Beautiful Noise
by You're Those Guys

(References to the story Everything Happens For a Reason by dcat8888)

Authors Notes:

WJ: We found this little plot bunny just lying there, listless and bored. We picked it up, gave it a good home, fed it, cuddled it and it grew into the biggest bunny we've ever seen! Now that it's a full-fledged 6-foot tall rabbit and way too big for its den, we're turning it loose on the world.

DC: What WJ is not telling you is that SHE came up with this most spectacular of plot bunnies and emailed me offline and asked if I'd be interested in writing it. Now, let me tell you, her plot bunny was more like an outline, perfectly plotted from beginning to end. I asked her to co-write because quite honestly, she'd done most of the work. I am grateful that she gave me the chance to come along for the 'hop.' And here's too many more!

Chapter 1

There were far too many places to hide or be hidden away at Gulls Way. Hardcastle already knew that, and it was especially annoying when he was looking to saddle up with his own personal Tonto. He'd have to turn to his secret weapon he used at certain times, the loud and sometimes obnoxious -- this being one of those times -- tone of his voice. "McCORMICK? Where the devil are you?" The Judge slapped the file against his leg as he made his way from the gatehouse back toward the main house. He found himself getting hoarse from continuing to shout out the same name over and over again, especially when there was no reply. Frustration was setting in, and he didn't like that one bit. "MccccCCCCCormmmmick, we've got work to do!" He knew that the kid could hear him. Everyone in the Malibu city limits could hear him.

He stood in between the gatehouse and the main house in the middle of the driveway and simply shouted at the top of his lungs. "McCORMICK!"

The birds that had been chirping in the trees had quickly dispersed to a quieter location, most likely fifty or more miles away, unable to compete with the intensity of Milt's voice and fervor. The judge looked around and saw his next door neighbor, Elliott Drinkwater, in his back yard working in his garden, staring at him. Milt waved, sort of, and got a wave in reply.

Milt made a note to himself: don't yell so loud when the Drinkwaters are in their back yard. So what if they were nosy neighbors who 'spied' on all the houses in the neighborhood? They were great additions to the Community Watch program, always keeping an eye on everyone's houses, and living next door to the Judge, especially for the last three years, had given them ample opportunities to call the police. How many times had the estate come under attack by bad guys? Heck, the neighbors should have been used to all the noise and mayhem coming from the Hardcastle estate. Then again…

He started walking in another direction. "Where could you have possibly gotten off to?" The Judge mumbled under his breath. His eyes scanned from left to right and back to left again. He hadn't been out of Milt's sight for that long.

The Judge decided to do an about-face and turned up onto the grass and crossed over to the back of the house. Maybe he was lazing about by the pool. He'd done that before.

"AHA!" Hardcastle shouted as he surprised an empty and unoccupied pool. The judge scowled up his face when he didn't see the kid nearby. All right then, he thought, he must be in the house, probably had the TV on and couldn't hear a thing. Inside he went, through the kitchen where the breakfast and lunch dishes still were strewn about on the table and counters. "McCORMICK, where are you? It's your job to clean up this mess! Shirking your duties again, huh? If I ever find you, you're going to wish you'd have listened to me," he bellowed out to the four walls.

He passed through the kitchen and made his way toward the den. There wasn't any sort of sound coming from that room and upon entering, he stood at the top landing to see that McCormick wasn't inside watching TV either.

He let out the primal yell on more time, "Mmmmm-cCORrrrrrr-MICKkkkkkkk?"

No answer came.

Hardcastle continued his rather loud and discordant tour of the house and nearby grounds. He went out past the rose gardens, down near the lawn statuaries, even to the top of the stairs that led to Seagull Beach below, and there was no McCormick to be seen or heard. There would be hell to pay if he discovered that the kid was purposely avoiding him.

He trudged back up toward the house and scratched at the back of his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied some movement coming from the garage and the closer he got he could see the hood of the Coyote was open. There the kid was, inside the garage working on that blasted car of his. It was his favorite pastime that was for sure, his very own pride and joy. It should have been the first place Milt looked, rather than the last.

Milt stood at the front of the large door, hands on hips and screamed one final time, "McCORMICK, do you know how rude it is not to answer when I call you? I walked around this whole place, and you've been in here the whole time, haven't you?"

There still was no reply from Mark, who still had his curly head buried behind the hood of the car.

The judge, now frustrated beyond belief, marched up and tapped him on his back.

"I'm talking to you, McCormick." A startled McCormick banged his head on the hood as he straightened up and removed the portable headphones from his ears. The Judge hadn't bothered to notice the headphones or the wire that ran from the earpiece to the walkman. For a brief second he was sorry that the kid banged his head, but it passed quickly and he even let a smile cross his face at how funny it had looked. McCormick was busy rubbing his head. The music was blasting pretty loud. No wonder he hadn't heard him. The kid was going to lose his hearing if he kept playing his music that loud. "Hey, what's the big idea, I'm looking all over for ya? And what is that awful racket?"

"Easy there, that's the Stones you're messing with, Judge." McCormick quickly forgot about the bump to his head and offered up a carefree grin. "That's classic rock and roll, legends in the music world and they never did anything to you."

"I don't know the Stones from the Rocks. I've been looking all over for you, screaming my head off, and you've been in here all along?" The Judge dismissed his easy going nature.

"Yeah, I told you I was going to work on my car. You know the other half of yelling is listening, Judge. Maybe you ought to work on that skill a little bit more, Hardcase." He rubbed his head once again, to see if a lump was forming from where it had hit the hood and took the headphones and walkman and walked them over to the bench where they wouldn't be damaged. "Can't a guy do a little work around here without getting hollered for and beckoned at every turn?"

Hardcastle took a deep breath. Right. He remembered that the kid had told him that he had to do some work on his car that afternoon and that he'd take care of the dirty dishes in the kitchen afterwards. He regulated his demeanor by a few decibels. "Everything working?"

"Yeah, it's fine. I'm just setting some adjustments on the fuel injector."

"Good, finish it up and go change your shirt. We gotta go check out a warehouse tonight."

"Warehouse?"

Hardcastle handed a thin folder to him. Mark opened it up and saw a picture of a rather unobtrusive individual, mid-30's, a greasy looking character. "Timothy Kerns," he read aloud. "Petty thief in his teens, did a few stints in Juvie, graduated to being a big-time fence later on, got a walk on a charge in Arizona, now thought to be involved with some kind of small electronics smuggling operation?"

"Not just electronics," the judge told him as they walked back up to toward the house. "The Feds think he's connected to some arms dealers. They buy guns and ammo here in the States for a few thousand dollars and sell it down in Central and South America for tens of thousands. Kerns got involved some months back when he started smuggling televisions, VCRs and video games to some of his out-of-country contacts and got noticed by some of the gun smugglers. They pay him to store the munitions in his warehouses here in the States and then use his supply lines to get the goods moved out of the country by hiding them inside the electronics. If he gets caught, he takes the fall and the smugglers get off free as a bird."

"We're going after big time gunrunners?" Mark asked. "Judge, these guys shoot to kill, ya know."

