Author's note: The events in this story take place roughly 36 hours after the conclusion of "Old Loves and New Flames".

Kit walked into the restaurant, expecting glitz and glamour. He was dressed in his Sunday best suit and tie. But as soon as he crossed the threshold, he realized he was more than a little overdressed. The setting was casual dining. Small black and white checkered booths ran around the perimeter, while dark walnut stained tables formed two rows down the middle. Smoke wafted out of the sectioned off bar at one end. The paneled floor was scarred and had lost its finish long ago.

A short hostess dressed all in black smiled at him as she approached.

"Welcome to La Osteria, how many with you tonight?"

"Um…just two. I'm joining a Miss Beckett."

"Oh! You must be Kit!" she gave him a second, more appraising look and her smile got bigger. "Sam's right this way."

Kit followed her around to a booth sheltered in a corner furthest from the bar. Sam was there, her white fur, white as driven snow, shining even in reduced light. She wearing a simple sleeveless blue dress with a neckline cut to reveal cleavage generous enough to be attractive, but not so revealing as to be trashy. Her red hair also gleamed, and hung simply about her shoulders, neatly contrasting both her fur and her dress. No doubt as fine an example of Ursus Meritimus as you were likely to find anywhere. She laughed when she saw him and stood to greet him.

"My oh my, aren't we looking spiffy!"

Kit plucked at his blazer as he approached.

"Yeah…guess I'm a little overdressed."

Sam hugged him, and when she broke the embrace, she turned Kit's collar up and back down, then smoothed it out, even though there hadn't been anything wrong with it to begin with.

"Tell me you didn't fly over here in that," she said as they sat down.

"No, actually, I changed in the plane."

"Trying to impress me?"

"No, I was trying not to embarrass myself. I just thought, with you owning a bank and all, and because of the name, this was a high class joint."

Their server began setting silverware, menus, and glasses of water in front of them.

"What, La Osteria? It means 'The Tavern'."

"Oh." He grinned sheepishly.

"But just for the record, yes, I'm quite wealthy. But I don't live like it, I generally don't act like it, and it certainly doesn't define my personality in any way. I'm really very down to earth. Aren't I, Tina?"

"She's a penny-pinching bum, is what she is," the server said with a smile. "Can't get a dime tip on a dollar check from her. But we love her anyway."

"Glad you brought that up. It's just the first date. You're saving me a lot of time if he's just after my money."

The two shared a laugh and Kit, who had been more than a little nervous, was instantly at ease.

"I'm having the usual," Sam said. She pointed at Kit. "And so is he."

Tina smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

"And you can bring a carafe of the Ceretto with it."

She picked up the menus, turned her back on Sam, and put her hand on Kit's shoulder.

"That big speech and she goes straight for the high dollar wine. Careful, hon, she might be trying to get you drunk."

The off-color comment caught Kit off guard, and he fumbled for a comeback as she walked away.

"Oh, don't pay her any attention," Sam said with a wave of her hand. "If I was trying to get you drunk I'd be using scotch."

That comment frazzled him even more and Sam laughed at his expression.

"Kit, you'll quickly find that there are two distinct people in my head. Miss Beckett, whom you'll find at the bank and at board meetings, and City Council Meetings, and such. And Sam, whom you'll find everywhere else. Miss Beckett is shrewd, cold, calculating, and can be a cast iron bitch when she has to be. Sam is an eternal child, forever young at heart, a tomboy, a hepcat, comedienne, and as down to earth and improper as they come."

"Well, I think I'll try to stay away from Miss Beckett, then."

Sam smiled. "She has her uses. Working for Rebecca Cunningham, I should think you'd know how hard it can be for a woman in the business world."

"I have a pretty good idea, yes."

"It's ten times as bad in the financial world. Because it's almost entirely populated with old men with old money, still living in the 19th century, who expect their women to have pretty faces and empty heads."

"Well it's obvious to me that you most definitely have one and not the other."

"So you're calling me ugly and stupid?" Sam deadpanned, eyebrows raised.

"No!" Kit said with alarm. "No, that's not what I-."

Sam laughed and took Kit's hands in hers. "Oh, Kit, I'm sorry. But don't worry, you'll get used to my singular wit before long."

"It's okay. I'm still not really myself after…you know."

Sam's expression softened. "I'm sorry," she said again. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No, that's okay."

