Camouflage

Story summary: An FBI investigation into suspicion of steroid use by a new football team turns deadly, and stretches Don and Charlie to their physical and emotional limits.

Author's note: Anyone ready for some football? Oddly enough, with Deflategate in the press, this story involves a football scandal, but I actually wrote these first chapters back in 2012, so I can assure you, there is no connection between the current news and this story. As I sat down to write this story, one of the things I wanted to accomplish was to include enough details concerning the characters so that a reader who had never seen Numb3rs could understand some of their back-stories, and get a sense of who the characters are – in other words, to write a good beginner story for someone not familiar with Numb3rs. I tried to stay close to canon. I also centered the story around my favorite point in the series, roughly the beginning of Season 2. Charlie and Don still are trying to work through a relatively new working relationship and Colby and Megan are new to the team. This story is nearly complete; I am currently on Chapter 38 and have a couple more to write, which I hope to finish in the next couple of weeks, so rest assured, even though I've been away for a while, you'll get a finished story that won't leave you hanging.

Disclaimers/notices: The characters and the football team in this story are in no way intended to be portrayals of anyone in real life. This story and the concepts behind it are being filed for copyright protection.

Chapter 1

The man stood, staring out of the window at the city skyline. His apartment was expensive and the view of Los Angeles was magnificent, but he was oblivious to his surroundings. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he suddenly whirled and strode toward his coffee table and snatched up the prepaid cell phone from the glass surface. He jabbed at it; his eyes filled with tension, big shoulders rippling; sinews in his neck standing out like cords. He waited impatiently as it rang, then at the sound of a voice, barked into it.

"Hey, it's Deondre. It's four hours until game time, and I still don't have my stuff. I have to leave soon."

"I told you not to call me about this unless it was an emergency." The voice on the other end of the line was disapproving.

Deondre's dark eyes flashed. "This is an emergency, Frank. I was supposed to have it yesterday, and now I'm goin' into the game with nothin.' "

Frank sniffed, unimpressed. "Relax, man; it's on its way, by courier – should be there any minute. Besides, missing a day or two won't kill you – you use too much of the stuff, anyway. It takes weeks for the effects to wear off – you know that."

"Yeah, well, this ain't just a game – you know that. If we win this one, we get home field. I got to be at my best, and you ain't helping." The buzzer for the door sounded. "Wait a minute."

He crossed over to the intercom and hit a button. "Yeah."

"Delivery for Deondre Wiseman."

Deondre pressed another button, unlocking the lower level door for the courier. "Yeah, okay, come up." He took a step back and spoke into the phone, a little sheepishly. "Okay, it's here. "

"Don't do this again." Frank's voice was filled with undisguised nastiness. "You need to chill, or you'll blow this whole thing – for everyone. Our– supplier – is the bottleneck, but he's trying to make changes to keep up with the demand. In the meantime, though, you need to be patient – and make sure you put that phone in a safe place."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, later." A soft knock sounded at the door, and Deondre disconnected the call, tossed the phone on the sofa and strode toward the door. He opened it, and the delivery man handed him the package, grinning.

"You're him, right? The Deondre Wiseman."

Deondre eyed him. No uniform, just street clothes – obviously not an official delivery man for any legitimate business. Deondre usually didn't get the stuff delivered – he got it direct from the source, but he suspected Frank had picked a safe, discreet service, no questions asked. He nodded curtly, handed him his clipboard, but allowed a small smile. "Yeah, that's me. In a hurry – got to get down to the stadium." He reached in the pocket of his warm up pants, fished out a couple of twenties for a tip and handed it to the man. "Thanks, man."

The delivery man grinned broadly. "Sure. Thank you. Get a win today – I'll be watchin' the game. Hell, all of L.A. will be. Good luck."

Deondre nodded in acknowledgment and shut the door, making sure it was locked, and then strode toward the kitchen, and used a knife to slit the tape on the box. He turned it over on the counter, easing out the package inside and un-wrapped it to reveal a cigar box, sealed in cellophane. In it were two rows of syringes, also wrapped - two dozen of them, gleaming through their packaging like sticks of candy. He grunted with satisfaction and removed one, dropped his sweatpants, and removing the protective cap on the syringe, turned and jabbed the needle into his buttock, injecting the contents and then removing the needle and massaging the dose in. He sighed in relief, although there was no physical sensation associated with the injection – at least not yet. He'd get a little rush within the next few hours, he knew – but not a head rush, a body rush - a tingling in his muscles and something he called 'snap' – the sensation that his muscle fibers were on a hair trigger, ready to fire. Frank told him that the 'snap' sensation was just psychological, but Deondre knew otherwise. He pulled up his pants, grabbed the syringes and the cell phone from the sofa, and hurriedly stashed them in the safe in his bedroom. Moments later he was in his Cadillac, wheeling through L.A. traffic.

The rush hit a few hours later, just as he was walking down the tunnel into the new football stadium, swinging his helmet. He could feel the tingle in his muscles, could feel the 'snap,' and his heart swelled with excitement and anticipation. Two of his teammates walked beside him – Joey Cancetta and Leshawn Wilkinson – and they exchanged knowing glances. They were superb physical specimens, all of them – and three others on the team that Deondre knew of – because they all had the 'Magic.'

"Let's go get this," said Joey, and they ran out with the team onto the field to cheers that immediately spiraled into a deafening roar at the sight of the team. Deondre felt it take him, the sense of invincibility; of fierce exultation burning through his veins, and raised his arms to the crowds. He was a Warrior.

