Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Lancer.

Part One

Lancer Wild Life Preserve

The engine roar of two vehicles destroyed the nocturnal serenity of the Lancer Wild Life Preserve.

Murdoch Lancer, dozing at his desk, bolted upright hearing excited whoops over the sound of the engines.

Damn it! Weeks of petty thieving and vandalism had now escalated into car theft.

"Paul!" Murdoch prayed his manager hadn't made it to bed yet as he yanked the French doors open in time to see the driver of the first vehicle gun the Land Rover's engine, and spin a 180 on the yard, kicking up sod in all directions. The second thief followed the other's lead, mangling the manicured lawn even more and followed the Rover's bumper with suicidal closeness as they raced their way down the long sweeping drive.

Lights flipped on behind him, as Paul, with his daughter Teresa at his heels reached Murdoch as the departing vehicles swept under the Lancer arch.

"Car thieves, they've got the Rover, come on!" Murdoch ran past them to the garage housing all the Preserve's vehicles

~#~#~#~

Paul reeled at the ramifications of the Land Rover's theft. Here was proof that the vandalism Lancer was experiencing was not some kids out to cause trouble, but a very real threat that was escalating as the time passed.

Laying a hand on his daughter's shoulder, Paul winced inwardly at her pale, shocked face. "It'll be okay, honey, get back in the house and call the police.

A quick nod and long brown hair flying, Teresa turned to the hacienda. Paul sprinted to the garage and, hearing his name, caught the keys Murdoch lobbed his way. Both men knew that Paul's night vision was better. They jumped into the Ranger, and as Paul drove the vehicle out he was relieved to see Teresa inside the house, phone in hand. Better yet, Maria was beside her.

Pressing hard on the accelerator, Paul steered the truck into a right hand turn, the faint dust of the other two vehicles giving him the direction he needed to follow. Beside him, Murdoch pulled out his cell phone and Paul knew his employer would relay the car thieves' directions to the police.

As long as they could keep them in sight there was a good chance the police could catch them.

Coming into a curve, Paul tapped the brake. It felt spongy under his foot and unresponsive. Pressing down further he realized with a start that the brakes were gone. The car careened down the road, spitting up gravel. He grappled with the steering wheel, barely registering Murdoch shouting in the seat next to him. With a flicker of nausea, he realized they were going to hit the embankment. He clutched at the emergency brake in desperation. The wall of dirt came up too fast. A vision of Teresa flashed through Paul's mind, but too soon there was nothing.

~#~#~#~

Murdoch awakened slowly, as if swimming toward the surface of dark water. Air was clogged in his throat and a whooshing sound thumped in his ears.

"Paul?" His voice was hollow; reedy with the effort it took to form words. He shifted, sending searing pain through his leg and back. Panic came all too quickly…Paul?

~#~#~#~

Boston

Scott Lancer was satisfied with how his evening was progressing. He found Barbara, a restless socialite with more intelligence than many gave her credit for, a most enjoyable diversion. A woman who clearly wanted to be diverted from the obligatory social function they were required to attend. At least the CancerCare fundraiser gave some semblance of propriety. And no one cared how long they stayed at the party, only that they wrote several generous checks.

Reclining on the comfortable sofa in her apartment, with Barbara's lush curves pressed against him, soft strains of If Only for One Night came through the stereo. Well, Mr. Vandross certainly had it right.

He swirled his half-full champagne glass in slow circles, watching while Barbara removed her earring. With a sensual smile full of promise, she removed the bit of sparkle and dropped in into his glass.

"Barbara!"

Of course, it couldn't last.

Startled, she looked toward the door and groaned, "Oh, please. That would be the ex-boyfriend."

"Does the ex know he's an ex?" Scott Lancer did not poach. He never found the need nor condoned such an action.

"It was a recent development."

"How recent?"

"A few hours." Scott raised a brow; Barbara gave him an apologetic shrug.

The door rattled on its hinges as the pounding resumed with more force.

"Open this door!" Other male voices joined the ex-boyfriends'.

Scott couldn't help the grin when a very unrefined curse left Barbara's lips and allowed her to pull him to his feet.

"I'd love to continue this, but he has his friends with him, and I'm not in the mood to end this very pleasant evening with a battle in my living room." She stroked his cheek. "And I like this face too much to see anything happen to it."