"It might help."

"I appreciate it. But you wouldn't understand. No offense. You can't unless you've gone through it yourself."

Sam gave him a long, solemn look. "I have."

Only one of the bank's hanging sodium vapor lamps was illuminated, casting a harsh circle of orange-tinted light that Walter Beckett was seated in. Darkness reigned throughout the rest of the large lobby and every sound echoed sharply off the limestone walls and marble floors. The sound of the heavy door falling shut behind Samantha must have crashed through the large room like a cannon shot.

Seeing any light from the bank at this time of night was certainly unusual, but she had not entertained the slightest thought of it being anything more sinister than an overlooked light switch. The sight of her father bound and gagged to one of the large maple chairs found at any of the bank officers' desks did not immediately process. Nor did the blood running down his face, soaking into his fine silk shirt. When she finally overcame the paralysis of her shock, she dropped her pocketbook and the stack of papers she was holding and rushed towards him.

"Daddy!"

He began struggling against his restraints and shaking his head, trying to indicate that he wanted her to flee, but she ignored his gyrations and knelt beside him. He had been viciously beaten. Both shallow cuts and deep lacerations covered his head, and in places deep purple bruises were already forming. She gingerly pulled the gag from his mouth, trying to be careful of his swollen lips.

"Oh, Sam, no," he sobbed.

Suddenly she felt a sharp pain and blackness took her.

"You have?"

"Do you remember what I said to you on the dock after it happened?"

"Yes."

"I can see you're struggling with this. And you're right to. Any good man would. It's not an easy thing to take a life, even when you're justified in doing it."

"My father…" she took a breath and swallowed. Tina showed up at that moment with the wine, and Sam gratefully took a glass.

"Last year my father was murdered when someone tried to rob our bank. Long story short, I showed up while it was going on, and in the end, shot and killed the perpetrator."

"Yes…I think I remember Miz Cunningham saying something about it."

"At the time, I was too overcome with grief for my father to think much about what I had done. But a few weeks later, his mother showed up at the bank. Distraught and angry that I had not even been arrested, much less charged, with the man's death. It bothered me for about a day, thinking about how I had taken that woman's son from her. And that was truly a tragedy. But here's the thing, and pay attention here, Kit. That man was cold, remorseless, vicious, and evil. He killed my father. He would've killed me. And there was no knowing who else he had hurt in the past, or who he would've hurt in the future. What I did, and what you did, was not only right, but righteous."

Kit harrumphed. "Righteous."

She took Kit's hands again and looked intently in his eyes. "Yes, righteous. 'Acting in accord with divine or moral law, free from guilt or sin, morally right or justifiable, arising from an outraged sense of justice or morality'. Do you believe in God, Kit?"

"Yes."

"Then you must realize that evil is out there. 'Be vigilant, for your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour'. We must be prepared to fight it. We're commanded to be. 'Approach this day unto battle against your enemies, let not your hearts faint, fear not, and do not tremble, neither be ye terrified because of them'.

"If you hadn't acted, Baloo would be dead. And even if Baloo hadn't acted, Cindy Morton is still dead. Her husband is still without a wife; her son and daughter are still without a mother. And that is a much greater tragedy than the loss of a killer's life."

Kit nodded slowly. Yes…you're right."

"Just think about that. A day, two at the most, you'll be fine."

She squeezed his hands and let them go.

She awoke with a pounding headache to the sound of distorted voices. Slowly, she lifted her head and was greeted once more with the bound and bloodied image of her father in the harsh circle of light.

A shout.

A black clad figure stepped out of the shadows just long enough to backhand her father across the right side of the face.

As her head began to clear, so did the voice.

"I'm getting tired of your lack of co-operation. You need to understand that this doesn't end well for you unless you give up that combination."

"Never."

Sam felt his attention suddenly focus on her.

"Perhaps an alternate form of persuasion, then."

He walked behind Sam and yanked hard on her hair, pulling her head back.

"You leave her alone!"

"That's completely up to you, Mr. Beckett."

"Don't tell this creep anything, Daddy!"

She felt the attacker's breath on her ear as he leaned close and replied in a near whisper, just loud enough for her father to hear.

"Oh, he'll talk. Oh, yes. If he values your life, he'll talk."

"But enough gloomy stuff," Sam said.

"Agreed. Tell me how you got involved in aviation."

