Rick and A.J. parked their car a few blocks away from Sean Hanrahan's apartment. They had called his home, but no one had answered, so they assumed it was safe to enter the premises.

It was a modest apartment, and the brothers had learned Hanrahan drove an eight-year-old Pontiac. There was nothing to indicate opulence, or conspicuous consumption, just the way one would imagine a humble parole officer's life should be.

Rick and A.J. gained entry to the PO's residence in under thirty seconds. They found beer cans, pizza boxes—things often associated with the lifestyle of a single man—on the coffee table, but they soon detected something was off.

There was very little lived-in feel in the place: no dishes in the sink or on the rack, no dirty clothes in the hamper or on the floor. The refrigerator was nearly empty and had no beers, which Rick considered as one of the major food groups. The water level in the toilet bowl was significantly lower than the ring of mineral buildup around the bowl. Just to be sure, the brothers flushed the toilet, and the water level came up to the ring. They assumed it hadn't been used at least several days.

"This is kind of strange, isn't it?" muttered A.J. "The mail and newspaper have been picked up, but it doesn't seem that he's been reading much."

Rick nodded. "And the guy doesn't have much of wardrobe to speak of. He makes me feel like a clotheshorse."

A.J. snickered at his brother's comment as he kept poking around.

After ten, fifteen minutes of search, they concluded that Hanrahan had another place to live therefore the apartment did not hold anything significant to be discovered.

"One down, one more to go," mumbled Rick.

They had badgered Barbara into digging up, among other things, the background information on Hanrahan and LaRoche and hit pay dirt. They had learned that those two were not just distant relatives but half brothers. Paul LaRoche Jr. inherited the home of his late father, Paul LaRoche Sr. The Simons were certain Hanrahan frequented his brother's residence. The information also had led them to believe that the half brothers had orchestrated not only the Secure Guard heist but also a string of unsolved armed robberies.

LaRoche's home was within a short distance from Hanrahan's apartment. Rick and A.J. took the same precautions to be sure no one was home.

Rick entered the house first through the kitchen door at the back. After taking several steps, he noticed A.J. hadn't moved at all.

"A.J.?" He turned around to see what his brother was up to.

A.J. was still standing at the door. He had turned white as a sheet and seemed to have trouble breathing. He was having a panic attack, Rick realized.

"Hey, are you alright?" asked Rick placing his hand on his brother's shoulder.

Unable to trust his own voice, A.J. only nodded.

"Is this the place where Larson and the other guy held you hostage?"

Another nod.

"Why don't you sit this one out? I can…"

This time A.J. shook his head. "No… I'll be all right. Just give me a minute."

"Take your time."

Rick, like many wartime veterans, had the first-hand knowledge of flashbacks after a traumatic event and then some. Sometimes, something as benign as a certain smell, or touch could trigger anxiety, panic, fear that would immobilize you.

His younger brother was a lot tougher than he looked though. Several moments later, some color returned to his face, and his breathing slowed to the normal rate, but he understandably remained edgy throughout the search. Walking down the hallway, he averted his eyes from one of the doors that, Rick assumed, led to the basement.

Rick knew A.J. had formed an aversion to dark places, or more precisely, being confined in a small, dark place since he and Jimmy Cortez had locked him up in the basement of Jimmy's home as a prank then forgotten about him for an hour or two. A.J. had been no more than five or six back then. With a pang of guilt, Rick remembered a series of nightmares his little brother had had after the incident.

Rick kept a close eye on A.J., but he looked more relaxed as they walked into the living room.

There was a book of yellow pages on the coffee table along with a memo pad and a pen. The phone book was open, showing the section Hanrahan and/or LaRoche had gone through: airlines. What time was their flight? Or, had it taken off already? Unfortunately, the top sheet of the notebook was virginal with no indentation.

Rick picked up the phone receiver and dialed Hanrahan's office number. "Hello, this is Lt. Taggard, Homicide," he told the receptionist. "I'd like to speak to Sean Hanrahan please."

He was put on hold, but the receptionist came back on the line soon, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. He's out of the office for early lunch."

Rick checked the time: almost eleven o'clock. "Do you have any idea what time he'll be back?"

"I'm afraid he's gone for the day, sir. He mentioned that he's going to check on some of the men he's overseeing after lunch."

Rick thanked the receptionist and hung up the phone.

"He actually reported to work today?" asked A.J.

"Yeah. It's a smart move when you think about it. If he skips town or calls in sick, there is a good chance of his office looking into his disappearance or checking on him. But this guy shows up at work, takes alleged early lunch and tells everyone he's meeting with his parolees for the remainder of the day. Since it's Friday, no one will notice he's gone until at least Monday."