"No, we're not going after them. They fall under the Feds' jurisdiction, but they don't have enough on this guy for gun running charges or to tap his phone or bring him in for questioning, so they talked to Frank about any local crimes Kerns has committed. He's been keeping his nose clean as far as the cops know, so Frank asked me if we could find any kind of evidence against him that would be enough for a warrant to search his warehouse. If they can get that, then they could find something incriminating that violates federal laws."

"Which would give the Feds the opening they need to investigate him for gun smuggling which might lead to the bigger fish."

"Now you're cooking," the judge answered.

"So we go in, take a look around and if we see anything suspicious?"

"Then we tell Frank, Frank tells the Feds, and they take it from there. Should be an easy job."

"Should be…" Mark stopped walking and looked at the judge who turned and stared back. "So let me get this straight, we're going to a warehouse, at night, where a fence is storing and moving weapons and ammunition for known gun smugglers?"

The judge nodded his head. "Yeah, that's about it."

"What's the catch?" McCormick wore a look of disbelief.

"Catch?"

"Judge, the cops could do this. What's the catch?"

The judge cleared his throat. "These shipments are international. The boxes go through Customs, and none of them are stopped or checked out here or in the other countries."

Mark cocked his head and squinted his eyes slightly. "It's a sting operation. The Feds are doing some housecleaning," Mark surmised. "There are some bad guys in their own ranks that they're trying to flush out, so they need to do this quietly."

"And why we're being asked to help out. Unofficially."

That got Mark's attention. "Unofficially? That means when the bad guys go down, we're the ones who took all the risks but we don't get any of the credit, as usual."

"We're not in this for the glory, kiddo. You know that."

"No, but an occasional pat on the back or 'Way to go' would be nice." Mark read through the file some more and dramatically stopped as he reached exactly why Hardcase had a file on the guy. "Wait a minute here, hold the phone. He walked out of your courtroom because whoever got the warrant for his arrest spelled his names Karns instead of Kerns?"

"Technically, they arrested the wrong guy," Hardcastle shrugged as he continued up toward the house. "Now change your shirt, and let's get moving. It should be getting dark by the time we get there."

Mark re-read the dismissal notice in the file thinking that if he had misspelled his former girlfriend's name on the car title on the Coyote then he could have walked out of Hardcastle's courtroom on a technicality too.

Chapter 2

Milt waited by the truck while McCormick went into the gatehouse for a change of clothes. Mark took his time, dwelling on the whole Karns vs. Kerns thing and about how easy it was for a piece of slime like that to get off because of a simple vowel while he did two years in San Quentin for driving off in his own car. McCormick never had that sort of luck. Now if he had been a lawyer or a judge…

He entered the gatehouse and picked up some old mail sitting on the coffee table. One of the mail pieces was the college catalog where he'd been taking classes. He took a quick glance over at the listings of what night class courses the local college offered for the upcoming semester. He'd been carefully considering going to law school himself if he could save up enough money. He didn't want someone else going to prison for a crime they didn't commit, and no matter how much the judge blustered and argued and cited legal code, Mark would never admit that he was guilty of grand theft auto. Technically, maybe, but truthfully? No. The charge that got handed down to him didn't fit the facts no matter which way Mark twisted it. Even the judge admitted that it was a technical GTA and not a truthful GTA, sort of. Not that the judge would ever admit that Mark shouldn't have gone to prison. In any case, if Mark went to law school and actually became a lawyer, maybe he could help change the system from inside. Goodness knows, he'd been on the outside helping chase down 'technicalities' for over three years now. He wondered if it was the right choice though. Would a client want an ex-con as a lawyer? What kind of reception would he get from other lawyers once it was known he used to be on the inside?

He set aside the course catalog for now, but the thoughts he was having kept chasing after him as he washed up and put some clean clothes on. Heck, the Judge had kept telling him all along that he could do anything he wanted and that he shouldn't let other people stand in his way. Yet the insecurities still lingered. They'd taken hold of him long ago and locked themselves into a dark and lonely place. That was when he was still a child, left to fend for himself for all intensive purposes, when he had had to learn to block out the doubts and replace them with a smart mouth, a sharp wit and a cool head. He remembered being on the streets watching the cons and the hustles from older kids with names like Joey, Petey, and Mac, and even bigger and badder guys as he got older, with nicknames that put the fear of Jesus into anyone like Bulldozer, Bubba and his personal favorite, Stomp. Like every trade he'd learned now and since, young Mark McCormick spent his time watching the practitioners of the con, learning from them and practicing along side them to gain experience. Most weren't vicious sort of criminals. Some were intimidators, yeah, and they loved running the con to get something out of someone that no ordinary means would be able to, but those weren't the tactics Mark utilized. The former group was Mark's role models, and he learned their trade well. Could he really turn those sort of skills, if that's what they were, into something like being an attorney? Hardcastle sure seemed to think so, not that he'd ever approached the Judge about being a lawyer, but Milt had made remarks over the years that conmen and attorneys were a lot a like. Could it really be that easy?

He was a free man now. No probation, no parole, he could come and go as he pleased with his societal debt paid, thank you very much. He could go back to racing, but as much as he loved it, it wasn't what drove his ambition any longer. Helping find the bad guys was more personally and 'professionally' satisfying than racing ever was. And most surprising to him and even more satisfying was his own understanding the law and all of it many nuances. For that, he could only really thank one person, and that was the Judge. Because of that, he found himself with a deeper hunger for learning even more about it. He'd started reading some of the law books in the Judge's library, hunting down obscure cases that he'd hear the Judge mention from time to time on their cases. He'd search out the law that set the technicality that the defendant used to walk out of the Judge's courtroom. Then, he just started reading some of the law books for information's sake. Then there were the law discussions with the Judge himself. Time and time again, he'd ask the Judge about a decision and he found himself enthralled by the Judge's ability to understand all the complexities of a particular case and even more surprising was his easy and informative way he'd explain all the angles to the kid. It prompted McCormick to look even deeper. Finding himself doing research like that spurred him on to take a few night classes to finish up the Bachelor's Degree that he'd started in San Quentin. He was just a few classes away from the degree as it was. Mark McCormick wanted more though. In the furthest, darkest corner of his mind, maybe even without his knowledge at first, he'd set his sights on a law degree. The seed had been sown, thanks in large part to the last three years with the Judge.

He'd always been fascinated by Milton C. Hardcastle's own life story. Somewhere deep inside, he found the drive and ambition to go from sharecropper to policeman to lawyer and then finally to judge intriguing. He found a way to get the money to go to school and raise a family. The judge was a great inspiration, and Mark didn't have to go far to see it. For months, he'd been internally debating with himself. Was he considering law school because he wanted it or was he out to prove that if the Judge could do it, so could he? He kept coming back to he wanted it. Mark McCormick wanted to be a lawyer. It was the simple, honest truth -- no technicality. He wanted it first for himself and secondly, so that maybe he could help other people the way that the Judge had helped him. It was win/win for everyone. Hardcastle knew he'd been taking night classes, but he had no idea that he was close to earning his degree, and he certainly had no clue about law school as Mark had never mentioned it. In any case, law school was probably a year off, and that was IF he could get accepted into a program somewhere. And then there was the money. He didn't have the cash money for law school. The job of 'Tonto' didn't pay that much. Day school or night school, it was going to be expensive. Maybe he could go back to racing part time to earn the money?

