A few more episode references: Backscatter, Pandora's Box, Undercurrents.

School starts tomorrow. I don't know what the workload will be yet, but--I can't go much slower with this, let me tell you.

E is for Enemy, Part 7

Megan arrived at the FBI offices on Friday morning to a lobby full of annoyed agents. A floor's worth of annoyed agents, to be precise, most of whom she recognized. She stopped, yanked her earbuds from her ears, and stared at the line of people snaking away from the receptionist's desk. The receptionist, Stan, normally greeted the world with an admirable air of unflappable cheer, but this morning he looked harried and miserable as he dealt with each agent in turn. Most of the agents continued on to the bank of elevators, but some--the ones Megan recognized--backed away from Stan with disgusted looks. Some turned around and left, while others milled about uncertainly.

Megan took a detour to a security guard at the entrance. "What's going on?"

"What floor do you work on?" The guard--Paula, according to her nametag--looked just as disgusted as everyone else.

"Fifth."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, you're going to have to wait down here until the all-clear is given."

Great. Just what I need. Megan sighed. "The all-clear for what?"

"I suggest you contact your team leader, ma'am."

Megan locked eyes with the guard for a moment before she realized the sort of challenge she was issuing and stepped back with another sigh. She was tired, she was hungry, she needed caffeine, she desperately wanted this misery to come to an end. The guard was not the person to take it out on. "I think I'll do that, Paula," she said as she retrieved her phone and dialed.

A shrill ringing pulled her around. Don and David were standing together next to a conversational grouping of overstuffed leather armchairs. Don already had his phone in his hand, peering down at it. "Don, it's me," Megan called, and he jerked his head up to scan the lobby, twitched like a horse under a cloud of flies when David touched his shoulder and pointed. God, he looked horrible, but then he always looked horrible now, and the clean morning sun pouring in through the exterior windows only made him look worse.

David raised a hand in greeting as she approached. He didn't look so hot either, though where Don looked physically ill, David merely looked tired and defeated. For a moment Megan emerged from her own anger, her own defeat, and felt a familiar flash of concern for these men. Her friends. Don and David were not the people to take this out on, either.

Megan glanced at the elevators. Her sudden burst of fellow feeling didn't change the fact that she was still hungry, she still needed coffee. Who should she take this out on? "What's going on?"

Don hooked his phone back on his belt and stared at the floor. His eyes looked dead. "AD Wright called me this morning. There's been a change of plans." His voice didn't sound any better.

"Change of plans?"

Don remained silent and David glanced at him. "Apparently the AD received word of the possibility of an ambush."

"Colby?" Megan heard her voice rise, but she didn't care.

"Yeah. The floor's being swept as we speak. And then--" David faltered, looked at Don again.

"What? Then what?"

"The floor will be locked down. The interrogation is to be conducted with a skeleton crew. Colby's US Marshal escort to provide security on the floor and--" Don looked up. "Us."

"Us?" Megan gaped at him. David stared out the windows.

Don kept looking at her through his dead eyes and a part of Megan whispered to her that Don and a flat affect did not go together, but a bigger part thought of interrogating Colby and wanted to retch. "Dwayne Carter intended to sell a fourth name," Don said. "They decided they couldn't take a chance with the interrogation team they put together. We know Colby, we know the cases--"

"'They'? Who's this 'they'? Can't 'they' change the venue? Postpone the interrogation? Don, this is seriously messed up." Megan did not want to take this out on Colby. She was afraid of how easy that might prove to be.

"I know, Megan." Don's throat worked as he looked away. "Believe me," he said in that same dead voice. "It's not my idea."

2.718281828459 2.718281828459 2.718281828459 2.718281828459

Eyes forward, face blank, hands clasped at the waist. Heavy chains making his biceps burn. Strides so short he needed to take two for each step taken by the marshal escorting him so that he was almost jogging, a funny, bouncy little stride that made the chains feel even heavier. The shackle shuffle, Colby thought. Not a step that was likely to go over on Line Dancing Night at any of the cowboy bars he used to frequent in college, so long ago.

Funny how he was thinking more about home now the prison walls had tightened around him.

"That's the Fed?"

"Pretty boy, ain't you, Fed."

"Sooner or later they're gonna hand you to us and you're gonna be everybody's bitch, Fed."

Eyes front. Face blank. Don't think about the future. Colby hated himself for feeling grateful that he'd had his own cell, showered alone, eaten alone. But as the weeks since his arrest had passed with no word from his handler, no answer to the phone calls he placed to a certain untraceable cell phone number, Colby had begun to fear that the catcalling inmates were right. He was looking at having his service to his country rewarded by a long prison stay among an inmate population that would not appreciate the fact he had already sacrificed himself for his country.

Maybe someone would take pity on him and at least send him home--to the ICI in Orofino, maybe, or a military brig at Fairchild. Air Force, but he should get something for his trouble, and Fairchild AFB was not only the closest to home, it was least likely to put him in a position where his FBI service was--ah--held against him. Besides, now that he'd lost all his friends, being near family would be nice. Unless they believed him capable of all the same crap his so-called friends had believed him capable of. In that case they'd probably disown him.

