A/N: Standard disclaimers on owners of characters and concepts. This story includes characters and ideas from Season 4. I am actually rewriting this story, which was the very first piece fanfiction I ever attempted. I was 16 at the time. Now, I'm more than twice that age, and so much has happened to me in my life and in the world, that I decided to make some major revisions to this fic. I also decided to bite the bullet and submit it to mostly as a way to motivate me to see this story rewrite through to the end.

This piece is my conceptualization of meshing Season 4 and the rest of Airwolf canon. I know that a lot of people disagree with Season 4 (some to the point of ignoring it completely) and if this is how you feel – then this is probably not the fiction for you. I have refrained from reading any Airwolf fiction in the past 4 or 5 years so as not to influence the dynamics of my characters. Once I've spun my story through completion, I plan on checking out some of the more recent writings.

I also have a few OC's, one being Rachelle Hawke, St. John and Stringfellow's sister, who supposedly died at the age of 2, in the same explosion that took the Hawke brother's parents' lives as well. One day I'll write a prequel explaining all of that; I have the plot just not the overall storyboard.

In my universe, Dominic did die in the explosion meant for String (see episode Black Jack – season 4), but String obviously did not. Caitlin and Archangel don't feature in this story, but they are a large part of the sequel that I am also am writing/re-writing – my Airwolf muse can be prolific at times. Oh, one more noteworthy item, St John's son is not part of my universe either. The timeline for my universe is set some time after Season 4, and ages of the original characters have been made younger than what would fit into present day canon.

I hope you enjoy my account of Airwolf. Constructive criticism and feedback is appreciated. That said, I don't have a BETA for this fandom, so if you're interested please p-mail me.

One final note, real life is coming into play – so between this fic and my other fandoms, updates may be sporadic at best.

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

Chapter One (T - mild language)

A Rock and a Hard Place

Fast paced images blurred and then froze in front of exhausted, blue eyes. Once again the woman paused the grainy, video footage recovered from surveillance collected by a deep cover operative. Carefully, she started to leaf through a large pile of notes tabulating the same events with satellite intelligence imagery but stopped her rummaging instead to run her hands through long, henna colored hair, which was now a mass of unruly waves.

Apparently, the Company is not going to lower the temperature in the conference room to a respectable level after all. Big surprise. She sighed inwardly and carefully reached over her growing pile of dampened notes to flip a switch on the portable fan that she had remembered to bring from home some lifetime ago that morning.

She closed her tired eyes a moment and waited to receive some blessed relief from the little machine as it stirred the humid air. But, her temporary respite was cut short as a soft tapping sound came from the closed door of her commandeered room. Tugging her sticky blouse into place and sitting straighter in her chair, she swiveled around in time to catch Newman cautiously opening the door.

"Good afternoon, Rachelle. Have you found everything that you need?"

Although she tried to stop herself from reading into the clipped and precise tone of his voice, she was unsuccessful. You mean have I found anything to hang my colleagues and family out to dry yet? But, instead of voicing those thoughts, she replied as cheerfully as she could. "Yes, surveillance video, close caption circuit stills, satellite imagery, debriefing notes, eyewitness reports, probably too much. I could use an air conditioner though. I don't suppose that's what you have in those files your holding, huh?"

Surprisingly, Newman cracked a smile at her feeble attempt at humor. "No, I'm afraid not. But, I do have the files you requested from intelligence." He started to place them on the clutter she was using as a desk but could not find a suitable space.

Rachelle pushed her pile of notes aside for Newman and found the cup of coffee she had lost in the chaos some time that morning. Opening one of the newly arrived, thick files, she took a long sip and made a face. The now cold liquid tasted like rocket fuel and ignited in her stomach like an afterburner, a telling reminder that she had skipped lunch once again. Deciding that it was better to stop while she was still ahead, she set the drink down and started to absorb the new information.

Newman quietly slid into a chair and watched as she picked up a pen and started to write. The instrument was a mere blur as she transferred bits of information onto a worksheet she had developed earlier to better organize data and create an accurate timeline. Curious, he leaned forward for a better look at her small scrawl.

The movement caught Rachelle's eye, and she quickly glanced up. She had gotten so wrapped up in the new information, which she had thought she had a snowball's chance in hell in getting in the first place, that she had completely forgotten about Newman. "I'm sorry, Newman, was there something else you needed?"

Newman watched as Rachelle's eyes glanced down at the now coveted documents in front of her before darting back to look in his direction. "Actually, yes," he replied as he got to his feet. "The Oversight Committee would like to see the video footage when you've finished with it."