There were a lot of questions, and he needed to find the answers for them. Maybe, somehow, something would happen that would help him figure out all the answers.

He heard the truck's horn belting out the judge's impatience for him to get a move on. He put all those thoughts aside. Right now, he had to go play Tonto.

By the time he came back out, the Judge was revving up the engine, anxious to put the truck in gear and get moving.

"What'd you do in there, hire a tailor to make you a new set of clothes?" Hardcastle groused at him.

McCormick, not amused, hopped in the truck and slammed the door as he heard the Judge chide him. "I had grease all over my hands, Judge. It takes a while to get that off, especially when I'm relegated to use the .44 cent bars of soap made by Soap Inc. that you force on me. Where exactly do you get that crud from anyway? It doesn't even come with a label. You know I don't think we're saving anything when I have to use a bar a day just to get clean."

"You know if you stop complaining long enough to see the method behind the things I do, you might be impressed."

"Impressed? Is that what you call it? Impressed by what? That you think you're actually saving money by buying an inferior product? That's just as bad as letting some crook off scot-free because you thought that the cop who put in a 67 hour work week needed to be taught a lesson about his penmanship," McCormick finished his rant, with speed and intensity. "How many times have you said that cops are overworked and underpaid?"

"Ah, I see now. I get it. You're upset over Kerns getting off."

"Me? Upset? Judge, you're the one with a file on the guy because he walked out of your courtroom on a stupid technicality! I'm not upset, it's just sometimes I wonder about your motives. Maybe the cop just wrote his E's funny. Why can't you ever cut someone some slack? You could have helped put Kerns behind bars years ago, and I could still be working on my car right now. Did you ever hear of compromise?"

"There's no compromising when you're riding the bench, kiddo. Compromising is something the lawyers do from behind their fancy desks in the downtown high-rises. Besides, we'll put Kerns where he belongs once and for all."

"No offense, Judge, but he should have been in the slammer already, and we could be enjoying a nice, quiet evening at home watching, I don't know, maybe the James Bond movie that's on tonight." Mark leaned back and tried to relax while he could. "So what's the plan gonna be here? Scope the place out tonight? Get a look-see at what's coming and going?"

"No, we're gonna do more than scope and look-see McCormick," the Judge explained as he handed Mark a camera case. "We're going in."

"Going in?" Mark took the camera out of the case and made sure everything from the film to the flash was working. The camera was a bit touchy if it wasn't handled just right, it had a tendency to come apart at times. When was the judge going to splurge for a new camera? "Tonight? Just like that?"

"Yeah, you got a problem with that? I already laid everything out for you, what more do you need to know?"

"Judge, me and large warehouses full of guns, bullets and a potential lunatic with an 'e' instead of an 'a' in his name don't exactly get along."

"I asked you what else do you need to know?" Hardcastle ignored the rant.

"Well, for starters, like who else might be inside? What kind of security system is in there? What kind of odds do we have? What or who else might we be up against?"

"It's a warehouse full of stuff. That's all we're looking for, the stuff, remember? You walk in the door like you work there, take a look around, snap off a few shots and come back out."

"And you honestly think that KARNS," he intentionally emphasized the man's wrong last name, just to continue his point, "isn't going to have at least one person around guarding his stuff? Come on, Judge. There's bound to be someone who knows the people who work there? Somebody that carries a gun?"

"This isn't one of your James Bond movies, McCormick. Kerns may have connections, but he's still a two-bit hood. It's just a regular warehouse in a run-down part of the city. People drive by it simply to get someplace else. There are people loitering around outside during the day, probably at night, too. From what Frank could tell me, Kerns moved into this warehouse about a week ago and isn't too concerned about security. There's nothing to worry about. All we're gonna do is go inside, look around, make some notes, take some pictures, maybe grab a box or a crate and then we're out of there."

"All we're gonna do is grab a crate?" Mark asked. "Geez, Judge, you've already got me trespassing on private property, and now you want me grab a crate and just waltz it out the door? Isn't that theft by taking?"

"From the pictures Frank showed me, there aren't any No Trespassing signs posted, so technically, you're not trespassing. Pictures alone aren't gonna mean much without some physical proof. You could take them anywhere. Sheesh, you should know that. We need actual merchandise to have as evidence. Anyway, once it's outside, I can say I found it outside and in plain sight and on the warehouse grounds. No one has to know you brought it outside. You'll be home in time to watch your Goldfinger and get your double agent spy quota in for the evening. Does that make you feel better?"

McCormick rolled his eyes. "Goldfinger isn't on tonight. The Late Show is running The Man with the Golden Gun. I wish it was Goldfinger, I like that one better," McCormick explained.

They pulled up into the alley behind the warehouse.

OOOOO

'Not worried about security' definitely described the warehouse. The doors were wide open, giving the two men an easy view of the boxes and crates stacked against the walls. Teens were loitering around out front, and a couple of guys who looked like they could go a few rounds with Mr. T and still keep standing were walking around the perimeter.

Mark's alarm bells were going off.

"See?" the judge pointed out, "Just like I said. Should be easy for you to get in there and take pictures."

"And grab a crate?" Mark whispered back, with that sarcastic, nagging edge to his voice.

"That's why you're going in the back door. Everyone's attention is toward the front." Hardcastle had an explanation for everything.

Mark watched the people milling around for a moment. "I think we'd better wait until the crowd thins out."

"Oh, would you relax? That's a bunch of neighborhood kids hanging out like kids do, probably shooting dice or waiting for something better to come along." Hardcastle quietly moaned.

"The only way those kids could hang around in this neighborhood like that is if they worked for Kerns," Mark said. "In case you haven't noticed, the closest house is about a mile away. And the nearest McDonald's is at least two miles. Those are not the Bowery Boys, and kids don't shoot dice anymore, they carry guns and shoot people nowadays, Hardcastle. They're definitely a part of this."

"They probably help move the electronics or help steal them," Hardcastle guessed.

"Sounds like Fagin's setup in Oliver Twist."

The judge glanced over at Mark. "You've read Oliver Twist?"

"I read lots of books in San Quentin, and I've seen the movie. Not the musical though."

Mark and Milt continued to observe the happy-go-lucky nature of the kids out front, playfully pushing and shoving each other to and fro while laughing and shouting every now and again into the darkening night. The mood-setting scene suddenly changed. Milt and Mark snapped up their attention. It looked like they weren't going to have to wait too long after all. The big guys from inside the warehouse started shooing the teens out the front. Mark took that as his cue to move. Giving the judge a quick pat on the back and getting a nod in return, he quietly edged his way through the shadows until he reached the back door of the warehouse, and then he sneaked in while the big guys were still up front sending away the teens.