Colby wished he understood why. Why was he being hung out to dry like this? Did the desk jockeys running this op expect him to take another crack at Dwayne Carter? Colby had already chosen his response to his own Prisoner's Dilemma, and that had been to make sure Dwayne stayed in custody. He couldn't imagine Dwayne ever trusting him with the time of day again, let alone the one name he hadn't sold to Ashby.

And yet--what else could be going on? Colby hadn't seen Dwayne since the night of his arrest--perhaps Dwayne was being given a chance to cool off.

What other explanation could there be?

Colby shuffled along, eyes front, face blank.

In his dream, Dwayne had been dead. Premonition, or wishful thinking? Either way, he could find no guilt in his heart. True, Dwayne had once been his friend. True, Dwayne had once saved his life. But Dwayne had also turned that life into a hell on Earth.

You said yes, Colby reminded himself. You took up this duty. The knowledge didn't stop Colby from thinking that if Dwayne were dead, he could lay this duty right back down.

Two marshals hustled him quickly toward the bus, while six more, all taller than Colby, encircled them. He didn't bother trying to catch the attention of any of them; he'd been on the other end of prisoner transport, he'd worn the dark sunglasses that precluded any eye contact, he'd perfected the art of the smoothly passing glance that let a prisoner know he was an object, not a human being.

The bus ride to the FBI building passed all too quickly. Colby distracted himself from the brief glimpses of everyday life visible through the bars by debating his strategy. As the bus pulled up to the prisoner transfer dock, he shrugged. He had to consider himself still under orders not to divulge his motives, but he may as well tell the truth about his transactions with the Chinese. He doubted he would be believed, and even if he was, there was little chance of anyone not in the know putting together all the pieces. But at least he would be on record as having sold only information that was obsolete, useless, or just plain wrong.

The chains hobbling his feet were barely long enough to let him descend from the bus without tripping. A hand caught him as he stumbled, and he might have muttered thanks if the hand hadn't just as efficiently shoved him forward after he regained his footing. Colby squinted in the sun, bright after weeks of artificial light, but as they entered the basement he would have willingly turned back, no matter how much the light hurt his eyes.

And then they were in the elevator. Colby's chest tightened. He could feel his pulse pounding in his throat, his ears. Were they here? Would he see them? Would they be standing before the elevator door as it opened? He saw a sudden vision of all three of them in dark glasses, their faces impassive, their gazes sliding smoothly over him.

The elevator jolted to a stop and Colby swallowed, resisting the urge to close his eyes. The doors opened onto an empty, silent foyer. The two marshals flanking him grabbed his upper arms and marched him out, while the other six spread out behind them. Colby ignored them, his attention instead captured by the absolute quiet. The only sounds were his shuffling feet, the rattling of his shackles, the soft footfalls of the marshals. The reek of old coffee was the only indication that anyone might be on the floor.

What the hell? Colby had wondered why he was coming back to the FBI for questioning in the first place, why they didn't just send interrogators to the prison--was it to humiliate him? Better to parade him in front of as many ex-coworkers as possible for that. Finding the entire floor shut down simply unnerved him.

The marshals escorted him toward the interrogation rooms, and Colby saw three people through the glass.

He swallowed against rising bile as he studied Don, Megan, and David. Megan sat at the table while David hovered above her, both peering down at something--probably his list of crimes. Don stood facing away from them, his arms crossed, his head down. Their slumped shoulders and drawn faces all spoke of exhaustion and defeat. None of them looked up, though they had to know he was coming.

The second chair in the room, across from Megan, was empty. Colby knew he'd be sitting in it soon enough.

The marshal to Colby's left moved forward and pushed open the swinging door. Colby shuffled in after, stealing glances at his (ex)friends and (ex)teammates.

Megan and David ignored him. Don approached the lead marshal while the second man shoved Colby toward the chair and grabbed his wrists.

"Wait."

The marshals looked up in surprise as Don pulled his cuffs out and gestured at Colby.

"Sir--"

"There are only three of us here. We're not going to send somebody running after you whenever he wants a drink of water."

The marshals exchanged a glance. Don held up his cuffs. "We've got him," he said.

The lead marshal nodded, and the second man shrugged and reached for a key. Colby tried to catch Don's eye as his wrists were released, but Don wouldn't look at him as he grabbed Colby's left arm and snapped a cuff around his wrist.

Instead, Colby got a good look at Don.

His (ex)team leader looked like death--and not even warmed over. Pulled straight out of the freezer was more like it. Colby had honestly seen better-looking corpses. Colby jerked back and looked at both Megan and David, no longer trying to hide his scrutiny. Neither looked as bad as Don, but David had an ashy undertone to his skin while Megan's lips were pinched to a thin, angry line.