Tina arrived with their food. Kit raised his eyebrows. He had expected something elaborate, but he was again confronted with his biased preconceptions about Samantha.

"And this is?"

"Gyro sandwich," she said, properly pronouncing the word as 'YEE-ro'. "Thinly sliced strips of seasoned veal, lettuce, tomato, and onion, wrapped in freshly baked pita bread, served with tzatziki sauce and deep fried potato wedges. You won't find grub this good anywhere else within a thousand miles of here."

She backed up her claim by picking the odd looking sandwich up and stuffing a large portion of the end of it in her mouth in a very un-ladylike maneuver. Kit laughed and followed suit.

"Wow," he said after the first bite, genuinely impressed.

"Told you." She washed down the huge bite with an equally large slug of wine. Kit laughed.

"I'm really starting to like you," he said through his laughter.

Sam returned the laugh, then sighed.

"So, how did I get involved in aviation? One man: Whistlestop Jackson. Heard of him?"

Kit smiled wryly. "You could say that."

"He was my dad's hero. I grew up on his knee hearing nightly Whistlestop stories." Her gaze got far away. "No matter how many times I heard those stories, I never got tired of them." She shook her head as if to clear it. "Oddly enough though, as much as he was entranced by it, Daddy was scared to death of flying. He would never let me learn. And as much as I tried, along with most of his business partners, he would never get on one. It could have opened up things for him he never would have dreamed of before, as it has for me since I started running the bank. But he wouldn't do it.

"After he died, it took me months to get a handle on things, even though he had been grooming me for the job for years. It's a lot of work, Kit, it really is."

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

"But anyway, three months ago, I decided it was time to learn. My PT-17 was going to be ready soon and I wanted to be able to take it up when it was. It took me about twelve hours to solo, and I passed my checkride with flying colors six weeks ago."

"Oh, so you're still an infant."

"I guess compared to you," she laughed.

So if your dad was so set against you flying, how'd you get the Stearman?"

Sam blushed. "I bought it behind his back. I was going to confront him when it was done, point out that I was obsessed by flying in the first place because of him. Tell him that I had invested a significant amount of money in it, and come hell or high water, I was going to learn to fly it."

"Would that have worked?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "But it doesn't matter now. I'm a certified pilot, even if the ink on my ticket is still wet. And I did it in 49 hours, faster than anyone else my CFI ever taught. How many hours have you got?"

"Well, it depends. Officially, 343, not counting the flight over here tonight. But I flew with Baloo for four years before I could legally log any. So in actually probably two or even three times that."

"You're very lucky, you know that?"

"Please! Please, don't hurt her!"

"Now tell me, what is the combination to the vault?"

"It doesn't matter, the vau-!"

"TELL ME WHAT IT IS!"

He backhanded Sam with enough force to topple her chair. Her ears rang and she tasted blood. With what seemed like no effort at all, her chair was lifted and slammed back into place. Her teeth rattled together again and she felt her head swim.

"The combination, Mr. Beckett."

Sam had only ever seen her father cry once before, at her mother's funeral. He was sobbing now.

"Seven, ninety-two, eleven, and…"

"And? And what?"

"Let her go. You let her go and I'll tell you the last number."

The man reared back and punched her father in the gut with the force of a heavyweight boxer. His breath rushed from him in a strained 'whoosh' of a scream. The man then whirled on Sam and yanked violently on her hair again, pulling her head back as far as her neck would let it. He jammed the barrel of his pistol under her chin and shouted.

"Tell me that last number or I'll let this .44 go and the only thing left at the top of her pretty little neck will be a mass of bloody matted fur!"

Sam tried to call out again, to tell her father not to tell him any more, but the force the man was using to pull her head back only allowed her to make a few choked sounds. Her father gasped and wheezed, trying to speak. He suddenly sat up ramrod straight, eyes wide. Pain lined his face and he grit his teeth, making an odd choking/gagging sound. He began to convulse, struggle for breath, and foam at the mouth. He turned his head to look at his daughter. Then, just as suddenly, he collapsed forward in the chair, was silent and still.

"You know, I actually met Whistlestop Jackson once."

"You did not!"

"Sure did." He told her the story, and how close Higher for Hire had come to going under.

"Wow."

"I could tell you stories about the adventures I've had 'til morning and still not cover all the really good ones."

"Like I said. You're very lucky."