Immediately, he saw exactly what they came for. Sitting on various bits of paperwork, bills of lading and shipping tickets on a nearby workbench, a VCR had been dismantled, the insides were ripped out and the framework had been repacked with boxes of bullets. A quick look at the addresses on the paperwork showed that these things were being shipped out world-wide, not just Central and South America.

More alarm bells were going off for him.

McCormick paused momentarily to admire the time, effort and all-in-all smarts that went behind this money-making operation. Yeah, they'd bring them down for the illegal activity, but theses guys got definite bonus points on the obvious creativity. Mixing weaponry and electronics was one novel idea. He scanned over to the next spot beside the VCR. It appeared to be VCR tapes. A quick glance showed that the tapes had been gutted and were filled with plastic bags full of gunpowder.

"Hi, ho, Silver," Mark whispered as he took pictures of the workbench.

He found boxes of VCRs that hadn't been sealed stacked against crates full of sealed boxes. A quick glance around the warehouse revealed much of the same. It was tightly packed with pallet upon pallet of boxes. Kerns was into some big time arms smuggling. This wasn't the setup of a two-bit hood using his warehouse as Grand Central Station for gunrunners. Something else was going on. He didn't have time to think about it right now, he merely had time to get the pictures, grab a box and get out. They could delve a little deeper into the investigation back at Gulls Way, after they grabbed a pizza and decided upon their next plan of action.

Outside, Hardcastle kept waiting and watching. "Come on, McCormick, what's taking you so long?" he mumbled under his breath. His face began to show tiny signs of worry, pursing his lips, squinting his eyes, ears tuned to the slightest little sound. He hadn't told the kid the whole truth. Part of that was to protect Mark (plausible deniability was a good thing to have sometimes), part was because the Feds had informed Frank that some information was still classified due to the ongoing investigation. That meant that Frank had told him NOT to tell McCormick everything since Kerns was under the Feds jurisdiction (almost). Sure, Kerns' file said he was small time, but that was when he was younger. The guy had gone beyond big time a couple of years earlier. There was a better than even chance that he was one of the head honchos who ran the whole gun smuggling operation instead of being someone who just moved the merchandise. He was wanted on federal racketeering charges, smuggling, receiving stolen goods, theft by taking, grand larceny, bribing federal officials, and somewhere out there dangling over his head were possible murder and kidnapping charges that could be filed eventually. The Feds wanted Kerns and his partners bad enough to "overlook" anything that the Judge and Mark had to do to get the evidence as long as the explanation looked good on paper. Hardcastle had his own reasons for wanting Kerns behind bars. That technicality had really stuck in his craw. To have to let the guy go because of a misspelling of his name? That one had really pestered him. Okay, he was a rotten speller too, always had been, but the law was the law. The name was spelled wrong, so that meant Kerns got a walk because it wasn't his legal name on the paperwork. That was part of the game, wasn't it? Making it all look good on paper. To that end, Frank Harper was on board to watch their backs from a procedural standpoint. That was the main reason the judge wasn't concerned with bringing a crate out. Mark would take the pictures, he'd say that he saw the crate outside, it would all "look" legit and legal, easy, right? All the paperwork would have the t's crossed and the i's dotted and names spelled correctly. That's how he had convinced himself, but now the doubts were beginning to bubble to the surface. Something was definitely fishy about this whole thing, like why had they been asked to investigate.

As the Judge sat there waiting for McCormick to appear, more questions began to invade his thoughts. If Kerns was the head honcho, then why was the warehouse so open? Wouldn't he be more careful? Unless it was a trap? To see how much the Feds knew or how far they'd go? Maybe to weed out someone in his own organization he thought might be working with the Feds?

And the biggest question of all, what was taking the kid so damn long? He didn't need to do a photo-essay for The Times.

Just then, a Mercedes Benz drove up to the front of the warehouse, and Kerns stepped out.

What the hell? Hardcastle's throat dropped down to the pit of his stomach. This was NOT good. He saw a pay phone nearby and discreetly hurried over to call Frank who was waiting nearby in case Hardcastle needed him. Even if nothing happened, he needed backup on the scene two minutes ago. It would look better 'on paper' if the cops were there. Besides, by the looks of it, Mark would probably need 'official' backup now.

"Come on, kid get yourself out of there…" he mumbled as he waited to have Frank dispatched to their location.

OOOOO

Mark had taken the last picture on the roll of film. He had to talk to Hardcase about getting a better camera. The one he carried was almost ready to fall apart causing him to nearly drop it. He caught it before it hit the floor, thereby preventing the crash from alerting anyone to his presence. He made a mental note to wear a jacket with pockets the next time he had to use the camera. At least then he'd have a place to store it. Mark found one of the boxes with the VCR sealed in it. Forget the crate. He'd carry out the box.

Just then he heard voices coming his way. He ducked behind one of the larger crates before anyone could see him. From his vantage point, he saw two big guys and someone else he didn't quite recognize walking back toward his hiding place. He tried to get a good view of the newcomer. He almost looked like Kerns, but this guy didn't look anything like the picture in the file. This guy was pretty clean cut and wearing a three-piece suit, looking every bit the part of a man from GQ. What the heck was going on?

"No one's been by, boss," one of the big guys told him. "The kids have been keeping a lookout. Maybe the cops didn't take the bait."

Mark crouched lower and listened closely and wondered what they meant by bait?

"According to my sources, they took it. I'm telling you two, this doesn't smell right to me. Something is definitely going on here so watch your backs," Kerns said. "Could be that they're not coming in tonight. We'll set it up for tomorrow, too. Go ahead and lock up. I've got some paperwork for the greater good to finish up in the office, so I'll be upstairs."

"Think it's a good idea for you to be here alone?"

Kerns looked around the warehouse, "Probably not. One of you stick around. I won't be long."

"Right, boss."

Boss? Mark thought fast. That was Kerns? Could it be? Kerns wasn't a two-time hood, not no way, not no how. What was going on and what had Hardcastle gotten them into this time? They had stopped talking and now were dispersing.

He watched Kerns walk up a staircase he hadn't noticed before and go through a door at the top. There was a small overhang of offices up on the make-shift second floor of the warehouse. From the offices, you could easily see just about everything below. One of the big guys walked out the front, leaving the second big guy to start shutting doors and locking them.

McCormick had to move fast because if he stayed where he was at, he'd be in the line of sight of Kerns.

Mark reached down and took the box he'd found, tucked it up under his arm and began to move toward the back door. As soon as he saw the big guy's back turned to him, he took off in a flat out run.

"HEY!"

OOOOO

Hardcastle waited. He hated waiting. Kerns had been in there, what, two minutes already? Where the devil was McCormick? It couldn't possibly be taking him this long. He'd been in there long enough to get pictures and to grab something by now.

He forced himself to be patient. Right now, there was no need to go in there when everything was quiet. The kid must have heard them inside and was simply waiting for the perfect time to exit inconspicuously. The judge saw one of the big guys come out of the front of the warehouse and get in a car. Good, those odds were a little better. That meant one big guy and Kerns still inside.

Mark was still inside too.

