Y is for Years
firechild
Rated T
Disclaimer: I'm even out of rolaids. :(
A/N: This is the fifth in my letter chain.
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"Beautiful. Just... beautiful." The normally-placid profiler was holding her tone just short of a snarl, and at any other moment, Agent Eppes would have braced himself for the turbulence she was about to unleash, but at the moment his thoughts were occupied.
As his conscious mind ran through procedures and options over and over again and counted off the seconds that seemed to stretch out forever, his subconscious was pulled into the current, fast becoming a riptide, of thoughts and emotions about his guys.
His guys. Hmh. Odd as it was to admit, it was true--he thought of them, both of them, as his.
And they were. The had come to his city, to his office, to his territory, and they had become not just parts of the clockworks, but parts of his life; with them he shared not just bullets and bombs and bulletins, but laughter, grief, family meals, his brother and his father and nearly everything that mattered to him, and they, in turn, had shared huge portions of their lives with him. They knew his flaws, he knew theirs, and they all accepted each other as they were. They weren't just coworkers, teammates--they were partners, they were friends. They were brothers-in-arms.
They were his.
He took his role very seriously. He was their lead, their commander, their advisor. He was their protector.
Oh, he was more than aware that they could take care of themselves and that they were commited to take care of each other on the job, but the simple fact was that it fell to him, as the lead, as the senior agent in age and experience, as the taskmaster, as the pointman, as the oldest brother--as Don Eppes--to keep them safe. And today he had failed.
He knew it had been right for him to come here; they were dealing with either the Coleman Killer or someone who had intimate knowledge of the original case. He had every confidence in his team, tired or not, but he couldn't help feeling that he should have come alone, that he should have forced them all to go home to sleep; if he had, if he had played the rank card and made a stand instead of caving to Megan's persistance and the gratification of having his team behind him, he and Reeves wouldn't be trapped in profound darkness, in a metal box hanging three-and-a-half floors above their destination. They wouldn't be powerless in nearly every sense of the word, with no way to contact their other two team members who could easily be in a bind, in a near-panicked crowd in a confined space with a sociopath on the loose.
He tried to take comfort from the fact that his agents had the benefits of training, sidearms, a lobby full of law enforcement and emergency personnel, and each other, but even that logic didn't go far--he knew from experience that that part of him wouldn't be able to breathe until he saw for himself that his boys were okay. And if anyone had harmed either of them...
As his skilled fingers checked his clip for the fourth time, his thoughts were dragged back to the lightless elevator car by a crackle somewhere behind him and to his right. His hand tightened on his service weapon, but he recognized the static of a standard walkie-talkie and he reined in his reaction to the unexpected noise.
"Detective Galvin, do you read?"
"Affirmative--report, Shiles."
"Not much to report yet, ma'am; all officers accounted for, but still no word on the cause of the blackout. Civilians are contained and seem to be relatively calm. Wh--" The transmission abruptly cut off, and Galvin spent a frantic couple of minutes trying to re-establish the connection. Then, almost like a breeze in a cave-in, there was a burst of static, followed by stacatto hisses and beeps, and then, "--lvin, do you read me? Repeat, Detective Galvin, respond!"
"Roger, Shiles, give me the sit-rep."
There was a distinct note of relief in the otherwise well-controlled voice on the other end. "Glad to hear it, ma'am. Transmission was overridden by an incoming from Gamma Team; that communication failed repeatedly, so I elected to re-establish with you. No success in reaching Delta Team. As far as I can ascertain, the power is still out throughout the entire structure, but there've been no reports of major disturbances in the dark."
"Roger."
"Ma'am, anything we can do for you?" Both agents recognized the same thread of concern in Shiles's tone that they'd heard a thousand times in their teammates' voices for each of them. It only served to heighten their tension about their fellow agents, but they could hear the faint signs of a smile in Galvin's reply.
"Haven't by chance appropriated our Caspers, have you?"
"No, ma'am, wish I could say otherwise, but we're still peeled on this side, and I'm sure Gamma is, as well."
"Then negative, Shiles, but we appreciate the offer. Promise me, though, that if, when the power comes back, you hear a massive crash, you'll take custody of my drink mix stuff from the break room so the Lieutenant doesn't get it."
"Check."