"There are times I completely agree. Other times…not so much."

"What do you mean?"

"My early life…isn't exactly a nice story. Think 'Oliver Twist' meets true crime."

"Rebecca mentioned you were an orphan."

"Yeah, well, that story can come later. We're off the gloomy stuff, remember?"

"Of course. So then how did you meet Baloo and Rebecca?"

"Oh, that. Well, with all that happened to me early on, I actually ended up with Don Karnage and the Air Pirates."

"Oh my God…"

"Not for long. A couple of years. But I got sick of 'em. So I decided…"

And he told her the story of how he met Baloo, Rebecca, Molly, Wildcat, and Higher for Hire. By the time he was done, they had finished dinner, two carafes of wine, shared a large slice of baklava, and were sipping coffee.

"That's incredible," Sam said, truly amazed.

"Yeah. Baloo's been trying to buy back the Sea Duck ever since. Though he hasn't seriously wanted to leave for some time now. And he and Miz Cunningham…well, they've been in love for a long time, but have only just admitted it to each other."

"I hope it works out for them."

"I think it will."

Tina swept by and topped off their coffee cups.

"The check anytime, Tina."

She reached in the pocket of her apron, pulled out her checkbook, and pulled a slip from the bottom. She laid it face down on the table between them and Kit quickly reached for it. Sam laid her hand gently on his.

"Kit, I know your chivalrous nature might compel you to pick up the check. But remember, I'm one of the most unusual women you'll ever meet, and it is other aspects of chivalry that I find attractive in a man. Not the ability to prove he can provide for me. I think I'm doing okay for myself."

Kit hesitated a moment, then gave a conceding smile. "Whatever you say. I'd hate to make Miss Beckett angry."

"Yes, you would."

"No! No!"

The man dropped his gun and turned to Sam's father. He grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

"Wake up! Wake up, damn you!"

Sam watched as the man pressed his fingers against her father's throat for a full thirty seconds. He let his hand drop. His breathing slowly became heavier until he was heaving great lungfulls in and out. He bellowed and in a rage toppled her father over on his side. His body did not so much as twitch as he hit the floor head first. He turned on Sam, speaking in between his heaving breaths.

"Now…now…little lady…it's all about…you."

Sam looked up at him and smiled a cold smile. He leaned towards her.

"Tell me…the last number…of that combination."

She worked her mouth, mixing every drop of saliva she could muster with the not insignificant amount of blood that was already pooling beneath her tongue, and spat in the man's eyes.

He roared in anger and swung a right cross at her nose that connected solidly, breaking it for sure. Sam choked back a yelp, but made not a sound. She would die tonight. But she would die with every ounce of dignity, honor, and fortitude her father had imbued her with intact.

"TELL ME!" he raged.

"I could," she said calmly, evenly. "I know what it is. I wouldn't even risk anything by telling you. Because that vault has a time lock. Even if you know the combination, it can only be opened twice a day. And there are armed guards present when we do. But I'm not going to tell you. I'm not going to tell you just to spite you."

The man roared and grabbed her throat with both hands, half lifting her out of the seat.

"Tell me or I'll kill you!"

"You're…going…to…anyway."

The man slung her sideways. She managed to lift her head enough to take the brunt of the impact on her shoulder. But more importantly, she felt the vertical slats on the back of the chair, which her hands were tied to, snap. The bonds were suddenly loose enough to move in. She began working her hands, loosening the rope even further. The man stalked away into the dark towards the vault door.

Sam hadn't been lying. Even if he managed to guess the combination, the vault could not be opened until 7:30 the next morning. Sounds of destruction rose out of the dark as the would-be robber took out his anger and frustration on the bank's furniture.
Sam wrung her hands faster and suddenly they were free. The crashes and bangs suddenly stopped.

"I'm coming for you, you bitch, and you're going to give me that combination or I'll make yours the sorest piece of ass since Sodom."

She balled into the fetal position to untie her feet and saw the man's discarded revolver not an arm's length from her. From the sounds of his footsteps, he was nearly upon her as she finally untied the last knot. She rolled on her back and he was towering over her. He didn't hesitate in the slightest when he saw she was free, but started to bend over to grab her.

Sam kicked his legs out from under him and he fell backwards as she scooted back on her rear, grabbing the gun and jumping to her feet. She was standing just in the shadows, out of his reach from where he lay in the center of the circle of sickly orange light, next to her father's body. He looked up at her, defiance in his eyes.

