A/N: ShellSueD was the mastermind behind this story. I feel very fortunate that she and LilyGhost continue to allow me to write with them. Please enjoy our Thanksgiving collaboration. JE owns most of the characters and all the mistakes are mine!

Les loved to bet.

It started when we were kids, eight or nine years old. He'd dare me to do something he considered nearly impossible and then bet me that I couldn't do it.

Bet you can't get Abuela Rosa to make us Christmas cookies in July.

Bet you can't hit a homerun when Jorge Munoz is pitching against us in the Little League championship game.

Things only escalated as we got to high school

Bet you can't seduce Mademoiselle Morrisette, the lovely co-ed who filled in when our French teacher had her gall bladder removed.

The fact that Les rarely won a bet never seemed to deter him.

When we were sixteen, he bet me that I couldn't steal Mr. Finster's tricked out El Camino and drive it around the block. He lost that bet too. Sadly, he didn't bet me that I wouldn't get caught.

When we became adults with a fair amount of disposable income, the wagers were less frequent but the stakes were higher, the rules of engagement more elaborate. Outsiders sometimes worried that Les had a closet gambling addiction, but it wasn't like that. He never played the ponies, and he hated Vegas. The bets were just part of our dynamic. More often than not, he was the one who initiated them. Sometimes I thought he did it as a way to blow off a little steam or relieve some stress. Other times, I thought he was probably just bored. Occasionally, he tried to draw one of the newer guys into it, almost like a rite of passage.

That's what happened on our last op. Mission specs called for four guys, and I'd planned on taking the core team. At the last minute, there were pressing business concerns in Trenton and Tank suggested that Dallas from the Boston office take his place. We'd been grooming Dallas for a leadership position, but he needed more field experience.

That's how Les, Bobby, Dallas and I ended up staking out a scrub-covered hill overlooking a winding dirt road that led from Matamoros, Mexico north toward Brownsville, Texas. We'd been sent to intercept a human trafficking cartel ferrying girls abducted from Guatemala to the United States.

"If our intel is correct, a white panel van is going to come barreling down this round in-" Les paused, consulted his watch, "four and a half minutes. I bet you $500 bucks you can't disable the vehicle by shooting out all four tires—"

I adjusted the scope on my rifle. "Your lack of faith wounds me, hermano."

"-with just four bullets," he continued. "No misses. No wasted ammo."

"Shit, man. That's gonna require perfect timing," Dallas chimed in before I could respond. "You've got a narrow window to get the right rear tire, maybe five seconds after the truck falls within range and before it hits the first bend in the road."

"And?" I stared at him, blank face firmly in place. Like I said, Dallas was young and needed some extra training. He continued to babble.

"Even if you hit both tires on the right, they're probably gonna shoot back —"

If? What the fuck? "Guess you guys will just have to cover me," I deadpanned.

Bobby snickered. He knew not to get involved with one of our bets. Les reached out and clapped Dallas on the back. "I like the way you think, dude. So you want in?"

"In?" For a moment, the Boston Rangeman looked puzzled.

"Five hundred bucks that he can't do it?"

"Can't?" Dallas stammered, flushing under the hot Texas sun. "No, of course, not. I mean I would never bet against the boss—"

Les silenced him with a wave of his hand and turned to me. "What's it gonna be, Ranger?"

"Make it a thousand and you've got yourself a bet."

oOoOo

An international humanitarian agency ultimately took charge of the 15 young women we found shackled in the back of the truck. We turned the traffickers over to Border Patrol and then headed to D.C. for the obligatory debriefing. After an eight-hour meeting with Homeland Security and the FBI, followed by a two-hour negotiation with my handlers, I was feeling generous. With a grand from Les tucked away in my wallet, I offered to take the team out for a late dinner.

"This day definitely calls for a celebration and a beer," Bobby said as we exited the DHS complex on Nebraska Avenue.

"Your cousin still in the kitchen at Birch and Barley?" I asked. The Logan Circle hot spot rarely had an empty table but Bobby made a call, and we were lead to a booth almost immediately after our arrival.

As our dinner was served, Les raised his beer bottle at me. "I gotta hand it to you, Ranger. You da man. You really did have the feds eating of your hand by the end."

I tipped mine in his direction. "It's a gift."

"Must be. I never thought you'd convince them to let you go after just one more mission, and a training mission at that." My cousin took a long drink and swallowed. "You know, I've never been able to figure out why you haven't used your super powers of persuasion on Stephanie."