"I'm finish…" Rachelle's words stopped in mid-flow as her eyes focused on the close-up of a battered and bloody Major Michael Rivers still frozen in time on the screen. She hadn't realized that she had paused on his image. Reaching out a tentative hand to trace the contours of his face with her finger, she was shaken out of the trance by the mildly unpleasant shocks of static electricity emanating from the DVR/DVD's screen.

Startled, she blinked several times and was annoyed to find moisture burning under her eyelids. Angrily, she punched the eject button harder than necessary to remove the disk from the machine, and immediately the tortured image transformed into a blue screen. Finding a sense of calm by watching the screen, Rachelle managed to blank out her raging emotions. "I'm finished with it now," she said completing her earlier sentence.

Newman nodded and turned off the equipment. The quiet hum of the circuitry died leaving an obtrusive quiet in the room. "When you're done reviewing the other digital media from intelligence, I'll send someone up to take this out of your way."

Rachelle did not answer him. Turning to see if she were already involved in her work and had not heard him, he found her standing ramrod straight staring outside the only narrow bank of windows in the room. "Rachelle?"

Rachelle whirled around and looked at The Company man. "This is bullshit, Newman, and you know it."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't," Rachelle cut him off and slapped her hands on the table separating them. "Don't play dumb. You and I both know this is a set up, and I am the one who is going to take the fall. If the Oversight Committee doesn't find what they want in my report, then I must be hiding something – either for the team or for myself."

"Do you want someone else assigned to this case?"

"Yes." She answered hastily, and just as quickly she retracted her statement. "No. I don't know. All I know is that this is more than a rock and a hard place."

"We've been over this,…"

"We can go over it until the cows come home, Newman. The outcome will still be the same."

"Do your job, Rachelle, nothing more."

Easy for you to say. You don't have to bring your job home with you. "That is what I'm doing."

"Then I'd best get out of here and let you continue it."

"Yes, you'd best," she agreed tightly willing her closed fists to loosen.

Newman strode to the door and paused momentarily. For a moment, Rachelle thought the man might say something else. Instead, she watched him turn the doorknob and walk away.

Again, Rachelle picked through her notes trying to make the information make sense, willing it to not look like it did. The wonderful world of spying, intrigue on paper, deception on video, truth – where? She thought bitterly. Blood started pounding in a trumpet fashion in her head. Their dead – and I'm the one leading them to slaughter. Viciously, she wheeled the chair back and let it slam into the wall.

Now, that's real professional. She silently berated herself even more irritated by the fact that her emotions were ignoring the verbal punishment like an errant child ignores the worried protests of a mother. Seems you can take the last five years of emotional containment and screw it.

Unbidden her hand caressed the long white scar running down the length of her upper left arm. Pulling in a deep breath, she felt her whole body flip flop as she tried to cover her emotions when the door to the conference room opened suddenly without a courtesy knock. "Don't you people believe in knocking, or was that courtesy not covered in your training?" she snapped at the intruder.

Jason Locke stood in the doorway and attempted a smile. "And, a fine day to you to, Hawke."

Rachelle stopped her hand from moving to massage her temples and stared at the man. She had yet to determine how much of a team player he was. He seemed very ensconced in The Company, but Mike seemed to accept him even treat his as a friend. Her brief query to St. John and Stringfellow had yielded their tolerance of him as well, although String had been much more cautious in his assessment. Changing her tone, she favored him a better reply. "Can I help you with something?"

"Didn't know this conference room was occupied," the African American man replied an unreadable look in his eyes.

Bullshit! she thought letting a heavy silence fill the void instead of an answer.

Rather than leave the room, Locke entered and closed the door behind him. "How is it going?"

Rachelle knew darn well that he wasn't asking her about her well being, but decided to take that tack with him anyway. "Just fine," she smiled albeit unconvincingly. "Thought I'd take the day and sit in the most climate-friendly conference room, catch up on work, maybe write a report or two..."

Putting his hands down on the table of files and graphs, Locke stopped her. "I'm well aware of what you are doing here."

"Then, you are even more aware that I cannot discuss it with you."

"You still hold a probationary security clearance based mainly on your past governmental work and secondarily based on my ongoing assessment. Don't play with me, girl," he warned.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Rachelle's voice held an edge of something dangerous.

"Perhaps."

Rachelle wanted to hit him, punch him, or do anything to wipe the smug look off the man's face but managed to keep herself contented by imagining it rather than acting upon it. "I'm doing my job, Locke. The Oversight Committee chose me, not you, so get used to it."