Megan slammed the folder they'd been studying closed as Don snapped the other cuff to a bolt in the table and Colby jumped. Megan got up without a word and followed Don to the door. Don held the door open while first the marshals, then Megan walked out. She still hadn't looked at Colby. Don, though...Don turned to him, dark eyes burning in his white face. A muscle in his jaw jumped. Then Don left too, pulling the door closed behind him.

Leaving Colby alone with David.

Colby turned. David had straightened and was now staring at Colby, one corner of his mouth curled up as though he were studying a dead rat floating in a sewer.

"Good to see you, too, David," Colby said.

David's lips tightened. He slammed a hand against the table and leaned forward, towering over Colby. "You do not address me as 'David,'" he said in a quiet, precise voice. "I am either 'Special Agent Sinclair,' or 'Sir.' Is that clear?"

"Yes," Colby whispered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

David stepped back. "Good. If you continue to behave yourself, we can get this over with."

Colby sighed and let his head drop back, missing the warmth of his cell. "I'm willing to answer all of your questions but one," he said. David waited a beat, and leaned forward again. "Special Agent Sinclair."

"All my questions but one?" David frowned, then his eyes widened. "Why?" he whispered.

Colby shook his head. "You don't need to know. Not to make your case. Sir."

David jerked back and looked away. Colby wondered at Don's decision to have David start the questioning by himself. He wasn't going to last long at this rate. Colby felt like apologizing. This, more than anything else, told him how hard David had been hit by his arrest.

David spun the folder around on the table and shoved it at Colby. "Just look through this list and tell us what you sold, so I can get out here. I really don't want to look at you any longer than I have to."

Colby stared at David, eyebrows raised, and bit back a retort. Play the part, play the part. "All right," he said, but despite everything, his hand shook as he opened the folder. It contained a list of all the cases he'd worked with Don, David, and Megan.

A pen landed on the table next to him. "Initial every case you sold."

Colby sighed. Too bad he hadn't really been in this to get rich, but the truth was he'd passed on very little information about his own cases. Most of the information had been too sensitive and hadn't been approved. Would David believe that, though? Would anyone?

Colby fidgeted with the pen while he scanned the list, trying to buy time to figure out his next move. Despite himself, several of the cases jumped out. Oh, yeah. The girls in the container. Who had included that one? It was worthless. The Chinese government wouldn't care if some of their excess girls were dumped in the US. That look on David's face in the strip club had been priceless, though...

Colby cleared his throat and kept looking.

The software that hid plane transponders. Now that would have been worth a lot of money. He could have retired to Coeur d'Alene on that one alone. David shifted restlessly, and Colby kept looking.

The Russian mob case. What could he have sold from that? Colby supposed that the Chinese might want information on how to hack into US bank accounts. He might even have been able to sell this info, since internet security breaches were generally plugged soon after exposure so the information itself would have had a very short shelf life. He hadn't thought of it at the time, though. All he'd really been able to think about was the image of David going down with a bullet in his shoulder, the pain on David's face, Don's strong, steady voice, commanding David to breathe--

"I thought you were willing to answer questions."

Colby looked up at David. His fingers tightened around the pen. "I guess I'm just overwhelmed by the warmth of the reception."

David's mouth dropped open, then snapped shut again. His eyes narrowed. "Well, what did you expect?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe one 'Colby, sorry about all this' in honor of all the times I saved your ass."

David leaned over, both palms flat against the table. "I'm not the one who thinks somebody saving my ass makes me his dog."

"No, you've got no gratitude at all."

"Gratitude?" David jerked back like he'd been slapped. "Is that what you think I should be feeling here? Man, the next time I'll feel grateful is when you get a needle in your arm."

Colby gasped. "David--"

David straightened, his eyes wild. He shook his head. "No, man. No. That's not what I meant--"

David bolted for the door.

Colby could hear Megan's voice as the door swung slowly shut behind David. "--I told you this was stupid, Don--" He saw David through the window, probably heading for the break room, Megan in pursuit. Colby let his head fall to the table. He didn't hear the door open again. What he heard was an indrawn, shuddering breath.

Colby looked up, straight into the white face and tormented eyes of Don Eppes. Then Don moved, and Colby saw the Glock.

"Don?" Colby swallowed, suddenly understanding what cold really meant. "Don, what's this about?"

"I do not want this," Don whispered. He closed his eyes and grimaced, shaking his head, but Colby could see that Don's gun was settled snugly in his right hand, his left supporting it, feet spread in a classic shooter's stance. Right now the gun still pointed at the floor. Colby knew it was up to him to keep it there.

"Then--then don't do it, Don." Colby looked past Don, but the windows remained empty, and the significance of the empty floor, the skeleton crew of marshals hit him in the gut. He'd been set up. He'd even played into it by mouthing off to David and driving him from the room. But how had they gotten to Don? "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Don staggered back one step, then two, until his shoulders hit glass. Every muscle was tensed, every sinew stood out, as though his body had been ratcheted to the breaking point. He slammed his head into the window and Colby cried out at the sound. Don staggered a little but kept his feet as the gun swept up toward Colby. Don aimed. "I do not want this."

"Don--no--"

Don fired.