Don made certain to have the coffee made and the aromas seeping up into the air early in the morning. He never considered himself much of a cook, but after years of late night stakeouts he could manage a damn good pot of coffee and serving bagels from the shop down the street took almost no effort whatsoever.

His father ambled into the kitchen, his bathrobe askew along with his hair. He brightened at the sight of his oldest. "Donnie! I didn't realize that you came home last night."

"Yeah, I let myself in," Don admitted. "Hope you don't mind."

"Mind? When my son comes home and brings—" Alan Eppes inhaled deeply, "—fresh bagels and cream cheese with him?"

"And lox," Don pointed out, indicating the pink slabs of fish on the table.

"Lox? At those prices?" Now his father smelled a rat. "What do you want from your old man this time?"

Don affected a look of dismay. "What? Do I have to want something? Can't I just spend the night, make sure you're not alone?"

"Donnie, you know you're always welcome." Alan wasn't taken in. "You blew it when you brought the lox. What's the catch?"

Another figure appeared in the doorway, rubbing a towel over the short black hair on his head, his bare chest topping a pair of well-worn jeans and a belt. "Hello, Mr. Eppes."

Don had to hand it to his father; the man didn't miss a beat. "Ian! Long time, no see."

"Good to see you, too, Mr. Eppes." Ian dropped the damp towel across his neck and extended his hand to be shaken. "Thanks for letting me crash the night. Don said you wouldn't mind."

"He was right." Eppes, sr., arrowed a wink at his son that clearly stated now I know why you brought lox. "Can't have you putting up with any of those bed in a box joints. How are you doing?"

"Can't complain," Ian said, letting a grin light up his face. "Wouldn't do any good."

Alan accepted a mug of coffee from Don and handed it over to Ian. "So what are you doing in town? Or can't I ask?"

Ian shrugged, taking a long slurp of hot black coffee. "Sorry; not allowed to say, but yeah, I'm here on business. I met up with Don yesterday to swap stories."

"I hope you got the stuff you needed. Thanks, Don." Alan took his own mug from his son, and sipped. "Have a bagel."

Don sat down beside them, snagging the bagel with everything on it. The knife went next, spreading cream cheese over the sliced surface. "Actually, Dad, we need your help. Ian and me, we've got a bet going. I say I can figure out where Charlie is, and Ian swears that I can't."

Alan peered over his glasses at Ian. "No contest. Don can do it. Whenever Charlie tried to hide somewhere, in the house or the backyard or the neighborhood, all his mother and I had to do to find him was to ask Donnie."

"Yeah, well, Charlie isn't in the house, and the neighborhood has gotten a lot bigger," Ian pointed out, grinning. "I still say he can't do it. Not this time."

"Them's fightin' words, Ian." Don was up for the challenge. He turned to his father. "So you see why I need your help. Charlie was talking about figuring out where the lodge was, the other night. I need clues, Dad."

His father tried to think. "Okay, he talked about a high end lodge, that there were only a few that fancy where he was going. Said there were three east of here, in Joshua Tree."

Don dutifully noted those on a piece of paper, knowing that none of those three were the answer. The suspect limos had been headed north, not east. Not the point; the goal was to pump his father for information without letting the old man know that there was a squad of mercenaries headed in the direction that his youngest offspring had been taken. Keep it light, Eppes. Keep it light. "What about the others?"

Alan gave himself time to think by inhaling a long drought of coffee. It wasn't long enough; he added a bite of bagel covered with cream cheese and lox. "South or north. Couldn't have been west. Charlie said that whatever lodge it was, was surrounded by trees. In the mountains."

"Yup. That's what he said." That too got written down, even though it didn't need to be. That wasn't the point.

Ian also tried to play the game. "Eppes, you're cheating by asking your father. This is your bet to lose."

Don shook his head. "Nope. The bet was to find Charlie. You never said anything about not questioning witnesses."

"Oh, so now I'm a witness?" Alan got into the spirit of things. "Maybe I'm one of those sleezeball witnesses, the ones you've got to pay off in order to get any evidence."

"You are," Don pointed out. "I'm bribing you with bagels and lox. What else have you got for me? So that your eldest son doesn't lose this bet?"

Alan thought. "North. Charlie talked about mountains, about the Paiutes and the Tehachapis. He said something about three possibilities up there. Then he moved onto socks."

Yes! Narrowed it down! Don kept it cool.

"Socks?" Ian lifted his eyebrows.

"Whether or not they matched," Alan explained.

"But Charlie's a—" Ian checked his original terminology, realizing that he was speaking to the geek's father. "—a genius," he finished up weakly.

"A 'geek' is the proper term," Alan corrected. "Egghead. Head in the clouds, short stature not withstanding. But even a geek gets to have socks that match."