"Yeah. By the time they realize something is amiss, he'll be in a country with no extradition treaties with the U.S.," agreed A.J. "Let's hope he's still at the airport."

The most frustrating part though was that the police had nothing on Hanrahan to keep him from leaving the country, let alone make an arrest at the moment.

They took the phone book with them and made good use of the mobile telephone in the LTD Crown Victoria.

"Hello, this is Sean Hanrahan. I made a reservation for a flight scheduled for this afternoon, but I misplaced the flight information." A.J. called one airline after another using the same ploy. On the third or fourth attempt, he flashed an okay sign.

"His flight takes off at 12:35." He informed Rick hanging up the phone. "How fast can you drive?"

Rick drove straight to the departure level and raced into the airport terminal with his brother.

A.J. found Hanrahan standing in a waiting line at one of the airline counters like any other air traveler. Rick was able to identify LaRoche in another waiting line. He and A.J. had seen his photo in his personal file.

At the moment, the Simon brothers weren't certain if the felonious siblings were traveling together, or going separate ways. One way or the other, they had to be stopped before boarding their flight. Rick and A.J. huddled for a quick strategic meeting.

Taking a few more steps towards the counter, Hanrahan counted the people in front of him again: three more. In less than an hour, he'd be taking off, and no one would be able to touch him.

As he moved a little closer to the counter, he saw two men approaching. His entire body tensed seeing one of them was an airport security guard. The other was a tall man with a cowboy hat and a mustache. The Hat pointed his finger at him and declared, "That's him!"

Hanrahan tried to act surprised. "Excuse me, sir. What seems to be the problem?"

"I'm telling you, that's my suitcase. He stole it while I was paying the cabdriver outside." Rick told the security guard.

"That's absurd. This is mine, and as you can see, it has my name tag," said Hanrahan dismissively.

"He could have put it and locked the suitcase after he stole it." Rick was dogged. Seeing a sign of confusion on the guard's face, he insisted, "Ask him to open it. I can tell you exactly what's inside."

Opening the suitcase was the last thing Hanrahan wanted to do, especially in front of the authorities. He suddenly found himself caught between a rock and a hard place, but in order to buy more time, he reluctantly agreed to unlock the suitcase only in a place somewhere away from the crowd.

"I can assure you we can resolve this in no time, and you don't have to worry about missing your flight, sir." The guard tried to mollify Hanrahan as he led him and Rick toward the office of Airport Security Department.

Just then, Hanrahan saw another guard speaking to his brother a couple of counters away. The color drained from his face when he recognized the man beside them—it was the PI he had seen at the police station, the one that should have been dead instead of Larson.

When he caught his brother, Paul, glancing at him, he saw an understanding in his eyes. They simultaneously sprang into action.

LaRoche swung his heavy suitcase and hit the guard squarely in the chest. As he fell, the guard took A.J. with him. LaRoche darted out of the crowd trying to exit the terminal.

Like his brother, Hanrahan also took a swing with his suitcase but missed everything because the guard and Rick jumped back in time. He flung his luggage at them and raced deep into the terminal, away from Paul.

A.J. went after LaRoche while Rick pursued Hanrahan.

LaRoche shoved several travelers out of his way and ran out of the departure terminal. As he retraced his way to the parking structure where he had left his car, he took a backward glance and saw the blond man, who had shown up with the airport security guard, at his heels, pushing the glass door open. He reached for his Luger in the shoulder holster.

"He's got a gun!"

Someone in the crowd saw LaRoche withdrawing the Luger and screamed. The people around him scattered screaming and shouting.

A.J. too saw the gun in LaRoche's hand. To make matters worse, there were a young girl and her mother right in front of him, standing directly in the line of fire.

"Get down!"

He pushed them down on the floor and threw his body over them, but instead of a gunshot, he heard the screeching of tires then the sound of impact. More screams ensued.

A.J. lifted his head and saw an elderly man getting out of his car.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" He was repeating it over and over. "I couldn't… I couldn't stop in time! He was standing in the middle of the road!"

A.J. instantly understood what had happened. With people fleeing in every which direction, the old man tried to avoid running over one or more of the people darting into his lane, lost control of his car and hit LaRoche.

A.J. quickly got up and checked on LaRoche, who was lying still on the pavement. He detected a pulse, and there was not a lot of bleeding he could see. That did not exclude internal injuries though. He picked up the Luger and tucked it under the belt.