….

Don Eppes poked his head in the front door of the Craftsman home, calling, "Hello!" but not really waiting for a response. He pushed through, just as his father came through the door that led to the kitchen.

"Hey!" exclaimed Alan, "you're just in time for the game. Come on in – grab a beer. Charlie and I ordered pizza. It should be here in a bit." He bustled back in to the kitchen, and Don strolled behind him with a glance toward the dining room, where his younger brother sat, dark curly head bent over a pile of papers. Charlie looked up and bobbed his head in greeting, a tentative smile on his face.

Don nodded back, amiably enough, he thought, as he saw Charlie relax a bit. He knew the reason for Charlie's hesitant manner – they were only a year into what was truly a fledgling working relationship, and they'd just had their first big disagreement on a case. The argument was over, the case had already been closed, but the aftershocks still lingered. He and Charlie hadn't exchanged two words since it happened.

He cocked his head, considering, as he pushed through the kitchen door. 'Working relationship.' The words implied that there actually was a formal agreement, that there was a plan to collaborate on cases in the future. The fact was, as Special Agent in Charge of the L.A. FBI office, he had used Charlie's help on several cases in the last year, and he was beginning to think that enough was enough. 'Working relationship' probably implied too much. So what – he'd used his brother's help a few times; Charlie, his genius mathematician brother, youngest professor at nearby CalSci, had run a few mathematical analyses for him for a few cases – that certainly didn't need to mandate that there would be others.

He sighed. It was a question that needed to be answered, because if they were to continue working together, Don really needed to consider formalizing the working relationship with a long term contract. It would give Charlie access he needed to the FBI building, to coworkers, to the Bureau database. He had a temporary contract, but it was coming up for renewal, and Don's own boss had suggested establishing a longer term contract for him instead of renewing the short-term one for a third time. It was something Don had been avoiding – for a number of reasons, he told himself, although he couldn't put his finger on any particular one. Even apart from the argument, Don wasn't sure how he felt about Charlie being a continuing part of his work. They'd never been close; never really understood each other growing up, so it wasn't as if they had a solid personal relationship on which to base a professional one. And somehow, during the course of the year, with a little help from Charlie here, a little assistance there, suddenly there was a trend – there was a reason to start to consider this a long-term working relationship. They'd drifted into it by default rather than by conscious decision, and Don didn't care to drift into anything – he preferred to control the process.

Maybe their recent argument had been symptomatic of deeper issues. Maybe working together was pushing it - too much for a bond so fragile. If 'bond' was the right word for it – they had always been like oil and water – existing side by side, but not mixing unless they could help it. On the other hand, he wasn't about to ruin a nice afternoon by bringing that up – he was going to grab a beer, relax, and be civil – maybe even pleasant, depending on how Charlie behaved.

A few minutes later, comfortably situated on the sofa, he took a swig of beer and glanced at his brother. Charlie's tentative look when he'd come in had been a good omen; his brother was going out of his way to be conciliatory and accommodating, making small talk as he perched on the other end of the sofa. He apparently was trying to move past their disagreement. Their father came out with two beers and handed one to Charlie, and then settled happily into his armchair. The three of them had spent a lot of years apart, and Don knew his father relished these family moments. There was still a hole there; left by the passing of their mother and Alan's wife and soul-mate, just a little over a year and a half ago, but days like this eased the pain of her loss. Even Charlie, who had descended into something akin to a breakdown during their mother's last days, seemed to be healing. And as for himself… Don took another drink, and let himself relax a bit. The announcers were going through their usual pre-game spiel, and the voice of one them floated out from the television.

"… just an amazing story. The L.A. Warriors are truly a Cinderella team –they were a brand new franchise last year, and last in the league with only a single win. What a difference a year makes - this year, with this game, they are poised to win their division and claim home field advantage for the playoffs. And apart from their starting quarterback, they are a band of virtual unknowns."

"You know," said Charlie, "they shouldn't be here."

"… a band of unknowns who have turned in mind-boggling performances. Deondre Wiseman leads the league in receptions…"

Don snorted. "No shit." That came out sounding a little too sarcastic, although he hadn't meant to sound harsh, and he glanced quickly at Charlie, but his tone had gone unnoticed. Charlie was staring at the screen and waving his beer, going into math-professor mode, getting ready to lecture.

"I mean," said Charlie, "statistically speaking, they really shouldn't be here. It generally takes a new team ten years to reach this level of performance – to be a Superbowl contender."

"… Joey Cancetta leads the league in rushing…"

"And if you're the Cleveland Browns," said Alan drily, "you never get there."

"…Leshawn Wilkinson leads the league in sacks…"

Don shrugged at his brother. "The Warriors have got a good coach - and some good players."

"That's just it," said Charlie. "Their players turn in such great individual performances, they overcome the mistakes, the botched plays, that usually do in a new team. Most pro football teams have one or two players, three players, at most – of that caliber. Some don't have any. The Warriors – if you look at the player stats – they've got a least half a dozen major superstars, all leading the league in their respective stats. It's a statistical anomaly. Especially for a new team."

Don waved his beer at him. "Okay, okay, Stats Man. Pipe down. They're going to start." Charlie flushed, embarrassed, and Don softened his words by sending him a grin. Charlie stared at him, as if trying to read his expression, then apparently satisfied, sent a cautious smile back, took a swig of his beer, and settled back in the sofa cushions.

…

End, Chapter 1