With a series of clicks, Galvin started trying to link to her other teams. It took three tries to patch to her Delta Team, where everything in the loading dock area checked out as normal, as far as normal was possible in that situation--apparently, the batteries in the lead officer's walkie-talkie were fritzing. Something about that niggled at Eppes, but he shoved it aside as he heard Galvin finish with Delta and call for Gamma, where, after four tries, she managed to get a response.
"--ger, Detective, we...you. D...ear me?"
Eppes and Reeves heard the rustle of fabric and the faint thud as Galvin slumped against the wall in relief; had they been able to see each other, the two agents would have exchanged knowing looks as they empathized with their counterpart. They both mentally filed through all of the little tricks that Galvin could use to attempt to boost the signal on the walkie-talkie, scoffing at the idea that such a thing wasn't possible and wondering briefly what Larry would say about it. Galvin must have had much the same thought about the signal, because a couple of moments later, she spoke again and this time the response came almost immediately.
"Roger, Detective, it's good to hear your voice."
"Terez, you have no idea. Everyone okay down there?"
"Affirmative, ma'am, by all accounts we seem to be five-by. We've had some pretty significant trouble with the equipment, obviously, but nothing we can't deal with. We did have one piece of news for you, though--Michelin sighted one of your missing Feds just before the lights went out."
Special Agent Eppes sucked in a sharp breath. "Where?" Then something clicked. "Wait a minute--what do you mean, one of them? What does he mean?" If he could have taken over at that moment, he would have--professional courtesy be socked.
Galvin whispered for Eppes to give her a second before transmitting again to her officer. "Terez, audio check--did you say Michelin spotted one of the agents?"
"Affirmative, ma'am--his report described an African-American male of the starched persuasion, says he saw him come in with three others and meet with you. Michelin told me he heard a uniform from Davison's department muttering something about 'goats playing cop' and happened to follow the plebe's line of sight to one of your Feds; apparently, the agent was alone, standing toward the rear of the lobby near some ficus plants. Said he was standing at watch ready, doing a visual sweep of the crowd, and he appeared unharmed."
On a wavelength with the lead agent, Galvin's immediate question was, "Where exactly was he?"
There was a pause. "Ma'am?" Galvin mentally gave Terez props for accuracy's sake.
"Check, Michelin--what can you tell me about Agent Sinclair?"
"Ma'am, I sighted him--sorry, I sighted Sinclair--approximately forty seconds before we lost power; he was standing uninjured at watch ready, between the corner of an abbreviated wall and a trio of decorative plants at the back of the lobby."
"Was his back to a wall?" Eppes's tone was controlled despite the prickling at the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. Galvin relayed the question without hesitation, evidently seeing the reasoning behind it.
"That's a negative, Detective. Agent Sinclair did not have his back to a wall; the area immediately behind him seemed very limited but relatively open, like an alcove or a nook where you might find a service elevator. I couldn't be sure, though, as I was still a good distance away, and most of that area was already in deep shadow."
The tension in the elevator car notched up as all three experienced defenders recognized the possible hazards of a position like that in full light, let alone in pitch dark. This time it took all of Agent Eppes's restraint to keep his emotions in check as he once again demanded to know, "Was he alone?"
Galvin hesitated for the barest of moments, but when she spoke, her tone was one of tempered urgency. "Michelin, confirm--was Agent Sinclair alone?"
The answer set three sets of teeth on edge. "Affirmative, ma'am; I looked around--there was no sign of the other agent at that time."
Eppes and Reeves both swore under their breath, while Galvin inhaled sharply and then reminded her officers to keep her posted. As soon as she disconnected, she turned in the general direction of the agents and said, "I take it this is not SOP with you guys."
"Not on your life. We never leave a partner to fly solo with so many UVs involved, and especially not without covering our six." Eppes's voice held equal parts guilt, worry, and rage, and Galvin knew that, one way or another, someone was going to burn for this. She didn't have time, though, to wonder why Agent Reeves pointedly cleared her throat after her partner's statement, because her walkie-talkie crackled back to life, Terez's voice now coming through in clipped words, and the edginess in their teeth was replaced by a full-blown itch.
"--tective Galvin, do you copy? Repeat, urgent, do you copy?"
"Check, Terez, I'm here; report."
"Our problems just got a lot more complicated--one of Davison's probies just reported to Michelin and myself about seeing Agent Sinclair."