"Someone, please call 911!" He shouted.

Before going back inside, A.J. approached the elderly driver. "Sir, I'd like you to know it wasn't your fault," he spoke to him gently. "I'll be your witness, so don't worry about it. Okay?"

The old man nodded feebly.

"But I want to have you looked over by a paramedic when an ambulance gets here just in case. Why don't you sit down while you wait, sir?"

He helped him sit in the driver seat. He made doubly sure that the old man was not exhibiting any signs of a cardiac episode and ran back inside.

Hanrahan took another glance back—the Hat was still on his tail. By then he knew for sure the man behind him was the other Simon. He cursed himself for not packing heat, disregarding his brother's repeated warning. He had been too cocky; he knew that now. Running down the concourse, he desperately looked for a way out.

Rick was gaining on Hanrahan although he had to navigate himself in a stream of passengers and airport staff. He was confident he could easily outrun a pencil pusher like him, but trying not to trample little rug rats or knock over old ladies at full throttle was hard to do. In order to avoid a collision with a baby stroller, he sidestepped at the last second. When he looked up again, he saw Hanrahan making a beeline for a woman opening a large package of some food supplies for a newsstand. She was holding a box cutter.

Hanrahan grabbed the oriental woman from behind. He was so quick she had no time to scream. He put a chokehold on her and took the box cutter from her hand. He loosened the hold a little to press the knife on her jugular and yelled, "Don't come any closer!"

"Don't do anything foolish!" Heeding the warning, Rick yelled back. "There's no way out. In no time, this place will be swarming with the police, SWAT sharpshooters to say the least. Don't make it any worse."

Hanrahan shook his head. "Give me you gun—I know you carry one. Or more."

The Asian woman was whimpering something in her tongue, which needed no translation to understand.

"Tell you what," Rick had to think fast. "I'll give you my gun if you let her go."

"No deal."

"No, let me finish—I'll slide my gun to you and then lie down spread-eagle while you pick it up and release her. I'll be your hostage."

By then, the people around them had realized what was going on, and the foot traffic had halted. In the corner of his eye, Rick saw a couple of security guards running towards him.

"Stay back!" Rick warned the guards. "He has a weapon. Let me handle this." He turned his eyes back to Hanrahan. "Make up your mind. You don't have much time left before the cavalry gets here."

"All right." Hanrahan finally agreed. "Give me your gun, and no funny business."

Rick slowly removed a Smith & Wesson revolver, a loaner from Carlos, from the holster and slid it on the carpeted floor to Hanrahan's feet. He then got down on his knees and lay flat on his stomach, limbs stretched out.

Holding the box cutter steadily on the woman's throat, Hanrahan reached down with the other hand to pick up the revolver. He cautiously advanced towards the PI with the gun in his hand dragging the woman along.

"On your knees and hands behind the back of your head."

Rick assumed the required position. Hanrahan was standing only several feet away from him. "Come on, man. Let her go."

After a moment or two, Hanrahan released the woman from the hold and shoved her. She took a few wobbly steps forward but stopped and turned around not fully understanding what had happened. Rick gave her a slight nod. Suddenly, she started running with an ear-piercing scream.

Hanrahan aimed the revolver at Rick's head. "On your feet. Slowly."

As Rick began to rise, someone in the crowd shouted, "Hanrahan!"

Like most people, Hanrahan could not help reacting to his own name; his concentration wavered for a nanosecond, but that was all that Rick needed. He pounced and grabbed hold the hand that held the Smith & Wesson.

While Rick and Hanrahan were struggling to regain control of the revolver, A.J. materialized seemingly out of nowhere pointing a gun. "Drop it, Hanrahan!"

Hanrahan recognized Paul's Luger right away and knew it was all over. As he let go of the revolver, the two guards rushed over and handcuffed him.

"You okay?" asked A.J.

"Yeah…" Rick was still breathing hard. "Did you get LaRoche?"

A.J. nodded. "He's not going anywhere soon."

The brothers and the guards led Hanrahan back to the terminal entrance to turn him over to the police.

Back in the airline counter area, Rick noticed Hanrahan's luggage was still lying on the floor where it had landed. He picked the lock on the suitcase with ease. When it was opened, everyone around him gasped. It was packed with used bills—mostly twenties and fifties—under a single layer of clothes.

"Well, what do you know," drawled Rick. "This is not mine after all."

He turned to Hanrahan, who was standing between the two security guards. "Please accept my sincerest apologies."

Rick calmly rose to his feet and punched Hanrahan in the face.