Jason nodded his head at her response. The Oversight Committee had chosen her. Though why hadn't made sense, and it still didn't. He was senior to her and had a higher security clearance. Sure, he had intimate knowledge of the events on which she was investigating which could impact his credibility, but, at least, he wasn't related to one of the team members in question nor sleeping with another. Rather than continuing with a conversation, which wouldn't get either of them anywhere, Locke decided to leave. "Do your job right, Hawke. The committee isn't the only one watching your performance on this."

Alone in the room, Rachelle lowered herself to the conference room chair and dropped her head in her hands. She was going to crucify them; there was no way around it. She could spin it in as much positive light as she wanted, and it wouldn't matter. The Airwolf Program was already dead. She had just been the one the Oversight Committee had decided to use as its fatal blow.

--

Rachelle paced the living room looking into the gloomy predawn light. She had finally gotten the nerve to return home last night and had waited in her car a half an hour after the last of the lights in the house had gone dark. For all her bravado, she wasn't sure how she would act when it came time to actually face her brothers or Mike.

What was she going to do? Was there a way to save the Airwolf program? The changing political climate had The Company searching for its place somewhere between the overall War on Terror and Homeland Security.

Airwolf was a natural antiterrorist weapon. Would the government cut off its nose to save its face? Obviously, the bigwigs had decided that the team needed to be reigned in. It wasn't exactly a positive to have a sect of vigilantes with loose ties to a governmental agency in control of a Mach One plus machine with an arsenal of firepower. And, it hadn't exactly inspired trust when said team had not prevented weapons of mass destruction from falling into the wrong hands. Eventually, the threat had been terminated but that outcome was not comforting to several of those in power who had seen the potential for the mission to go the other way.

There were two courses of action that the agency could potentially follow. Cut off discretionary funding and the direction of supplies to the Airwolf program. Lack of these resources would eventually crippled the project and lead to its demise. Another possibility would be to take the Airwolf team members into custody. Under the Patriot Act, they could be held indefinitely without the typical rights assigned to citizens. The hope would be that one of the team would buy his or her freedom with the price of Airwolf's location. The truth was that doing either of these would ensure that Airwolf stayed hidden for eternity.

The Company would be destroying one of its "not so secret anymore" advantages and the best threat against many of the scattered terrorist-cult groups at home and abroad. Then there was the ever-popular suggestion that someone infiltrates the team and passes all the information on to the agency. Been there done that not just once or twice, but at least three times of which Rachelle was aware. Each time, the person had either been found out, had turned rogue against the very agency that had hired him or her, or had been won over to the beliefs of the existing team.

A lone pair of headlights illuminated the quiet stretch of road in front of St. John's home casting oblong shadows in the room as it slowed and then finally passed the house. The house had belonged to her parents. She had even lived here the first two years of her life, but no memories had ever surfaced for her. Currently, St. John, Michael and she occupied the home although at any given moment, Stringfellow, Joanna Santini, or Ashleigh Francisco would slum it out on the couch or in the guest room.

Rachelle smiled when she thought about her redheaded friend and ex-partner. Ashleigh had been one of the only constants in her life. They had gone to Quantico together and then eventually had become partnered in the LA field office. Their primary goal was investigating white-collar crime but they had been extended into the underground-organized variety as well.

When Rachelle and her brothers had been reunited after more a quarter of a century passing, Rachelle had left the Bureau and had joined her family working for the more clandestine governmental agency. Ashleigh had stayed with the FBI as a senior field operative. Because of the nature of their professions, their respective fields rarely if ever coincided; however, that didn't stop Ashleigh from becoming embroiled in whatever the current issues were in Rachelle's extended family, although as an outsider – always the outsider. That had certainly strained their relationship, and at times like these, Rachelle would certainly have valued her longtime friend's blunt advice.

Rachelle leaned her head forward to the insulated mug nestled in her hands and inhaled the comforting scent of coffee that was still too hot to drink. Her late night had not led to a quick sleep. It had actually led to no sleep. Tossing and turning for hours, she had finally given up and headed down stairs to make what she guessed would be the first of many pots of java.

A pair of hands reached from behind and closed around Rachelle's neck. Without a thought, Rachelle reacted elbowing her attacker with a sharp jab into the ribs and turning to fling her hot beverage into a face.

"Whoa, hold it!" Mike yelled ducking her arm.

Rachelle pulled back quickly and sloshed hot coffee down her hand instead. Stifling a small grimace of pain from the burn of hot liquid, she put the mug down carefully and glared at Mike. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Let me see." Mike demanded looking at her hand ignoring her question.

