A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. Did someone order whumping?

Chapter 7

He took the maid's car. One of Dillon's maids was a plain, rather dour girl, who owned a navy 1990 Buick Park Avenue sedan. It had once been a very nice car, but was outdated and worn, the navy paint faded, like old blue jeans. She'd probably gotten it cheap – a practical car for a practical girl. Sean's own car was back at his apartment and he felt instinctively it would be better not to drive it, or any of Dillon's stable of thoroughbred vehicles. A short time after he was sure the feds were gone, Sean had slunk out of the house, and pulled the girl's sedan up from the servant's entrance, and transferred his belongings from Dillon's trunk to the Park Avenue.

He'd taken two hits of meth, right off. He'd looked longingly at the rest of the stash, but he needed to keep a clear head. Too little and the physical symptoms were overwhelming, too much and he was high. With a double dose he could still feel a physical need, but at least he could think. And he needed to be able to think.

The first thing he did was to go to his dealer. Sarko was one of Lenny's people – he hadn't heard the news yet, and Sean didn't tell him his boss had just been picked up by the feds. He didn't want to scare the guy off before he could get what he needed. First on the list, several days' worth of meth. He walked with Sarko down the alley, to that week's back room – Sarko changed locations weekly.

"How much you need?" asked Sarko, pulling open the drawer of a beat up file cabinet. The room was dirty, dingy, lit by a bare bulb in the ceiling. Sarko plopped a bag on the scarred wood table between them. Sean told him, and the dealer began to count out hits.

Sarko sold not only drugs, but other items of questionable origin or purpose, and some of them were laid out on the table. Sean picked up a switchblade, trying it out; then asked casually. "You got anything to knock someone out with?"

Sarko grinned. "Girl not cooperating? I got roofies."

"This ain't about a girl," snarled Sean. His shoulder jumped in a spasm and he rolled his head. "I need to knock someone out for a little while."

Sarko looked at him warily; then retrieved a small bottle from a drawer, thinking to himself that the man looked like he was about to come unglued. "Chloroform," he said, handing him the bottle. "Oh, and I got this –," he turned and rummaged in the drawer, and produced a device that looked almost like Sean's electric razor. Sarko set it on the table. "It's a Taser. C2 - latest model."

Sean eyed it with interest. "Whaddya do – touch 'em with it?"

"Nah, you're thinkin' of a stun gun – those aren't nearly as powerful. This is the same thing the cops use - the sucker'll drop a 300 lb guy like that. In fact, you have to stand away from them a few feet, or it might arc over to you. You aim it and hit 'em for two or three seconds, and they go down – short-circuits their muscles for a minute or two. If you need 'em down longer than that, you hit 'em longer – but you need to be careful – too long a hit or too many hits can kill a guy." He looked as Sean curiously. "I got guns, too, serial numbers removed, and cell phones."

Sean considered a minute, then set the bottle in front of him, and eyed the Taser on the table. He put it next to the bottle and laid down the switchblade with them. "I'll take these – and a cell phone. Charge it to Lenny."

Sarko frowned. "You know Lenny doesn't want you chargin' to him. At least not the drugs." He stared at Sean. "What do you need this stuff for, anyway?"

Sean fixed a cold eye on him. "It's family business. You'll hear soon enough. And if you don't charge it, you'll be hearin' from Lenny."

Sarko shrugged. "Okay. I'm gonna tell him you told me to do it – it'll be your ass."

Sean grinned, and the expression sent a chill down Sarko's spine. "Lenny ain't gonna care," Sean said. "You can trust me on that."

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Don managed to get up for the first time at close to nine p.m. He was still a little woozy and unsteady on his feet, but he made it to the bathroom and back, successfully, and the trip made the bed he'd been itching to get out of infinitely more attractive. He ached all over – it wasn't just the bruised areas that were a problem; every muscle in his body was stiff. He still had a nasty headache, but it had improved tremendously, and he was due for pain medication soon. He was actually preparing himself for a decent night's sleep when his team showed up. Alan was already dozing in a chair and jerked awake at their entrance, and excused himself so they could talk.

"How're you feeling?" asked Colby.

"Like I was hit by a truck," said Don with a wry look. "Actually, a little better."

He scanned their faces. "You're here to tell me about the Moran case."

Megan looked at him quizzically. "Charlie talked to you, then?"

An expression flitted across Don's face that she couldn't identify. "Yeah," he said. "He told me he put together a report and gave it to you."

Megan smiled; a glint of triumph in her eyes. "We got 'em. Took down nearly two dozen meth houses – just where Charlie said they'd be."