Where are you, kid? You need to get yourself out of there before you're seen.

Then, Hardcastle heard, "HEY!"

OOOOO

McCormick sprinted for the closest doorway he could find, but carrying a box and a partially broken down camera slowed him up considerably. The bullets shot over his head and into the nearby wall. Mark ducked as he heard them approaching and then fell to the ground to avoid the repetitive gunfire. No doubt, given the fact that they were inside a warehouse loaded to the gills with weapons and ammo, they wouldn't keep on firing at him, right? Wrong! He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the big guy charging in his direction, aiming his gun almost directly at him. Shit! He didn't plan on any of this happening. It was supposed to be easy in and easy out and now here he was in the midst of some goon's cross-hairs. He HAD to get out of there fast! The place was full of explosives, and this idiot was shooting at him – but he kept missing? This wasn't the place to be where the fireworks began.

As soon as Kerns heard the commotion, he came barreling out of his office and down the stairs, his gun in his hand. Mark saw him look in his direction just as he jumped up off the ground, box and camera secured by his hands and arms, and he rushed toward the back door as more bullets sped his way.

Kerns came down the stairs and took the opposite direction of his goon in an effort to trap McCormick inside. The way things were playing out, Kerns and his henchman could block the door and keep Mark from getting to it.

Mark noticed Kerns' movement right away. He was briefly attempted to tip over some of the boxes as he moved past them, but with all the gunfire going off around him, he opted not to set off a potential explosion. Just maybe though, there was a way he could maneuver himself through the maze of pallets and get to the door while the two gun-wielding lunatics would wind up crashing into each other. He felt a little bit like one of those lab mice in the endless maze.

In order for his idea to come to fruition, he'd have to listen and listen hard. Any little sound had to be quickly interpreted and processed so that he could make the correct move and get toward the door. An arm brush against the side of a crate, a soft shoe slide on the concrete floor, even the echo of the gunfire could all tell him clues that could get him out of there safe and sound. He needed to concentrate and listen.

As still as he could possibly be, he waited. And then the first clue. One of them made a noise with his mouth to alert the other. Yeah, it was definitely a human sound, McCormick thought. It came from the right and to the front of Mark. He managed to stay completely motionless, which was becoming increasingly difficult with a box of weapons tucked under his arm and a camera almost falling apart in his hand. He heard some footsteps, fairly quick, coming from the other direction. They'd gone a little too far and were past him by maybe 15 feet. From the other direction again, he heard one of the boxes of merchandise get banged into. That was followed up by a quiet, 'damnit.' It was definitely the big goon in front of him (his gun aimed over Mark's head) and Kerns behind him.

And then there was the second worst possible thing he could hear -- the sound of police sirens getting closer and closer by the second. That was going to tick off Kerns and his goon and in turn they presented him with the absolute worst sound of all -- the sound a gun being cocked, right behind him.

Chapter 3

The big guy in the car must have heard the shout and the shots as well. He gunned his engine and took off for the road. Without hesitating, Hardcastle jumped in his truck and, in a maneuver that he thought would even impress Mark, raced the big guy to the entrance where he blocked the car with his truck just as Frank Harper and two police units came up on the scene.

"Don't move!" Frank yelled to the big guy as the cops yanked him out of his car. "Milt! What's happening?"

"Shots fired inside! McCormick's…." Milt's anxious voice was interrupted.

KABOOM!

The blast of the warehouse exploding knocked everyone to the ground. Burning debris rained down on them, the stench of smoke and burning plastic assailed their nostrils as the fire shot up from the roof. A smaller, secondary explosion made their ears ring.

"Oh, no," Frank muttered. "Call for the fire truck!" he yelled to one of the officers.

Hardcastle jumped to his feet and ran back toward the warehouse, Frank barely a pace behind. "McCORMICK!"

Harper hastened his pace and grabbed Milt by the arm, "Milt, you can't go running in there! The place is an inferno."

The judge hurriedly shrugged him off, "McCormick's still in there, Frank! I gotta get him!"

Frank reached for him again and held onto him long enough to say, "We'll try to get in there, but if it's too bad, we wait, you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," Milt said ignoring Frank and everything he was saying. He had every intention of going in, police order or not. He turned his attention back to the burning building. They hurried toward the back of the building where Milt knew Mark had gone into. He hoped he had gotten out the same way. "McCORMICK!" Milt kept screaming, each time yelling louder, the volume increasing over the roar of the ever-growing fire that engulfed the warehouse, the smoke billowing out the doors and now-broken windows. The combination of fire, smoke and night time darkness made it next to impossible to see anything.

Nothing could be heard above the burning firestorm.

The building was surrounded in a fiery blaze with black smoke pluming outwards, making it hard to see anything.

Mark couldn't still be in that inferno, could he? Milt pressed his eyes closed for a moment as the smoke was already beginning to burn them. Just let him be out back, please let him be there.

"McCORMICK!" Now there was a much different urgency, almost fear in the sound of the Judge's voice, much different from the good-natured yelling that took place back at Gulls Way.

The judge was dangerously close to entering the flame-filled warehouse in search of McCormick. He stood by, watching the molten hot flames lick and crawl at and around the door frame. By God, if McCormick was in there, he had to get him out. At the very least, he owed that to him. He stood at the last remaining door opening that was still relatively clear, aside from the black smoke that poured out of it. Leaning forward, raising his arm to protect his face and just as he was about to leap into the fiery black hole to find the kid, Frank Harper called out to him, just a few feet away.

"Milt!" Frank hollered and made up the ground between himself and the Judge. "Wait!" He reached out and grabbed his arm and pulled him back from the smoke and pointed towards the area where the truck had originally been parked. "He's over here!" Because the roar of the blazing fire was so loud, he repeated himself and motioned, "Mark's over here! Looks like he got thrown clear. Come on!" He began to drag Milt away from the deadly fire and the smoke.

Hardcastle turned, dropped his arms and his guard and saw McCormick's dark unmoving body lying in a heap on the ground, the thick smoke almost completely encasing him. A million thoughts went through his head, the top one being his gratitude that he wasn't inside in the inferno. He instantly ran over to him and dropped to a knee and ran his hand over his own face first, terrified by what he saw and hoping that maybe this was all a bad dream. As he wiped away some of the smoke out of his own eyes, he opened them up to see the same horrid scene in front of him. The back of Mark's clothes were actually smoking, had they absorbed the major impact of the blast and smoke? The front of his clothes that he could see seemed to be in somewhat better shape, but still, there was damage. Pausing for a second, he softly put his hand on the cloth-brittle back of his friend and waited until he could feel Mark breathing, even though it seemed shallow. "He's alive, help me roll him over," he called out to Frank as he glanced up to him and using both hands he carefully turned the unconscious man over to his back, quick to now put his own hand under McCormick's head to cradle so that it would not come in contact with the charred concrete ground. Blood, dirt and smoke covered McCormick's face and clothes. The judge did a quick inventory, "He's breathing, and there's no bullet wound. Looks like maybe he just took the brunt of the blast. Maybe he wasn't inside, huh? I can't really tell if he's got any broken bones. I don't want to jostle him too much."