"How do you know I haven't?"

"Seriously? So that's why she's been in and out of the cop's bed for the last three years?" Dallas' eyes widened, and Bobby gave a warning shake of his head, trying to settle us both down. With Tank back in Trenton, it would be his job to break up any fights.

"Fuck you, Santos." I was never going to admit to him that was exactly why she and Morelli had lasted as long as they had. At one point in time, I was convinced he was the better choice for her… that he could offer her what she deserved when I couldn't. I guessed that I'd been reasonably persuasive for her to have put up with his shit for so long. "At least I convinced her to work at RangeMan."

My cousin snorted. "We all know that was Silvio. He convinced Steph that he couldn't possibly take six weeks of paternity leave to spend time with Carly and the twins unless she filled in for him." He motioned to the waiter for another round. "Let's face it, Primo. You don't exactly have a strong track record of getting the lovely Miss Plum to fall in line and behave like the rest of the employees do."

"You behave?" I asked him incredulously.

"No, seriously. Let's look at your track record." He picked a sweet potato fry out of the basket on the table.

"One. She's still living in that crappy apartment of hers, even though we have at least two empty units for employees on four."

"She values her independence. That's one of the things I admire about her."

Les rolled his eyes. "Right." He grabbed another fry and waved it at me before popping it in his mouth. "Two. She still hates to carry her gun—"

"She's getting better. She puts in her mandatory range time."

"Only because Hector and Zip escort her there and make sure she gets it done."

"I heard she has a desk drawer full of TastyKakes," Dallas interjected. "Is that just rumor or—"

"True story," Bobby confirmed. "She also hides her Ben and Jerry's in Ella's freezer."

I considered telling them about Steph's jelly donut hormones. When she was still with Morelli, it pained me to think about her being in his bed, and I fed her some sugar just out of spite. Now? I was trying to take things slow until we finished the contract and I could get my shit together where she was concerned.

"You've been completely unsuccessful in getting her sweet ass of bed to run with us in the morning—"

"Quit thinking about her ass, Santos."

Dallas made a sound… I couldn't tell if he was laughing or choking. I turned to him, keeping my voice low.

"What's the matter, Dallas? You agreeing with Santos? You think my woman has a nice ass?"

"No sir."

Santos smacked the back of his head. "Liar."

"I mean, yes sir, Stephanie—" I glared at him, "er, Ms. Plum has a fabulous ass. But I would never think about it," he finished weakly, his face nearly as red as the Siracha sauce Les had squirted all over the fries.

"Face it, man. She's immune to you. You're never going to convince her to do something that she doesn't really want to do."

"Is that a challenge, Les?"

He grinned at me. "Speaking of her ass…"

"Don't go there, "I warned him, willing my body to behave. Stephanie really did have a spectacular ass. "There is not a man on earth who could get her to agree to that."

"OK, OK. Lemme think for a minute." He drained his second beer and tapped his finger against his chin.

"Guys, this is Bomber you're talking about it," Bobby broke in. "Are you sure it's a good idea to bet on her?"

Les turned serious. "Stephanie is an amazing woman, and I would never do anything to hurt her. But this is really about Ranger and what he's willing and able to do." He leaned over and whispered something in my ear. "There's no way that you'll ever get her to… "

I slumped back in the booth and couldn't help but laugh at him.

"You wanna bet?"

oOoOo

We caught the first flight out of DC to Newark, and it was just after 8 when I let myself into Stephanie's apartment.

As I stepped into her foyer, I heard the sounds of the shower, confirming my suspicions that she was awake, but had not yet fully started her day.

I placed the bag of donuts on the breakfast bar, along with a small box I pulled from my coat pocket, before turning my attention to the coffee maker on the kitchen counter.

Less than five minutes later, I heard Stephanie's voice. "Hey, is that coffee I smell?" She appeared in the hallway, wearing a fluffy blue bathrobe with a white towel wrapped around her head, turban-style. She pulled up short as soon as she saw the small blue box tied with a white satin ribbon.

"What the hell, Ranger?"

"I'm glad to see you too, Babe."

"What is that?" She pointed to the box accusingly, her lower lip quivering. Interesting that she hadn't seemed to notice the Tasty Pastry bag.

I poured her a cup of coffee and added a little milk, no sugar. "One way to find out. Open it."

"But—"

I stalked over to her with the coffee, pressing the warm mug into her hands. "Do you trust me, Stephanie?"