"I'm fine," she snapped drying off the brown liquid with a napkin and inspecting the reddened skin.

Mike took the injured hand anyway to see for himself. He never understood why she had to have her coffee so bloody hot. Luckily, she was correct, she wasn't burned badly probably not more than a first-degree burn, if that. "We should get some water on that."

"I'm fine," Rachelle waved him off.

Knowing that talking Rachelle into anything she didn't want to do was pointless, Mike let go of her hand. "I'm sorry I scared you," he offered.

"You should be!"

"Trust me, I am," Mike seconded and slightly rubbed the spot on his chest where her elbow had impacted. He would bet that there would be a bruise there later. "I've never seen you so jumpy. Now turn around, and let me finish what I was trying to do in the first place."

Rachelle complied and felt the Mike's strong hands kneading into her back and neck. Mike's hands truly were a gift from God. After a few minutes of rubbing the tension out of her shoulders, he slid his hands down her arms and pulled her against him with his hands wrapped around her waist. "Missed you," he murmured into her hair.

"Me too," Rachelle agreed. She closed her eyes and snuggled back into his embrace, "by about two inches."

"Ha, ha, very funny. So, what's with you; why so tense?"

Immediately, Rachelle's thoughts turned to her current investigation, and she pulled out of his arms. "Work."

Mike regarded her defensive posture carefully. They had been dating for several months but intimate for only a few. He was still learning the nuances of her personality, still breaking down walls. One thing he did know, however, was how good Rachelle was at her job. She had been highly respected by her colleagues in the FBI. And, while she had been initially recruited by The Company, partially out of deference for the Hawke brothers and probably secretly to get information on Airwolf's whereabouts, she had more than proven herself capable as an agent in her own regard. The one thing he knew better than to do was to pry into her assignments. "Want me to help you forget about it?

With uncertainty in her eyes, Rachelle watched him approach. In the past, they had had many arguments about the nature of her current missions, especially those that had excluded him. She was still on guard for another fight when his lips descended upon her own.

Glass shattered as something large sailed through the picture window in the living room raining shards upon the embracing couple. The instant they heard the crash, Mike and Rachelle separated flinging themselves to the ground. A second object hurled through the window finished off what was left of the windowpane and impacted against Rachelle's forearm before landing on the rug next to her. It was several more seconds that passed before either Mike or Rachelle raised their heads and looked at one another.

"You okay?" Mike asked glancing back to the window or lack of one.

A sound of bare feet slapping on wood reached their ears before St John with gun drawn stormed into the room. "What the hell?" he yelled looking at the ruined window and debris littering the living room floor.

Rachelle cradled her right arm in her other hand and knelt down to inspect the object that had destroyed the picture window. Knowing better than to pick it up and damage any possible forensic evidence, she simply pointed at a large, smooth rock resting on the wood floor not far from another similar rock that had made it as far as the area rug.

"Damn kids," St. John growled looking at the mess of the formal living room. The three adolescent boys down the street had made it a habit of annoying the neighbors. A week ago, St. John had caught them practicing paintball targeting on a neighbor's car and garage. After speaking with their father and arranging for the cleanup, payment of damages, and additional community service off the police radar, he had thought that the mischief would stop. Apparently, it had only lent itself to making his house the next target.

Mike surveyed the damage and then walked to Rachelle's side. "You never answered my question."

"I'm fine," she answered waving him off for the second time in a matter of minutes. "Are you going to call this in?" she asked looking back at St. John.

"Yeah," St. John decided, "I've got a buddy in the sheriff's office, I'll see if he can come out and take statements and file a report. It probably won't go anywhere though since nobody got hurt."

"I wouldn't say that," Mike pre-empted finally getting a good look at the welting bruise starting to swell on Rachelle's arm. "Rae here got clocked by that last rock."

"Let me see," St. John demanded as his sister dutifully held out her wounded arm. While Rachelle was likely to fight Mike on matters of injury, she wouldn't even attempt to divert her oldest brother. She had learned quickly that those tactics only worked outside the Hawke surname.

"I'm fine, really," Rachelle protested stifling a gasp when St. John moved her arm to get a better view of it.

"Sure you are," St. John replied looking into her eyes. "Mike, take Rachelle into the kitchen and ice that before it gets any worse. I'm going to make that call. Wade will just love coming out at this time in the morning. I'm sure he'll be in the best of spirits when he goes to talk to the Maguire boys."