"You don't have what it takes," he said.

"Wrong."

She squeezed the trigger. The gun roared and nearly jerked itself from her hands. She squeezed again. And again. Again and again, finally hearing the clack of the hammer falling on a spent casing on the sixth pull. The man on the floor was now sans la tete.

"You want to get out of here?" Sam asked.

"Whatever you say."

They got up and Sam dug in her pocketbook, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and laid it on the table. Kit stared in disbelief.

"Kit, one of the nicest things about being wealthy, is being able to spread it around. Why do you think we were able to take Tina's premier booth out of service for almost three hours?"

Kit looked from her, to the insanely exorbitant tip, and back, then just laughed. He had been doing a great amount of that tonight, and it felt good.

"Come on."

They walked out of the restaurant and Sam took Kit's hand.

"You know," Kit said, "I've been to Decatur Island too many times to count, but haven't actually been past the docks more than four or five times."

"It's a great place. Let me show you my favorite part."

She led him down two blocks and up three more until they came to the riverfront. It was set below the main street about twenty feet, and lined on both sides by a simple but elaborate cobblestone walkway, and crossed every hundred yards or so by small arched cobblestone bridges. Sam led him down to the walkway and they strolled along the water's edge.

"It's so quiet here at night," she said. "So peaceful. I used to come here all the time with Daddy."

"You loved him very much."

"Yes, I did. Mom died when I was four. Cancer. I don't remember much of her, especially how she was before she got sick. So it was always just me and Daddy."

"He never remarried?"

"No. In his eyes, his wife was gone. And that was that. He was the most eligible bachelor anywhere close to here, but as far as he was concerned, he was unavailable."

"So he doted on you, instead?"

"He certainly did," she said with a laugh. "And he tried to teach me to be a lady. But I think I probably already favored him to start with. After mom was gone, it was a foregone conclusion that I would be a tomboy. But Daddy was very well respected in the financial world, and in society. And they all knew how hard a time he had with mom's death. So they accepted me into their world as a cute little oddity. I think they all figured I would straighten out eventually. They were wrong.

"Daddy tried to have me around them whenever possible. He obviously realized that eventually I would have to succeed him, and how hard it would be for me to do so. Without all that he did, I never would have been able to take over for him…after."

She let the gun clatter to the floor. Sorrow welled up inside her as she looked down at the lifeless form of her father and the dam holding back her tears broke. Seeing the gore from their captor's remains spreading towards him, she pulled him away, then untied him from the chair and knelt beside him.

"Daddy…oh, Daddy." She kissed his bloody face, then buried hers in the nape of his neck.

His normally lustrously soft fur was prickly, caked with his blood.

"Daddy…no."

She felt for a pulse, desperate, pleading silently with God. But he was gone.

"Daddy…"

She lay her head on his shoulder and cried. Sirens rose in the distance. Grew louder. Tires screeched outside. Voices shouting. The door was kicked open. Decatur was a small town. The police force consisted of only 17 people and she knew them all fairly well. It took only moments for whoever had responded to take stock of the situation, and know both what had happened and how it had ended.

A hand on her shoulder.

"Sam." A pause. "Samantha."

She looked up. This was Ryan; easily her best friend on the force.

"Come on, Sam. Let's come away from here."

She shook her head. "No…Daddy…"

"I know, Sam. I know. But there's nothing you can do for him now. Come on, honey. Come with me."

An air of melancholy had settled over her. "It's coming up on a year now, Kit. Next month will be a year since he was taken from me. It's been so hard."

She lapsed into silence, but her grip on Kit's hand got tighter. Desperately so. Kit stopped and turned towards her. Tears glimmered in her eyes. He wrapped her in his arms and she buried her face in his shoulder and cried. He held her for several minutes, saying nothing, letting her draw support from him until her tears subsided.

"I'm here for you, Sam," he whispered in her ear. "I'll always be here for you."

It was a moment before either one of them registered what he had said, and another before they realized the gravity of what he had meant by it. They looked each other in the eyes for a long moment before they kissed. It was a slow, sweet kiss. Full of promise.

They broke apart and again stared in each other's eyes, neither certain of what to say. Finally, Kit broke the silence.

"With respect to Mr. Hogart," he said, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Sam smiled up at him and they kissed again.