Don felt a surge relief at her statement. Charlie did have enough evidence, then; his brother's instincts had been right. He stifled a grin at the thought – Walsh was going to have to eat his words. David's cell phone beeped and he excused himself, stepping aside, and she continued. "We arrested Dillon Moran and Lenny Angelo. They were both at Dillon's home office." She hesitated, wondering if she should tell Don about what they'd overheard.

Before she could make up her mind, Colby jumped in. "Yeah, we caught some of their conversation before we went in. They were talking to someone on the phone named Mick O'Reilly. He's apparently their computer guy, and he must have tapped in to Charlie's computer somehow – they knew Charlie had been on their system. They'd just found out - it was a good thing we picked them up when we did."

Don's face had gone pale. In an instant, he was second-guessing his position on whether or not he'd let Charlie consult again. "You're sure – that they just found out, I mean. They didn't have time to get the word out to anyone?"

Megan interceded, with a raised eyebrow at Colby. "LAPD's already picked O'Reilly up. And no, they didn't have time to get word out to anyone else."

Don felt a bit of relief at that, but he still was concerned; there was one person unaccounted for. "What about Sean Moran?"

"The judge wouldn't give us a warrant for him. We didn't have evidence he was connected to the meth ring."

David had snapped his phone shut, and had rejoined the group, his face grim. "But we do have evidence he's connected to the hit-and-run of a federal officer. That was LAPD. They found a truck earlier today at Maximum Enterprises that looked like it had been in a collision – they checked it out – results just came in. Paint samples on the front bumper matched Don's SUV, and guess whose fingerprints they found inside?"

"Sean Moran," breathed Colby.

Don's mind raced, as he processed the implications of that. "What is Maximum Enterprises?"

"A construction company, part of Angelo's operations," said Megan, frowning. "They ordered equipment for the meth labs there, and hid the orders among legitimate ones. Charlie told us to look there for the truck that hit you." She looked at Colby and David. "We need to raise Judge Wilson, and get him a revised arrest warrant for Sean Moran."

She turned her gaze on Don. "I was going to pull your protection, but in light of this, I'm keeping your detail on until we pick Sean up. I'll get someone on Charlie, too. Do you know where he is?"

Don's throat tightened a bit. "No. He left here at around six. He looked pretty tired – maybe he's at home."

Megan looked at him. "Do you want to call him?"

Don looked abashed. "Maybe you'd better. I'm not sure he'd pick up my call right now."

Megan raised a questioning eyebrow, but Don didn't offer anything further. "Okay," she said, "we'd better get on this. David, you head over to Charlie's until I can get someone assigned. Colby, you head back to the office and get Sean's photo over to LAPD, and tell them to prepare an APB, the warrant's coming. I'll hook up with Judge Wilson and get the warrant processed." She looked at Don. "Don't worry – we'll cover this." She smiled reassuringly. "It's almost over."

Don nodded, trying to calm his flipping gut. He was being paranoid, he told himself. Charlie was probably fine. He managed to keep his hands still until they left the room, and as soon as they were gone, he reached for the phone and dialed Charlie's cell phone. Maybe Charlie wouldn't pick up, but he was at least going to try.

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Charlie had jumped in the Prius after leaving the hospital, too upset even to think about where he was going – he just drove. The car had been repaired for the second time in weeks, but it still smelled like smoke. The odor hung in the air like an ugly reminder as he traveled. Up into the hills, then down again, through areas he'd never been before. He finally ended up on Colorado Boulevard, and came to a stop at Santa Monica Pier. There, he parked and strolled aimlessly for a while. The sun had set, and a few fishermen lingered on the end of the pier, trying their luck after dark, braving the stiff breeze. Charlie stood and watched them for a bit, hands in his pockets, and then turned and trudged down the nearly deserted beach. He stopped after a while, and planted his feet in the sand, staring out at the dark water, whipped into turmoil by the wind.

He'd known when he compiled the report he would probably incur Don's wrath. He had done it anyway – if he wanted the Morans taken into custody, he really didn't have a choice, and knowing that, he'd probably make the same decision all over again, if he had to. It just didn't seem fair that he was in the position to begin with – why was he faced with such a choice? His brother's safety vs. their relationship – a relationship that now seemed to be disintegrating. Why did he have to give one up to get the other? And did Don really think he consulted for the prestige of it – to try to appear superior?