"It was his tie," Don remembered. He made a face. "And that was when the limo showed up." He sighed, making a production out of it. "Don't think I'll be able to squeeze anything more out of the witness, Ian. You?"

"Are you kidding? Toughest stoolie I ever tried to crack," Ian said. He took a ferocious bite out of his bagel. "I'm winning this bet, Eppes. You'd better get moving."

"Hear that, Dad?" Don asked. "Listen, if you remember anything else that Charlie might have said, let me know." He turned to Ian. "Let's hit the road. You and I have real work to get done."

Movement was out of the question.

First of all, he was covered in mud. Not just sandbox dirty, not just splashed by a passing car muddy, but surrounded by one to two tons of the viscous stuff. He was lucky that his nose had managed to stay above the level of the mud so that he could continue to breathe. Had it not, he would be dead. As it was, the vast quantity of mud had mired him to the point where he could move a finger or two possibly half an inch, but not any more than that. Escape wasn't a reality.

Lack of movement was also a blessing. Charlie had once—and once only—tried to move his legs.

The resulting pain, once he'd swum back up to consciousness with the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, persuaded him not to do that again.

Something was rather badly damaged, deep in the mud, and the mud was acting as a splint. Charlie would have been perfectly willing for that set of circumstances to continue indefinitely except for one fatal fact: he was thirsty.

The average human could last some four days without water. That was well documented in the literature that Charlie recalled. It had only been one long night, starting from when Charlie made the fateful decision to take the road less traveled until now. He had quite a while to wait.

At least if he was dead, the AutoDyne folk wouldn't be able to squeeze his pass code from him.

Good.

Don growled under his breath. Colby should have at least had the grace to look ashamed of himself rather than truculent. Dammit, the man had nearly gotten himself killed yesterday, his partner was getting ready to get discharged from the hospital, and they'd totaled one far from cheap personal vehicle! Did the man have no sense?

Ian passed him, getting himself ready for the upcoming field trip. "Nope. Just pissed. Royally pissed."

Don glared at the sniper. "You adding mind-reading to your resume, Edgerton?"

"C'mon, Eppes. You're not that hard to read. Besides, you blame him? I've seen you do the same thing."

Colby caught wind of the discussion and stared at Don across the crowded room filled with more than a dozen FBI agents, all preparing for today's outing by cleaning guns and fetching ammunition. It didn't need a mind-reader to see what the junior agent's thoughts were: I. Am. Going.

Fine. Let him get himself killed. If that happened, Don swore, he'd make Colby rise from the dead to fill out the damn paperwork that would follow. That would teach him.

Colby didn't care. Having won the telepathic argument, the man silently and grimly readied the rifle for action, sliding the cleaning rod through the long barrel with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The bullet-proof vest was draped over his chair but he wore a sturdy shirt with long sleeves that covered over the evidence of yesterday's injury. The vest would get put on later, closer to the action.

Don couldn't help a parting jab. "If you have any of those narcotic pain-killers on board, Colby, you're benched. I'm not putting other agents at risk."

Colby turned and faced his boss, lines of pain etched across his face. He extended his arm in an invitation. "You want a drug test, Don? Right here, right now? You want blood from my arm? You want me to pee in a cup?"

Don grunted, and turned away. "You just make sure you follow orders." He stalked over to the tech console in the bullpen, before anything more could be said.

Someone had gotten serious about this mess, and had pulled the necessary strings to make things happen. A corpse—even one claimed by both FBI, NSA, and parties unknown—was one thing. This was taking on the specter of National Security, and someone at an appropriate pay grade was getting nervous. Resources became available, and one of those resources was access to military grade Eye in the Sky imaging.

The tech motioned Don to the seat beside her. "Right now we've got eyes on one of the lodges in the Paiutes, the one called Golden Bear. That's the furthest one out."

"Go ahead," Don invited. "Let's see what's going on."

It took a moment or two for the signals to be transported across the distances, but when the picture arrived it was crystal clear. The tech dollied in on the scene.

Golden Bear Lodge had been built for the rich. Fame was irrelevant; if you had to ask, you couldn't afford to partake of the tennis courts that were swept clean twice daily, either of the two heated pools in the back—both of which were equipped with their own hot tub and sauna—or the Italian-tiled outdoors dining area. It was early, but some guests were lounging there and sipping coffee. The view was so clear that Don could identify the tendrils of steam rising from the mug. Even the headlines on the newspaper were easy to read.

"Is that—?" the tech asked, peering at one face that looked extraordinarily familiar.

"Yeah. Even governors get to take time off," Don told her. "This is not the one we're looking for. Too much chance of publicity with someone like that around. How long before you can show me lodge number two?"

