The inside of the house had probably been nice back when someone's grandmother had owned it. Now, aluminum foil covered all of the windows to keep prying eyes out. The light fixtures in the ceilings were bare bulbs.
The couch and chair in the living room looked like they'd been picked up off the side of the road on trash day. There was no more furniture.
The ceramics in the one bathroom and kitchen were yellowy stained and there was an unpleasant, unrecognizable smell.
There, Sam, Boo and the others from the van lounged with five other men. The co-ed who'd driven the van and another 20 something female with ruddy dreadlocks were there as well. They were nowhere near Billie Jo Trainer's league.
JD was looking around for Ezra and Mrs. Travis. At first it worried him that he didn't see them. But he finally caught sight of a pair of legs in familiar dark grey slacks in the room at the end of the hall. Without thinking, he headed that way.
What JD found in the room brought him to a stunned stop. Evie Travis was sitting on the warped, hard wood floor since there was no furniture in the room. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes red and swollen from crying, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.
Beside her sat Ezra Standish. He was propped up against the wall, his legs splayed before him. His left eye was swollen shut. His upper eyelid poofed out until it resembled a hard boiled egg. The white of his right eye was bright red from a broken blood vessel. It was painful to look at. There was a ragged cut on his left cheek bone that didn't seem to want to stop seeping blood.
His shirt, buttons torn off, revealed more bruises to his chest and what very well may have been the imprint of a boot sole on his solar plexus.
JD's eyes met those of the judge's wife as if to ask what other damage was hidden beneath the clothing. She sat unmoving as silent tears started up again. Either she knew instinctively, or had been told in no uncertain terms, that her gentle touch would cause Ezra's composure to collapse.
JD fell to his knees beside his friend. "Ez …"
"Hit me." Standish cut him off with a low hiss before he could make the mistake and use the U/C's real name.
"I – what? I can't …" JD resented the order.
"Hit me!" The words were garbled coming from the busted and swollen lips. The demand was heartfelt and touched JD in the pit of his stomach.
And then JD saw it. A shadow fell across Ezra and a newly terrified Mrs. Travis. Someone had followed him into the room. 'Damn it! Stupid! Stupid!' JD berated himself. Of course they would follow. And now, to stay in character, he'd have to do something. Any compassion would blow his cover and tear away all the hard-earned trust he'd built up with Anson Jones. JD had reacted to his emotions and Ezra knew the only way to explain coming in here would be violence.
And so he raised his arm and backhanded Ezra. He pulled his punch at the last minute. He couldn't do it. He couldn't add more injury to his friend. But while his fingers barely feathered across Ezra's jaw, the man's neck and head slammed backwards into the wall. Ezra faked the intensity of the attack. JD realized that, from the angle at the door, whoever was watching, couldn't tell JD hadn't delivered a violent blow. JD swung again and again. Under the pretense of gripping Ezra's neck to hold him, force him to take the blow, JD was able to follow through and hit his own arm to supply the sound of flesh on flesh. Standish played it up. He must have gone to the extra measure of biting his lip to make it look good, because his mouth was bleeding again, outlining his teeth in red.
Dunne turned away from the sight to address whoever he would find standing at the door. It was Anson. The hatred building in JD toward Jones must have shown and the domestic terrorist misread it as being directed toward their prisoner. "Go ahead, Kid," he laughed. "Take your turn at the traitor. He still hasn't told us who he's working for or how much he's told them."
JD just nodded. Then he waited until the man disappeared. He was a quick study, so he also waited until the shadow had disappeared down the hall, guaranteeing that no one was within earshot. He turned back to his friend, "Damn it, Ezra, tell them you're an agent."
Ezra shook his head. "No. This way," his voice was low and raspy, as if it hurt to talk. They must have hit him in the throat. "Mrs. Travis ... more valuable hostage … this way …"
"Oh, no," Evie moaned. Neither man told her to stay quiet. It added to the appearance of the beating.
"Protect … your … cover," Ezra continued to JD.
"Don't do this for me!" JD responded angrily.
"Your job … your resp – responsibility … get word to others. My resp … give you time to do it."
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," Evie chanted like it was a mantra.
"Dear lady." Ezra rolled his head, resting against the wall, until his one reddened eye met hers. "Don't apolog … we do what … do ..." Ezra was gasping and forcing the words, but they seemed important to him, so JD didn't try to stop him, "so that you and … innocents … like yourself … don't have to … worry that … everyone … meet … is a threat. Keep you … safe." Standish closed his eye, energy spent with just those few words. But there it was, that idealistic, good guy, John Wayne attitude. He was hurting too badly to hide it as he tried to console the poor woman. JD remembered very well Buck had told him that was why Ezra did what he did. JD had laughed. How had Buck known? What had he seen that JD had missed? JD realized once again how much he still had to learn. He hoped he got the chance. He hoped Ezra didn't suffer any more from his mistakes.
"Ezra, please tell them."
"It would make it too easy to identify you." Ezra was whispering now and it seemed to be less painful. The words seemed to come more easily, although Ezra still had to stop often to take a breath. It wasn't completely unselfish. As long as JD was accepted in the group he might get them help.