Granted, he hated to be wrong, and there were times that being ordered around rankled and he'd complained – but surely he hadn't given the impression he was trying to show Don up. He admitted he pushed it sometimes, especially when Don blew off a proposal that Charlie knew was the right direction, but he always accepted Don's final call, and Charlie never asked for credit at the end of the case. It was enough that it was solved successfully. It was enough to get that look of gratitude from his brother, the pat on the shoulder, the "Nice job, Charlie." Like an obedient puppy. Now that he was no longer consulting for Don, he'd probably never experience that again. It had been the closest thing to acceptance he'd ever gotten from his brother, and now it was gone.

He shook himself. It shouldn't matter. He was a leader in his field, sought after by the private and public sectors alike. He spent his days doing what he loved, immersed in numbers. He had a comfortable home, a beautiful and intelligent girlfriend, and their relationship was growing stronger every day. He shouldn't need his brother's approval and acceptance, a real relationship with him, to vindicate who he was. It shouldn't matter. But, God, it did.

A gust of wind, the incessant Santa Ana, hit him, pelting him with a blast of sand. It was October, and starting to get cool at night; and it was always nearly ten degrees cooler out on the pier. He shivered, and sighed, and started trudging toward his car. The Santa Ana winds were increasing again, and based on the horrific experience the week before, they did nothing but blow ill luck his way.

He got home shortly after nine, dead tired, and none too soon; he'd been nodding at the wheel. He got out of the car in a daze, and was halfway to the house before he picked up the faint ring of his cell phone, still in the car. He plodded back for it, sand swishing in his shoes. The ringing had stopped by the time he got there, and he hit the button for voicemail. Don's voice came on.

"Hey, Buddy. I, uh – well, just give me a call when you get a chance."

Hey Buddy? Just a few hours ago, his brother had been yelling at him to get out. Charlie sighed. It was just another way in which they were different; Don blew up and got over it quickly, and Charlie brooded. Whatever it was, it could wait until morning. He hadn't the patience or the strength for another draining conversation this evening. Or worse yet, another argument.

He slipped his shoes off at the front door and shook them out before going in. The house phone was ringing – probably Don, trying the home number. Charlie treaded carefully forward through the dark house to turn on a lamp. The warm glow lightened the room, and he sat wearily down on the sofa, slipping off his jacket, removing sandy socks, and inspecting his injured foot. He was due to get the stitches out the next day. Probably a good thing. It would be an excuse to get out of the house when Don came home.

His cell phone rang again and he groaned, but glanced at it anyway, and was surprised to see Megan's number come up. He flipped it open. "Yeah, Megan."

"Charlie – hi. Where are you?"

"At home. I just got here."

"Everything okay? Are you in for the night?"

How should he answer that? 'Oh, it's been a lovely night. Got blasted by my brother. How about you?' Instead, he said, "Yeah. Everything's fine. And yes, I'm not going anywhere else."

"Okay. Look, we picked up Dillon Moran and Lenny Angelo, and raided the meth labs. It was a clean sweep – we got everyone but Sean Moran. The judge wouldn't give us a warrant for him at the time, but I'm on my way to get one now – we found the truck that hit Don, and Sean's fingerprints were in it – LAPD just called us. Just to be safe, I'm going to put someone on your house until we pick him up. David's coming – he should get there in about twenty minutes, and when I can line up an officer, I'll have them take over."

Charlie rubbed his face with a resigned expression. "Okay. Twenty minutes. Is he coming in?"

"No, he doesn't have to unless you want him to. I was just going to have him sit in his car until LAPD got a man over there, and they'd trade off without bothering you."

"No, that's good," said Charlie with relief. He didn't feel like dealing with people tonight. "I was going straight to bed. Have him tell the LAPD officer to park in the street – I'm not sure if my dad will need to get into the driveway later."

"Okay, that's fine. I don't think you need to worry, but lock the doors before you go up. And Charlie – thanks for all your help today. We never would have gotten them without you."

"Yeah, sure, no problem." At least someone was grateful.

He disconnected and shut the phone with a snap, and the faintest noise behind him made him whip his head around to look. Nothing. Megan had him imagining things. He turned back around with a rueful grin and picked up his socks, preparing to stand, when suddenly the light went out. His head snapped up, and he sat still, listening for a split second. Nothing. He shook his head in the darkness; amused at his own paranoia. The bulb had probably burned out, he told himself. He'd change it in the morning. There was a faint light streaming through the windows from the streetlight outside, enough so that he could see his way to the switch that illuminated the stairs.

He stood; socks in hand, and took a tentative step toward the stairs. He heard a strange buzzing sound, and the jolt hit him before he could take another step.

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End Chapter 7