Harper had never heard Milt ramble on like he was and before he could get in a word he watched as the Judge's eyes scanned McCormick over and over again. "Someone was shooting in there, Frank. There are at least two more guys around here somewhere, one of them is Kerns. I saw him go in, but didn't see him come out," he complained to Frank. His attention quickly went back to McCormick when the younger man murmured and groaned in obvious distress. Milt wanted to clean up Mark's face, but he pulled his hand back for fear of injuring him. If he had burns or cuts, he didn't want to risk spreading infection. He knew he had to wait and let the paramedics do their job. He leaned down and whispered to him instead, "Easy there, sport. It's all over for now. We got ya. We're gonna get you to a hospital real soon."

Frank grabbed his hand held radio. "This is Lieutenant Frank Harper. We're gonna need an ambulance…."

The Judge tuned out Harper's voice as he took a closer look at McCormick. No, there was no bullet wound but there was telling just how far he'd been thrown from the blast. It could have been a good twenty feet or more. The way the warehouse exploded, the sound and the immediate fire, God, what had he gotten them into? The burning, smoky smell made him nauseous, and he cringed at the sight of what he hoped weren't potentially life-threatening injuries. Was he running out of the warehouse when it exploded? Or had he been blasted out? Only McCormick would be able to answer that question, if he'd be able to answer that question. He still had the camera clutched in his hand. Damn thing was breaking apart. Milt gently pried Mark's fingers from around the camera and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. It would wait until later right now the concern was for McCormick, and McCormick alone.

The Judge took another look at the young man's bloody and bruised face as he cradled his head in his hands. His breathing was shallow and labored, like he couldn't get any air in his lungs. "Frank, give me a hand here, will ya? He's having trouble breathing. I wanna get behind him a little bit, raise him up. Maybe it'll help his breathing till the paramedics get here. Can you hear how raspy he sounds? I don't like the looks of his face and head either. They look burned." Frank dropped to his knees and carefully helped hold onto Mark while the Judge situated himself behind the kid and then Frank cautiously set him down into Milt's lap.

"I got a blanket in my car, I'll go get it. The ambulance is on its way," Frank said, sprinting to his car.

Milt scanned the area for any other sign of life and didn't spot a thing. He noticed that where Mark was lying, if the truck had still been there, he would have been able to use it as a barricade when the explosion occurred.

Regret and remorse filled the Judge's face and thoughts. What had he been thinking? Why had he moved the doggone truck just to stop that one guy from getting away? McCormick was obviously counting on him to be there. "Damn it, kid. I really messed this one up," he whispered to the unconscious McCormick.

Frank came running back with the blanket from his car. "This might help 'til the paramedics get here. Did he wake up at all yet?"

"No, no real movement or sound. Maybe it's just a concussion huh? It must have been a helluva wallop, huh?"

Frank gave Milt a pat on his shoulder, "He's a tough kid. Maybe it's not bad. We'll get him checked out right away. Help's on the way."

It was Harper's turn to review the immediate area. "Milt, look at this," Frank pointed toward a VCR box lying a few feet away. Carefully, he opened the box and found a brand new VCR inside, the framework shattered by the explosion. Inside were boxes of ammunition. He walked over to it and reached down to pull out one of the cartridges. Frank saw one bullet sticking up through its container and grabbed it. "Looks like the kid got the goods. Hollow points," he muttered.

"He didn't get them," Milt said cautiously. "You and I found them outside the warehouse AFTER the explosion."

Frank suddenly realized the implications of what he said. No one saw Mark remove anything from the warehouse, so no one could swear to anything. "Right. Found them here. Look at this. Cop killers. These guys are really playing dirty. I'll take this and log it in." Frank walked a little further away to check for any other evidence that might have blown clear from the warehouse.

While he was out of earshot, the judge could only begin to wonder about the mess that they now were both intimately involved in. Hollow points, the judge thought to himself. He looked back down at the battered man lying unconscious in his arms who still did not show any signs of waking. "What did I do to us, to you now, McCormick? I think we're in too deep. I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't mean for this to happen. It was supposed to have been an easy job."

He didn't notice that Frank had returned to his side and heard him talking to Mark. "It's not your fault, Milt," Frank told him. "Mark knows the risks."

Hardcastle ignored the comment completely, which seemed odd to Frank at first, given the kid's present condition, but he brushed it off for the time being. Milt said, "Kerns was inside and so was one other guy," the judge repeated. "Any sign of them?"

Before Frank could answer, the fire truck's siren interrupted him. "We won't know until the firefighters can get inside. The officers are looking around outside, but if they were in that building…"

Hardcastle sighed. What in the literal hell had the Feds got them into?

Chapter 4

"Is his name spelled with a Mac or a Mc??"

Hardcastle said, "Mark McCormick, with an Mc," as he dug his insurance paperwork out of his wallet. His smoke-smudged fingers left a fingerprint on the card.

"That won't be necessary, Judge," the nurse said, typing his name into the fancy computer she stood behind. "I found him in the computer. We have the information from the last time Mr. McCormick was here. Is the rest of the information still current?"

Last time he was there…he didn't need to go there right now and relive any of that again, but here it was being swept to the front of his memory. "Yeah, everything's the same." Only this time, it wasn't Mark in critical condition being rushed to surgery to get a bullet taken out of him after lying in a ditch for who knows how long…

This time, it was Mark being rushed to the Emergency Trauma Center after surviving a gunpowder/ammo-fueled explosion of a warehouse. At least the trip in the ambulance this time hadn't included his heart stopping and the paramedics doing CPR to revive him like they did the last time. No, this time, it wasn't quite that life threatening. Milt didn't have to watch his friend fight to live, even though right now there was enough smoke in his lungs that he had to fight for every breath. The paramedics monitored his lungs the entire ride, increasing the oxygen level all the while and just coming short of having to put a tube down his throat to help him breath. Milt sat back and wondered what sort of injuries lay beneath the layers of soot, smoke, dirt and grime that covered McCormick from head to toe.

"Is there any way you could find out how he's doing?" Hardcastle asked.

"The doctor will…"

"Yeah, yeah," the judge interrupted her. "That's what they always say. The doctor will come out and talk to me. Look, the doctor'll tell me the details. I just need to know how Mark's doing at the moment. Could you check? Please?" He was forcibly insistent with the woman.

The nurse was one of the few who had some experience dealing with the Judge. Last time, when McCormick was there for the gunshot wound, she'd witnessed the worry and friendship the Judge felt for the younger man. The young man was in critical condition, but perhaps it was the judge's steadfast stubbornness that helped McCormick pull through? Some fathers weren't as close to their sons. She also knew that the Judge wouldn't stop asking any of the medical personnel how McCormick was doing until he knew something

"I'll be right back," she said with a new understanding as she stood and walked toward the Trauma Center.

Hardcastle sat back in the uncomfortable chair. Exploding VCRs. If the kid was awake, he'd have some smart remark for that. Milt couldn't think of exactly what he'd say. He was always coming up with some comment that kept him on his toes.