Scott fought the sigh. A shame really. The rest of the night had looked so full of…potential.

Barbara pulled him to the French doors that led to the fire escape, and he allowed it until he realized he was forgetting things. Tugging out of her grasp, he headed back to the interior of the room. "My coat."

The pounding continued from beyond the door. "There's somebody in there with you, Barbara, and I know who it is." By the tone of voice, the man's testiness at being excluded had just ratcheted up a notch or two.

Scott took his time gathering up his dress coat and slipped his Blackberry into his tuxedo jacket. The apples looked appealing in the nearby fruit bowl and he plucked one out, deciding that he might as well get something tasty out of the night.

"Barbara!"

Really, someone should call the police.

Scott took one last look at her, all tousled hair and pouty lips. Bending in, he caressed her jaw line, then cupped her chin. Eyebrows rose when her mouth opened under his, hot and hungry.

The door being splintered from the other side registered, and with regret he left her lips. Saluting her with the apple, he grinned and took a bite of the fruit.

Scott nodded to the door. "As much as I hate to eat and run…"

Turning away, he slipped through the doors.

~#~#~#~

Three men burst into her apartment, breaking the doorframe, just in time to see Scott Lancer's form-fitting coat tails flying down the fire escape. She touched her lips where they still burned from his kiss, then turned to face the intruders. It was a triple threat, or would be, if they had two brains to rub together. Roderick, Terrance and Jason.

"Stop!" yelled Terrance.

She chuckled. As if Scott was going to listen to him, because seriously, who ever did listen to Terrance?

Roderick flew around the room proving himself more of an idiot. "The other way. The other way."

She waited it out until a frustrated Roderick turned his attention to her. "Well, Barbara, why don't you explain this to me?"

"Sure, right after you tell me why you stood me up – again." Not a thing that any self-respecting woman would tolerate, much less from a man who decided he had a proprietary claim on her because they went out a few times.

"It wasn't intentional, Barbie. I lost track of time with the guys."

Barbie? Did he expect that to make any points with her? She had hated that nickname since the second grade, especially with the inevitable comparisons to the Barbie Doll.

Stepping into his space, she pressed a sharp-tipped, perfectly manicured nail into his sternum. "You and your steroidal friends are fixing my door and I will be at the Four Seasons with your credit card." She was delighted to see him wince.

The expense wouldn't bother Roderick, but the idea behind it would. After her door was repaired, and the charges had run through on his card, Barbara would break up with the idiot. This was one half-assed relationship that had gone long past its due date.

She should have followed Scott Lancer out the window. That man knew how to kiss.

~#~#~#~

Picking up and brushing off his coat, Scott left through the garden gate and headed down the street. Whistling, he decided that the evening had been interesting—all in all. It was perhaps a little livelier than many of his past evenings of late. Not ready for it to end, he pulled out his Blackberry to see if anyone was in the mood for a game of poker.

He was startled out of that pleasant thought when a man stepped out of the shadows. Thinking of survival, Scott stepped back and raised his hands. The man didn't react at all to his motions, calmly remaining where he was. The bland expression and non-descript suit providing no clues as to why this man blocked his path.

"You're Scott Lancer?" His voice was as monotone as the rest of him.

Feeling as if the stranger already knew the answer, Scott inclined his head a fraction. "And if I am?"

"The son of Murdoch Lancer?"

Now that was a name he wasn't expecting to hear. It appeared the evening wasn't through with him yet. "So I'm told. Never met the gentleman myself."

"Lawby's the name, Pinkerton office. We find people." The newly introduced Lawby handed Scott his card.

Pinkerton? How…quaint.

"Well, I haven't lost any. So as much as I've enjoyed our little conversation…" He accepted the card to end the interaction and side-stepped the agent to continue on his walk.

Lawby wasn't finished with either him or the conversation. "Your father wants to see you and he's willing to pay for it."

What was wrong with using the phone? Scott would have enjoyed the petty opportunity to hang up on the days he didn't think of Murdoch Lancer. Those childish dreams had long passed.

In spite of himself, Scott stopped. He didn't turn around, but the agent knew he was listening.

"All expenses paid to California and ten thousand dollars for one hour of your time."

Scott wasn't sure if he felt insulted or incredulous, and he wasn't comfortable questioning the agent about his absent parent. The stray thought that it would be less risky to play poker than meet with his father skittered through his mind.

