business with this Anson fellow just rubs me the wrong way. What if he's got people in the government behind him, and you start poking around..."

"Maddie, don't worry. I'll be careful, I promise." Sam sighed, noticed a young woman giving him the eye from another table, and smiled at her. Then he focused on Maddie and her fears. "But I also made a promise to Mike, and I'm not coming home until I have something. If it's Fi, awesome. If it's something else that leads to Fi, great. Anything else just isn't an option."

"I worry about you, Sam."

"And I appreciate it, Maddie."

"Northwest flight 295 to Charlotte now boarding."

"Oh, hey, Maddie, they're calling my flight. I've gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye, Sam. Be careful."

Sam hated flying with connections, but this was the only way he was getting to DC on such short notice. The plane touched down in Charlotte, North Carolina and he was glad he packed light, because he would have had to retrieve his luggage from the carousel before heading to the non-commercial commuter plane that served as transportation for the next leg of his journey. Instead he carried a suit bag with extra uniforms, a small suitcase, and his laptop as carryon. As he approached the small jet, he noted that there were only a handful of passengers besides himself. The plane seated 45, but by the time they prepared to close up the gangway, there were only seven others besides himself.

"Wait! Please wait for me!"

Sam heard the muffled shout through the window and looked out to see a woman running on three inch heels for the stairs that the flight attendant had just started retracting. Dressed in a gray suit, she carried a duffle bag over her shoulder, a laptop case, and a purse. He had to give her a lot of credit. She would certainly make Fiona, the queen of running in heels, proud. Her feet tapped up the steps and she entered the cabin with flushed cheeks and heaving chest.

"Sorry. My plane came in late. They promised my luggage would follow me."

"Not a problem, ma'am. Another few seconds and you would have been too late. Please take your seat, and we'll be leaving soon."

"Thanks."

A baggage handler zoomed up in a vehicle with a large suitcase, which he quickly stowed in the underbelly of the plane. The hatch closed with a solid thump that shook the floor under Sam's feet. Meanwhile, the latecomer plodded up the aisle with her load. She flicked a stray lock of dark brown hair away from her face, and for the briefest of moments, her hazel eyes locked with Sam's brown ones. Her gaze flitted down the aisle and she stopped at the row behind his and to the port side of the cabin. With an exhalation, she dropped her things into a seat, opened up the overhead compartment, and shoved it all inside. Then she took her seat and snapped the belt in place.

The door closed. Sam glanced at his watch. By the time we taxi out to the runway and get into position, we'll be only ten minutes late taking off. Not too bad for an early evening flight. As they rolled toward the runway, the flight attendant rattled off the instructions that Sam had heard hundreds of times before in his many travels. He tuned her out and concentrated on a short stack of documents that he hoped would get him some leverage once he got his foot in the door at the FBI. Bits and pieces of intel that he'd uncovered during recent investigations for Michael's clients, things that might lead them to bigger fish on the agency's most wanted list. Harris and Lane weren't interested, but maybe the higher ups would be.

He felt the plane accelerate beneath him and his back leaned farther into the seat as the airplane hurtled toward the point of takeoff. The sensation of floating once the wheels left the ground always gave him a little thrill, no matter how many times he'd been through it. Maybe it was the danger of coming back down abruptly at the point of no return that got his blood pumping. It had happened once, long ago, and every time, he set his body in anticipation that it might happen again. But the plane kept its trajectory, on a course to cruise over the clouds.