Jeez, kid, what did we get into this time?

The more Milt thought about it, the more things were coming together, and he didn't like where his thoughts were taking him. Okay, so Kerns was clearly a bigger, badder guy than originally thought. But if he was THAT big and THAT bad, why were the Feds willing to use him and McCormick to get some general information on the guy? They must have known. Why were they wanting to let Frank get his warrant before they got theirs? Was there more to this than some Feds who had gone bad?

Gun smuggling. Big time gun running. What was the angle that Milt couldn't see?

Unless …

A stray thought crossed Milt's mind. The Feds didn't want to be seen yet. They didn't want to be seen involved yet. Why? Did they not want to tip their hand? What if the Feds wanted to capture Kerns but keep his business operational? And if they did, then why would they want to do that? "Supply lines are there, contacts are already established, distribution network already in place…" Milt whispered to himself. The business was a growing concern already, what was the connection? But then again, could it be a sting operation? What were the Feds trying to do or, perhaps, not do?

Frank Harper came through the door at that moment. "How's he doing, Milt?"

The Judge was a million miles away in his mind until Frank softly touched his arm to bring him back to the current reality. Milt bristled inside from the brief bit of contact. "Ah, I don't know yet, Frank," he stated somberly. "The nurse went to check. The paramedics had him on oxygen the whole way in, but they were worried about his breathing. Damn it, I gotta stop doing this to him." His voice was flat, distant, as if his attention were elsewhere.

"Milt?"

"Ya know, this entire operation has stunk since the moment the Feds asked us to help," Milt observed. He'd turned his focus back to what he could control, which right now was trying to figure out who exactly was behind this whole dirty scheme.

"I didn't want to involve you or Mark either, but the Feds insisted on anonymous help. I couldn't help but think of you guys. I didn't know at the time that he was one of your technicalities."

Milt looked up at his friend. "What's going on back at the warehouse?"

Frank bypassed the discussion of Mark for now, it was obvious that Milt wanted to find out just what had happened at the warehouse that went so terribly wrong. "It's a dustbowl. It and everything in it is burned to the ground. Here's the kicker, if all those boxes had ammo or gunpowder in them, the explosion would have been a lot worse, so in terms of casualties and such, we caught a real break. The demolition guys think that there was just enough munitions there to make everything look legit. They think they found some remains of what might have been already exploded surface-to-air missile, but the damage is so bad, they can't be sure until they send the parts to the lab. The only thing we were able to salvage so far was that one VCR lying beside Mark. It's too early to tell if there's any sign that someone else was in the warehouse. They're gonna have to sift through the ashes." Frank watched Milt closely, he knew he was listening and yet he still was a million miles away. He could only begin to wonder who Milt thinking about.

"Judge?" the nurse came back in the room.

Just like a light switch, Milt completely changed his focus back to McCormick, "How is he?" He stood up in a hurry.

"I was able to find out that he's still unconscious, he has a concussion, some first degree burns. He's breathing on his own, but they have him on oxygen. He's taken a lot of toxic smoke into his lungs. They're waiting for some test results, x-rays and blood work and a pulmonologist needs to see him before they make any final determinations. The doctor is still with him, and…"

"And he'll be out to talk to me as soon as he can. Yeah, I know. Thank you for finding out," he said gruffly, a little more than dissatisfied with finding out things he basically already knew. Hospitals were so damn frustrating.

The nurse smiled as Frank and the judge walked into the hallway.

Harper had been a cop long enough to know that he needed to shift the conversation back to what had happened. "Okay, Milt, spill it. What are you thinking?"

Hardcastle looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. "Kerns was small time who apparently hit it big. He's smuggling electronics and then gets into guns. He's shipping to Central and South America. The Feds think they have some dirty coworkers and they're trying to flush them out while stopping a gun smuggler. But here's the clincher – they don't want to show their hand. Why? Why did they come to you? To see if local law enforcement could give them a way in? That didn't work, so they have you come to me and McCormick. We can go where the police can't. What we saw proved that Kerns is big time with a much bigger piece of the pie. Still, where are the Feds? They're not at the warehouse, are they?"

"No, they didn't show up after I called them to let them know the warehouse went up."

"There's no merchandise for them," Milt observed quietly. "Frank, what if the Feds wanted the operation for themselves with Kerns and his partners out of the way? Maybe set up some kind of gun trade with other countries? Influence international policy by supplying guns to certain political factions?"

"Global gun running orchestrated by the government? Milt, did you get hit in the head? Inhale too much smoke? I think we need to take a step back. This can't be that big."

"Think about it. They didn't want to be seen anywhere near any of this!" Hardcastle waited as Frank thought through the idea. What if they had been used so the Feds could get their hands on the operation quickly, quietly and without being seen?

"Okay, well, yeah, the idea holds water, Milt. Let's just hope you're wrong. I'll see what I can find out on my end. You stay out of it," Frank warned him. Not that he had to worry. Hardcastle wouldn't do anything stupid as long as Mark was hurt. He'd wait. The Lone Ranger didn't do much without Tonto these days.

"Then again, this really could be them trying to ferret out some bad guys they don't know about and not letting Kerns know they're on to him," Milt muttered.

"Could be," Frank answered. "Don't go looking for trouble right now, Milt. We'll figure out the angle soon enough."

They waited in the hallway, leaning against the wall, staying out of everyone's way as they kept watch for the doctor. Finally, their patience was rewarded when they saw a Trauma Center doctor head their way.

"Judge Hardcastle?" He shook Milt's hand. "I'm Doctor Guthrie. I'm the attending physician for Mr. McCormick. You may not remember me. I was assisting on the surgical team when Mr. McCormick was brought in for that gunshot wound… "

"How is he?" Hardcastle asked quickly, dismissing talk of another time he'd rather forget.

"He's still unconscious and from the sound of his lungs, he's breathed in a substantial amount of smoke, but he is able to breathe on his own. We think he'll recover from that in a few hours." Milt noticed immediately the doctor's emphasis on the word 'is.' Was Mark not breathing on his own before? He was going to ask, but the doctor continued. "We've got him on some O2 just to help clear him up. There's no sign of skull fracture, but he does have a severe concussion from the apparent explosion, some bruised ribs, one cracked one and pulled muscles in his back and abdomen. He's going to be a bit sore and should take it easy once he wakes up. There are some minor burns that we're treating right now as well. It looks like he was very lucky in that respect. My first guess is that from the looks of his back, he was running away from the blast when it occurred. It's bruised and has some minor burns. Possibly, he wasn't standing erect. He may have been bent over a bit so the blast basically went over him."

"But he'll be okay?" Frank asked.

"I believe so. Once he wakes up."

"Then he will wake up?" Milt interrupted him.

"We believe so. Judge Hardcastle, I won't tell you not to worry. With head injuries, there's no way to say for certain. He's not out of the woods yet. He was standing very close to an explosion, breathed in a lot of bad smoke and has a bad concussion. He isn't showing any signs of waking yet. The next 24 hours will tell us more about his condition, but from all physical standpoints, we believe he should recover."