Of course, that's probably why he would go.

~#~#~#~

Mexico

Johnny Madrid wasn't satisfied with how his latest free-lance assignment turned out. Doing the layout for Bride's Magazine was starting to look better and better all the time. But no, he'd turned that down in favor of this little south of the border vacation. He was well aware that this area of Mexico was volatile, and the rough rope binding his hands behind his back only enforced that fact. Kneeling on the ground with semi-automatic machine guns waving in his face, all Johnny could think of was the itch on his nose that he couldn't scratch.

He didn't want to think of Jorge forced to kneel beside him. A man, who ensured that once his family made it to safety, remained behind to make certain that the rest of his village was beyond the reach of the wannabe drug cartel.

He didn't want to think about the blindfolded man kneeling defiantly before the makeshift firing squad.

Pleading for his life, the man's words were cut off as he was brutally cut down. Johnny controlled his body's reactive flinch at the sound of gunfire, but it was close.

Shit.

They had almost made it.

Jorge muttered a prayer in a soothing cadence, and Johnny had to marvel at that kind of faith. Marveled, but accepted that the chances were good that he had taken his last photo.

Expensive shoes and slacks blocked Johnny's view of the murdered man. Not a bad thing, but this particular bastard behaved as if he was spending a pleasant afternoon out on his patio. Johnny knew him only as Suarez. A cigar dangled from the man's fingers, its smoke wafting into Johnny's face.

"Get up you're next." Suarez motioned to rise with his other hand--the one with the gun. "I'm telling you to get up."

Slowly, Johnny got to his feet by leaning forward and coming up on his knees. He shook off the old sombrero one of their captors had laughingly put on his head after Johnny's hands had been bound.

He didn't want to die, but felt worse that Jorge wouldn't live to see his children again, and that his kids would grow up without their father. They had enough going against them as it was.

Lost in his thoughts, it took him a moment to realize he could hear the sound of motor. An old truck was bouncing its way down the pitiful excuse of road. The driver's head was poking out the window. "Hold up there! Wait up there!"

The man whipped off the road, the small truck spitting gravel, and looked about the area. He picked out Suarez and addressed him, "I'm looking for a man named Madrid. Johnny Madrid. I was told he might be one of your prisoners."

This was an unexpected, but most welcome, interlude from being shot down. Johnny took a step towards the driver. "I'm Madrid."

"Well, finally found you." With obvious relief the driver, the driver stepped out of the truck. His floppy jacket was wrinkled and travel stained, and he pushed his weathered baseball cap back on his head.

Turning back to Suarez, he spoke in poor Spanish. "Senor, it's, ah, muy importante that you not kill el Senor Madrid. Savvy?" He pulled out a thick billfold from his back pocket. "La vida of El Senor Madrid is worth muy dinero."

Johnny cringed as the man showed the gang the money again before asking, "Savvy?"

Suarez showed an oily smile. "Mucho gusto." Pleased, he prepared to accept the money by sliding his gun into his waistband. Some of Suarez's men gathered around him.

The driver handed the leader some cash. "That oughta do it." Putting the billfold back in his pocket, he headed for Johnny.

Wary, Johnny watched Suarez as the driver reached him. "Why are you doing this?"

The driver cut his hands loose. "I'm a Pinkerton Agent. Your father wants to see you."

His father? "You mean Lancer?"

"He's willing to give ya ten thousand dollars for an hour of your time."

Johnny didn't have time to absorb that before he overheard Suarez and his men talking. He wasn't surprised they were going to take the rest of the money they saw in the billfold. He thought the agent was unaware of their predicament until a gun was pressed into his hand.

They charged to the truck at a dead run. He scooped up Jorge along the way, feeling bullets kicking up the dirt by their feet. Somehow, it clicked into place. The agent went high and Johnny low, both guns firing simultaneously. The faintest flicker of irritation crossed Suarez's face as a couple of his men fell down.

The Pinkerton continued to fire from behind the partial safety of the open car door. "Shall I tell your father you're coming?"

Johnny pushed Jorge into the backseat. "For ten thousand dollars I'd even go to hell!" Besides, he needed to replace his lost camera and equipment since it looked like he was going to shoot those damn wedding pictures after all. He took one quick glance at what could have been and threw himself into the already-moving truck.

TBC