"Wait--I know Davison's useless when it comes to controlling or listening to his people, but how did a probie from the 77th get from his post to your position, identify you, and give a report in the dark in a crowded lobby?"
"He says he has experience with sonar navigation. He did identify himself correctly, ma'am; if he's not who he says he is, then he's one heck of a pretender."
"Fine--what did he have to say, and how was it different than what Michelin saw?"
"He claims he saw Sinclair something like ten or eleven seconds before the power went out, still alone, still in that same place--and ma'am, he's telling me that it was movement that drew his attention. He says he saw Sinclair's eyes widen suddenly, and then the agent seemed to turn and drop at the same time; the probie wasn't able to get to that alcove because of a minor altercation between two of the hotel staff, and by the time he had a chance to look again, he only caught a glimpse of the empty spot before the lights died."
"Did he notice any blood or hear shots?" There was no response. "Terez! Terez, report!" Another agonizing fifteen seconds or so passed before the walkie-talkie crackled back to life.
"Sorry, ma'am; the probie decided that once he had finished reporting to me, he would advance to the place where Agent Sinclair was last seen and try to find the agent on his own. I strongly discouraged that." Galvin heard the undertone of an experienced older brother in Terez's voice.
"Yeah, well, you tell your probie there that since he reported to my second, for the moment he's under my command, and if he so much as twitches without your or my authorization, I'll redefine 'probie' for him."
"Gladly, ma'am."
Far from making light of the situation, Detective Galvin, who was more than prepared to make good on her threat and a few other things, clicked off again and paced two small steps in either direction. She understood her companions' feelings at the moment better than she was willing to admit, and she had a feeling that this day had just left the frying pan, skipped the fire altogether, and leapt straight for the lava pit.
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They'd been in here for years.
At least, it felt like years.
Eppes wasn't claustrophobic, but as a rule, being trapped in the dark with two other adults in a confined box held up by a cable tended to become disquieting after a certain amount of time. As it was, the entire hotel was likely to hear his disquiet over the situation with his boys, and the elevator element was only adding kerosene to the fuse.
Thirty seconds, give or take. David Sinclair had been alone, with his back exposed, in a killer's playground for at least thirty seconds before he had literally dropped out of sight. Vividly remembering what had happened the last time he himself had gone solo into a dangerous situation, Eppes knew that those thirty seconds might as well have been thirty hours. He tried to shove aside the voice that reminded him that the previous victims of the Coleman Killer had, with two exceptions, died within seconds of the trademark head injury, which had always been delivered from the rear.
Where was Granger? That mystery brought with it both rage and fear--Eppes knew Sinclair well enough to know that Sinclair would never abandon his partner while the younger man lived, and his gut had always assured him that Granger would do just about anything to avoid leaving a buddy behind. Either he'd been horribly wrong about the ex-soldier and a dear friend was paying for his mistake, or the younger man was in just as much trouble as Sinclair; both ideas filled him with fury and not a little terror. So the questions remained--what had happened to Sinclair, where was Granger, and why wasn't he there to prevent this?
A part of his mind was still marking time--a habit he had developed when Charlie was a newborn who wouldn't stay asleep, had lost over the course of his adolescence, and had rediscovered and honed as a way to anchor himself before raids--and was just reaching the nine-minute mark when, with a groan and a rumble more felt than heard, the electricity reasserted itself and the elevator began to descend at its standard speed. It stopped on the third floor for no passengers, then again on the second floor, and just before it would have reached the lobby, it lurched to a stop, but this time the power remained. Reeves had just finished threatening to do something very creative and most likely physically impossible with the wiring of the mechanism when the elevator jolted once more to life and trundled down to its intended destination.
Nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds after the power had died, in which time Special Agent Eppes had aged a good nine years, the doors opened to reveal a lobby full of disgruntled people, one of whom was hiding and bore a good chance of killing before the end of the day, and one of whom was waving for attention. The three occupants of the elevator, arranged for optimum cover with weapons at the ready, noticed a uniformed officer gesturing toward them and, once he had their attention, waving purposefully toward the rear of the lobby, where shadows still hid the nook that Eppes now recognized as the collection of service stairs that led up to the roof and down into the bowels of the hotel. No one stood there now, and the absence of his partners and friends tightened a vise around Eppes's windpipe.
Hold on, guys, he thought in a private corner of his mind, just hold on. Big brother's coming for you.
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