"I've got my gun …" JD began, still guilty that he hadn't pulled it in the van.
"Too many … of them." Had he said it out loud? Ezra couldn't be sure. His head hurt unmercifully and events were going on around him like he was a bit outside himself – like a good buzz from strong whiskey. He more heard himself and the others speaking than truly felt like he was part of the conversation.
Then the room seemed to get darker, but it was because the stark light of the bare bulb was being blocked by the football linebacker-sized bodies of Anson and Boo. "Hey, snitch, I think we're gonna drop your body off in front of the police station to show the judge we mean business for his wife, here."
"No! No!" Evie screamed as she was dragged from the floor at the same time.
"You can't!" JD demanded as he turned on the ersatz leader of the group.
"Ain't got the stomach for it after all?" Anson goaded. He did a little hip-hop on his crutches to get more comfortable.
"Because he's a fed!" JD shot back.
Ezra's head jerked up in anger. Evie wept with relief.
"He told me. Just now." JD was making it up as he went along. "Guess he'd had enough beating. Or maybe I'm better at it than your asshole buddies. I started in on the old lady and he sang."
Jones looked skeptical. He wasn't buying. "He's stalling."
So JD had to sell harder. "His name is Ezra Standish. ATF. If he's lyin' finish him off. But find out for sure, for God's sake. 'Cuz I ain't runnin' for killin' a fed for the rest of my life. They don't stop lookin'."
Jones didn't like being defied or his order being questioned. But he could see that killing a fed was the kind of crime that didn't go away. More importantly, he could see his followers were afraid of the outcome. They still thought they were going to hide the bomb and report it before it detonated. Fools. He would pacify them until he and his inner circle had led them in too deeply to walk away. "Fed, huh?" saying what he could tell his people wanted to hear. "More bargaining chips. Trey, you and the others get our hostages moved. While John and I make the next call."
JD panicked. They were moving again. And he wouldn't know where. Anson Jones didn't trust anyone. He was good at this. Ezra stumbled when he was jerked too quickly to his feet and vertigo set in. JD caught him long enough to whisper, "It'll work out." What else could he say? And then Ezra and Mrs. Travis were being shuffled out the door. And JD felt very much alone.
As Ezra was forced down the hall, Sam bounced his head into the wall until it dented the plaster. JD's words rang in Standish's mind, 'It'll work out.' The boy was spending too much time with Buck Wilmington. His captors laughed as he staggered along the hall. Then a cool, gentle hand came around his shoulders to steady him. Even if there wasn't enough strength to support him, the support was there. And comfort. Apparently Evie Travis had decided not to be afraid anymore, at least to the point that it incapacitated her. And there was something in the look she threw at the young bullies that kept them a pace back. With more dignity than either of them should have been able to muster, the judge's wife and the injured agent moved toward the garage door.
Five of the men who made up Denver's Team 7 sat in their boss' 3rd floor hotel room.
Josiah Sanchez cast a glance toward the plain, digital clock radio on the bedside table. 1:30 AM. The time made him think of Orin Travis who was in the hotel's bar being consoled by the local judges and magistrates. He could stay there for another thirty minutes until it closed at 2.
Travis was a good man. He knew he didn't need to hover over them and was forcing himself to stay out of the way and let them do their jobs. Travis had seen these men work magic before, but this time there was very little to work with. For the judge, the ex-federal agent, the waiting was one thing. But what was this waiting like for Orin Travis the husband?
With that thought, Josiah ran a nonchalant eye around the room. He was trying to evaluate how the others were holding together. That's what he did. He was a pragmatist, unfortunately a realist, and needed to be the voice of counsel and reason when the time came.
As good as Larabee was at so many things, waiting wasn't one of them. Worrying wasn't either. And being out of control of the situation was an untapped pressure valve. So he was glaring at Wilmington's phone, demanding that it ring. They had figured out that all of the calls would come in on that phone because he had given Trey and "John" his business cards along with the standard, 'don't take the wrong path in life' pep talk.
Buck was scared. He was hunched over, ready to pounce on the phone. He seemed a little distant and lost. He got that way when reality didn't include good guys and happy endings.
Vin was leaning up against one headboard, conserving energy. In a lot of ways, the Texan could go into a near meditative state to conserve energy and be clear-headed when it was needed. He and Nathan had gone out for a while, hit some of his old haunts, looking for information, but had come up empty. What he had seen, he hadn't liked. Even as the sun set in an otherwise completely clear sky, he had noticed a thin wall of blue-black clouds on the northern horizon. They hadn't been paying any attention to the weather. How could that matter with everything that was going on? But Vin recognized those clouds. A blue norther was blowing in.
Temperatures had dropped from the 80's to near freezing in less than an hour. The thunderstorm that heralded the norther had dwindled to rain and occasional sleet. You almost had to live in this part of the country to believe weather could change that fast. And here, at almost 3AM, the weather was only getting worse.
And then the phone rang.