"Just a minute or two. I've already gotten the settings dialed in," the tech said.

Ian came up behind them just as the picture came into focus. It only took a single look to rule it out. "No good. Move on."

"Why?"

Ian pointed at the parking lot. "Cars. Lots of them, all old. They're holding an antique car festival, Don. Nobody's going to conduct secret operations when there's an antique car festival going on. Too many mechanics, people who like to take things apart for the fun of it. Move on."

Don nodded. Ian was right. "Next place?"

"It's the one in the Tehachapis," the tech murmured. Don didn't need the reminder; it was already seared into his brain. What if this one's a washout, too? Where will you look then?

The picture was remarkably clear, given that it was being transmitted across thousands of miles, Don thought. It started at the lodge, traveled to the satellite high above the Earth, arrowed back down to the military base at El Toro just outside of L.A., and then meandered its way over to FBI Headquarters. All that, and a high def screen so detailed that he could pick out the license plate on the limo parked near the front entrance.

"Can you dolly in on that license plate?" Ian had the same idea.

"You got it." The tech did something esoteric with the dials, and the picture focused onto the back end of the limo.

The plate magnified across the screen, and Don tried not to hold his breath. There it was: the license plate that he had seen on the limo that had picked up his brother and then Colby and David had identified as belonging to DarkSeas, Inc. If this isn't a hell of a clue, then I don't know what is.

"That's it." Ian beat him to it. "Nine Oaks Lodge. Two hours from here?"

"Just under." Don estimated the distance by looking up at the map plastered against the wall. "Pull out. Let's see what else we can see."

"Right." The tech obeyed, and the camera angle dollied out to show more of the lodge.

Nine Oaks Lodge was a high end retreat for those who could afford it. It wasn't particularly large, but it reeked of money from the smooth wood entranceway to the well-tended forest beyond. The lodge took its name from a grove of oaks to one side; Don could only count seven oak trees, and decided that the other two had died off. Not the point—what was more important was that there were exactly four limousines in the parking lot and not another vehicle to be seen. None of the 'guests' had arrived in their own cars. Sound suspicious, Eppes?

"Pull out a little bit more," Don requested. "Let's see the back of the lodge."

Bingo. The only pair in the front of the lodge had been dressed to look like doormen, but neither Don nor Ian had been fooled. Doormen rarely came as large as those two, nor with biceps the size of the oak trees out front. Conclusion: not doormen. That conclusion was borne out by viewing the back, where the casual passerby wouldn't see that there were more than a dozen similar-sized men in camouflage clothing gearing up to move into the forest.

"What are they doing?" Colby had moved up to peer over Don's shoulder. "Looks like they're going out hunting."

"Yeah. What are they hunting for?" Ian put it into words. He directed his next request to the tech. "Can you scan east of the lodge, further out? Let's see if we can figure out what they're going after. I'm betting that they're not on a fishing expedition."

Don tossed instructions over his shoulder to the rest of the men in the room. "Start loading up the vehicles, guys. We move out in five."

Ian and Colby pointed out various landmarks to each other. "We can look at that stream, there."

"I'm not seeing any other buildings. You think they're after something else?"

"Could be. Recent mud slide, there. No matter what, we're going to have to be careful."

Don interrupted the discussion. "All right; time to hustle." He turned to the tech. "Keep watching this lodge. We'll be there in about ninety minutes. I want you to be able to give me a sit-rep just before we hit the place."

Ian interrupted, "you got the warrant?"

Don patted his pocket. "With national security at risk? You bet." He jerked his head toward the door and the rest of the men filing out. "Let's go."

Colby, however, waved his arm at Don for attention, the phone to his ear. "You sure? Anybody hurt?" Pause. "Dammit. Yeah, send the report on as soon as you have it, attention Don Eppes. We'll need it ASAP."

"Colby?" Don headed over, Ian in his wake.

Colby set down the phone, breaking the connection. "Those guys from last night, the ones that stopped me and David?"

"Yeah? What happened? Their lawyers arrive to try to spring the one who's still alive?" That wasn't going to happen. Deliberate assault on a half dozen federal agents? Not a chance in hell would any judge assign bail.

"Nope." Colby was grim. "His friends arrived at the local station and busted 'im out. Nobody killed, but two men down."

Ian's eyes narrowed. "These guys look after their own."

"More likely, they didn't want him to talk."

"Still. A powerful incentive. 'We care' from your employers."

Don tightened his lips. "So do we." He turned to the rest of the room, all of the armored field agents waiting on his every word. "Move out."

Charlie enjoyed watching the sun rise. It was something that he had learned from Larry Fleinhardt, to appreciate the heavens and the remarkable existence that lived on this planet.

He took especial pains to enjoy it this morning. It might be his last.