"Can I see him?" the judge asked.

The doctor motioned for the men to follow him. "As I've said, he's on oxygen and an IV. We're monitoring his heart rate as well, so don't let the machines concern you. He's in a much better state than we could have hoped for given the circumstances. There's every reason to be optimistic."

Optimistic. Now there truly was a word that could describe Mark McCormick even after all the crap the kid had been dealt for his entire life: his father walking out, his mom working until the day she died trying to keep a roof over their head and food on the table, Mark being left in the hands of relatives who had no regard for him and then the State which had even less. He was out on the streets at far too young an age, making ends meet the only way he could by scraping, clawing and turning to unconventional methods. By the time he'd made his way cross-country to California, beginning in New Jersey with stops along the eastern shore and then through the south, he was old and wise beyond his years. He could have been cynical, habitual and criminal, but something inside Mark McCormick made him something else.

Optimism.

He was one of the good guys. Street smart, skeptical, sarcastic and yet optimistic through it all, his illegal run-ins never bore the malicious side of crime. The only person ever really hurt by his actions had been himself. He'd done his time, and when Milt had made the offer of 'Tonto,' neither one of them really knew where it would all lead to. They both obviously took a shine to one another and on paper, their working agreement seemed doom to fail. Two complete opposites in every way imaginable. Except maybe for optimism. They both shared it and with their blossoming friendship growing, they harvested it abundantly.

Hardcastle's mind had drifted miles away from the immediate conversation when it was yanked back to the present as a nurse walked up to the doctor and showed him a clipboard. Milt noticed quickly that the name McCormick was written at the top of the paper. "Give him 10 more of MS IV push," Doctor Guthrie wrote out the order on the clipboard.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No, not really. Just results of some preliminary tests results. And he's exhibiting some additional indications of intense pain. I'd like to take another look at Mr. McCormick before you go in." The doctor had reached over and touched Milt's arm, "Perhaps you two would like a moment or two to wash up? I can have a nurse take you to a private washroom? Maybe get you a set of scrubs to wear?"

"I'd like to see him," Milt said.

"It's going to be a few minutes anyway, Judge," Guthrie tried to convince him.

"Go on, Milt," Frank urged him. "You go first. You look like you just walked out of a coal mine."

Hardcastle acquiesced, looking at Frank who was also a bit grubby and smoky, "Yeah, okay then. I suppose I should scrub off some of this stuff." He looked down at his gritty and grimy arms.

A nurse walked up to him and led him to the washroom.

Milt closed the door behind him and for a moment, stood in the center of the room. He took as deep a breath as he could stand and then walked over to the sink. He quickly went about his business, foaming up the soap on the washcloth that the nurse had given him, scrubbing every bit of muck and grime as he could from his face and arms. He washed the soap out of the washcloth and likewise did so to his face and arms and with one final rinse, he took the cloth and completely bathed his face with the cooling water. He set the cloth on the side of the sink and watched himself in the mirror as the droplets formed and ran off his face. No one could tell there were tears mixed in.

OOOOO

The nurse led them down the hallway. Hospital corridors seemed to all be the same, Milt thought to himself. They were long, somewhat barren, a proverbial gauntlet that people walk down to some unknown expectation. The rooms were indistinct and bland as well. They were a type of cheerless cell without bars and locked doors. In the Trauma Center, there weren't any corridors or rooms, just areas cordoned off with cloth curtains. Behind each curtain was someone hurt, someone whose body had been insulted and violated by burns or impacts of car crashes. Behind one of these cloth-encircled cells, an unconscious Mark McCormick was laying hooked to machines monitoring him, unable to give the judge or Frank a welcoming grin or a smart-aleck remark. It was all too damn cold and impersonal.

That was the scene that Milt walked in on. He walked over to the side of the narrow bed and placed his hand on Mark's head, careful to avoid touching the burns. "I'm sorry, kid. I never dreamed this would happen. It was supposed to have been an easy job," he whispered. "We shouldn't have gotten involved in this one."

The last time… oh, the last time had been bad. When they finally told the judge that Mark was awake but not talking to conserve his strength, he'd walked over to his bed, placed his hand on Mark's head and then his cheek. He felt like it was something the kid needed right then. He needed McCormick to know someone was there for him, that someone was talking to him, but more importantly, that someone cared. He'd come so close to dying that day, and Milt had sworn to himself 'never again'…

Milt stepped up to the bedrails and looked down at Mark. Besides having the IV's, blood and monitors hooked up to him, he now had a nasal cannula for oxygen. McCormick must have sensed he was near, because he opened his tired eyes and tried to look up at him. Even being propped up, he was having a hard time seeing Hardcastle. Milt noted how pale and pasty and how exhausted Mark looked. The kid didn't look like he could talk even if he wanted to. He was conscious, but he still looked like death warmed over. Granted he'd been raised up in the bed, but any bit of exertion, probably even breathing itself looked like it took every bit of strength he had. Hardcastle reached over the bed railing and patted McCormick's hand.

"Hi there, kiddo--welcome back," he said, not a touch of his usual gruffness in his voice. "You gave me a scare." In an unusual burst of emotion and out of normal character, Milt took his hand from Mark's and laid it on the kid's forehead and then ran it warmly down his cheek. Something deep inside him just told him it was something he needed to do for the kid.

McCormick closed his eyes and drank in the affection. It wasn't something Hardcastle had ever done before, and the young man was genuinely and deeply touched by it. In that short moment he felt that nothing else in his life would ever mean as much to him. Milt noticed the serene look that passed over the kid's face. When McCormick opened his eyes back up, he tried to form a smile, but even that took more effort than he had. His eyes locked onto the judge's, though, and they both understood the same unwritten message.

Perhaps to some it had seemed like a fatherly gesture and maybe in reality that's what it had been. All Milt knew at the time was that his friend, his very best friend, was teetering on the edge of life and death, unable to speak, and yet, despite the pain he was enduring, he was letting him know that he was fighting to hold on with everything he had. That night, the kid's eyes told him everything, past, present and future, the same as his gesture had told the kid. They hadn't needed words at that moment. The merest gesture conveyed a thousand words.

A cleaned up Frank stepped into the area a little further and took a long look at Mark. He was pale, unmoving. Blasted Feds. If they hadn't been so adamant about using "anonymous help," if Frank hadn't thought of using Hardcastle and McCormick… "Milt, I'm gonna go check into those theories of yours. You may be on to something. Are you staying here?"

"Until he wakes up, yeah. It's bad to wake up alone in a hospital," the Judge told him flatly.

"Tell you what, I'll stop by your house and get you some clean clothes so you won't have to wear those scrubs. I'll bring them by in the morning. Call me if there's any news or if you need anything," Frank said and went out of the area, not needing to press the Judge on his feelings.

Milt stood there, looking down once again at McCormick's battered body. This time, he took the tips of his fingers and laid it against Mark's unbandaged cheek, about the only spot that hadn't been burned, bruised or cut. And even though the kid was unconscious, he knew he'd gotten the message, but he added it softly, "I'm right here for you, kiddo, you're not alone. Like always."