"Of course but—"

I shook my head at her. She took a sip of coffee and swallowed hard before she placed her mug on the counter. Then she reached for the box, pulled the ribbon off and flipped the lid. She stared at the contents, chewing on her lower lip. Finally, she met my gaze and shook her head.

"No. More specifically, hell no."

"Think about it."

"We've been over this before. I don't need or want this—"

"But I do. Please, Querida. It's important to me." That took some of the wind out of her sails. She grabbed her mug and took another sip of coffee without ever taking the offensive object out of its pretty packaging. "I don't understand," she finally said.

"It's a panic alarm with a GPS, state of the art. I picked it up on my … on my last trip." My CIA buddy in DC told me this one is the best available, on or off the market.

"You've given me a lot of trackers in the past." I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

"No, Babe, that's not true." She started to argue, but I pulled her close to me and pressed a kiss against her lips, preventing her from getting a word out. "I've hidden the trackers in your purse, your car, in various articles of your clothing. This one's different."

"Explain."

"I'm asking you to accept this one, Stephanie. I want you to carry it as a symbol of the promise we make to one other."

"A promise?" she stammered.

From that point forward, I couldn't have cared less about the bet. "You promise to do your best to stay safe, to take care of the one person in this world that I don't think I can live without… the person I love and cherish above all others." I ducked my head and kissed her again, deep and slow. My Abuela was right. Honesty was the best policy.

"I…I guess I can do that." She pulled back a little so that she could look me in the eye. "And you're making a promise too?"

I nodded. "I promise that you can depend on me. When you need me, I will be there for you. If you are in trouble, I will always find you."

"Always?" Now she sounded hopeful.

"You can bet on it."

oOoOo

After keeping Stephanie at an uncomfortable distance for nearly three years, I expected that it would take more than a week or two to convince her that I was ready for a different kind of relationship. Unfortunately, that was all the time I had. Ten days after I arrived back in Trenton, I received new orders from my government handler. NATO forces were planning war games on Turkey's border with Syria, and my assignment involved exercise analysis and training.

I'd planned to tell Stephanie after dinner on seven, so I asked Ella to make her favorites. Uncharacteristically, though, Steph just picked at her lasagna and refused dessert.
"You know I love Ella's tiramisu, but I don't think I could eat another bite right now."

I topped off our wine glasses before I followed her to the living room. She'd bypassed the couch and was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out into the darkness. I deposited the glasses on the coffee table and went to stand behind her, pulling her back to my front. I buried my nose in her curls and breathed in her sweet scent. God I was going to miss her.

"When do you leave?" Steph asked quietly, making me wonder if I'd uttered that last thought out loud.

"Day after tomorrow but how did you-?"

"Because I know you," she broke in. "I'm guessing you got the news this afternoon because you've been a little different since you got back from the meeting at the bank. You've already gone into mission mode. Do you know how long you'll be gone?"

"If all goes according to plan, a couple of weeks, maybe."

She sighed and relaxed into me, tilting her head so I could kiss her neck. "That's not so bad. It's a training mission, so you promise not to get shot, right?"

I tapped the right front pocket of her jeans. "As long as you promise not to go crazy and forget to carry your panic alarm."

Unfortunately, an unscripted incident involving a Russian plane bordered more on war than game, and it was a month before I made it back state-side. Surprisingly, Bobby was the Rangeman waiting for me in the arrivals area at Newark.

"Core team doing airport duty now?" I would have worried about the implications, but I'd called Tank as soon as we'd landed and he hadn't mentioned any major problems.

Bobby shrugged as he put the Navigator in gear and pulled away from the curb.

"We have three guys out with some sort of gastrointestinal illness, and we're on a holiday schedule. It's all hands on deck." He looked over at me and grinned. "There was an accident on I-95 and traffic sucked, but coming to collect your sorry ass is still better than monitor duty."

"Good to know." I let my head fall back against the headrest and closed my eyes. "Did my special order arrive while I was away?"

Bobby laughed. "Oh yeah. I parked it in my garage and covered it with a tarp. I still can't believe you bought Santos a car for Christmas."

"He's had his eye on that one for a while."

"So that's what you did with your winnings from the bet? He lost his year-end bonus to you, and you turn right around and buy him a vintage Corvette Stingray with it?"

"Technically, I used his bonus to buy the—" Before I could finish the sentence, my phone pinged as did Bobby's. Steph had just activated her panic alarm.