Disclaimer, check. Acknowledgments, check. Don in trouble, check. We're all set!

oooooooooooooooooo

November 7, 1999
Eliot Park, Minneapolis

Don rubbed his hands together and turned the heat up another notch. It had no right to be this cold in early November. How people could stand to live in this icebox of a town, he had no idea. He'd been careening across the country for the past year, chasing down reluctant witnesses and the occasional honest-to-goodness bad guy, and more and more often he found himself wishing he could settle down somewhere and simply not move. Maybe after this they could request a case in Miami. He let out a soft snort. With his luck, they'd be assigned to Fargo next.

The car door swung open and he closed down the pity party. Coop swung his six-foot frame inside the beat-up Civic and slammed the door shut. "Damn, it's cooooold, don'tcha know," he said in one of the worst imitations of a Minnesota accent Don had ever heard.

"So what's up?" Don asked, jerking his head towards the decaying Victorian across the street.

Coop held his hands up to the heat vent. It wasn't really that cold out, but since they'd been in Oklahoma two days ago, they weren't exactly dressed for the weather. They hadn't thought twice about putting their Kevlar on this morning, figuring it'd be worth it for the warmth if nothing else. "Says she hasn't seen him."

"At all?"

"Not since her -- and I quote – 'no-good brother finally got what was coming to him'." He shook his head. "Said she moved here from Chicago to get away from all that crap, and she doesn't want it following her."

"You believe her?"

"Hard to say." He reached into his pocket for a pack of gum and offered it to Don, who took a stick. "Not like I got a look inside the place."

"Guess not." While his partner knocked on the front door, Don had been ready on the street in case their quarry made a run for it. After a few minutes, when it became apparent that no drug dealers who had skipped out on their bail were going to sprint out of another entrance, he'd ducked back in the car and turned the heat up, watching Billy have an increasingly lively conversation with the woman at the front door.

Something down the street caught his eye, and he squinted at it, his jaw working on the gum. It wasn't the worst neighborhood he'd ever been in, but despite the fact that the University of Minnesota was only a few blocks away, this didn't exactly feel like a student neighborhood: too many vacant lots, not enough beat-up couches and empty beer bottles on the porches of the tattered apartment buildings. They were parked in the middle of the block and a black sedan facing them at the far end appeared to have an occupant. He frowned. What would someone be doing sitting in their car at eight in the morning on a Saturday? When it was below freezing outside?

He voiced the thought to Coop and the other man sat up a little straighter. "Think it's Howland?"

Don squinted again. "Naw, it looks like a white guy."

"Better not be another damn bounty hunter." Coop snorted. "Guys think they're so good at chasing people down, they should do it as a real job."

He yawned and leaned his head back against the seat. "Can't say I'd recommend it as a career choice."

"What are you talking about, Eppes?" There was genuine surprise in his partner's voice.

Don was trying to think of how to phrase it when a rusted Chevy turned the corner and headed towards them. "Never mind," he said quickly. "Betcha ten that's our guy."

They watched as the Chevy came closer. The African-American man in the front seat seemed to fit the description of Marcus Howland: twenty-two, tall and thin, not that that wouldn't describe a lot of residents of this neighborhood. Don put one hand on the door handle and rested the other on the holster of his gun. Beside him, he could feel Coop tensing the same way.

The car drew even with them and slowed down to pull into the driveway of the Victorian. At the same time that Don visually confirmed it was Howland driving, there was a flash of light from the front window of his sister's house. The car came to a dead stop halfway in the driveway. Don opened the door and leveled his pistol at the Chevy. "FBI!" he called, shattering the morning quiet of the street. "Open the door and get out of the car. Slowly."

Nothing happened but a distant car door slamming. And then the Chevy lurched ahead into the driveway and Don raced forward. In front of the garage, Howland burst out of the car and took off through the back yard. Don grimaced and shouted over his shoulder at Coop to follow in the car, spitting out the gum so he wouldn't choke on it if he heaved in a breath the wrong way.

He chased the taller man through a series of backyards, each one slightly shabbier than the last, all at a sprinting pace. If Howland was armed, he wasn't waving it around, which reassured Don somewhat. It might have been a rush the first couple of times he did a flying takedown in front of an admiring (or at least gaping) audience, but the danger of random shots being fired had quickly taken off that edge. And up ahead, the residential street was changing into a commercial one, which meant more traffic and more bystanders.

Or maybe not. The billowing white roof of the Metrodome was visible a couple of blocks away, which meant a sea of empty parking lots. Howland was about a block ahead, leaping over a chain and into a closed-off expanse of asphalt. Don shortened his stride slightly and cleared the same chain, feeling the chill air fill his lungs as his breaths came shorter and shorter. Damn, this guy's fast. Shouldn't Coop be around with the car by now?

Past the grey concrete sports stadium, they veered to the right, away from the glass high-rises of the city center and towards a different kind of skyscraper. Don was confused to see what looked like grain elevators so close to downtown. Then he saw the "Gold Medal Flour" sign on top and, as they drew closer, he saw the burned-out building at their base. Ruins of industry, nothing more.

Apparently Howland thought those ruins would be a good place to lose a tail, as he cut through another empty parking lot and made for the tall cylinders. Don opened his mouth to yell at him to stop, but he figured he should save his breath. "Enough already," he muttered to himself and put on another burst of speed.

He had to slow down to squeeze through a gap in the chain link fence around the mill site and then the broken concrete strewn with burnt timbers and rusty metal made him watch his footing more carefully. Howland had disappeared around one of the tall concrete cylinders. Don marked it closely and, moving as silently as he could, crept towards it from the other side. Gun in front of him, breathing as silently as he could, he edged forward.

He saw the plume of breath before he saw the man, and he leaped out, gun trained on him. "Hands up, Howland."

The other man froze and looked around, wide-eyed, but there was nowhere for him to run. Don cast a quick glance at his waist and didn't see a weapon. "Turn around and put your hands on the wall," he barked, keeping his distance just in case.

Howland hesitated, then slowly turned and leaned his weight on his hands at head level. "You got the wrong guy," he started.

"Don't think so, Marcus," he replied, coming forward cautiously until he could rest his gun against the other man's back as he patted him down. When he was done, having found him unarmed, he holstered his gun and reached back for his handcuffs.

Marcus was muttering to himself, but not loudly enough to be heard, and Don didn't figure it was worth the effort to make out the words anyway. He cuffed the suspect and paused to finish catching his breath, one arm still pressing Howland against the wall. Looking up, he saw that they were right above the Mississippi River, with a short but steep bluff falling off about fifty yards in the distance and a dam and lock running across the water below.

Facing the river, his back was to the direction they'd come in. So when he heard footsteps behind him, at first he was relieved that his partner was finally here. When a distinctive click sounded, he was about to tell Coop that he had it under control. Then something snapped into place in his brain.

Glocks didn't make that sound. Their safeties were internal.

It wasn't Coop behind him.

His heart started pounding but he played it like he didn't know any better. Forcing his voice to stay steady, he said, "I've got it from here, partner," starting to reach towards his right hip while cursing the fact that he'd put the gun away before taking out the cuffs.

"Stay right where you are, Agent."

The chill that ran down his spine was from more than the icy breeze blowing across the sweat on his neck. He hadn't heard that voice in years, but he hadn't forgotten it -- or any of the details from the first time he thought he was going to die. Shaun Gillis's voice was burned into his memory as clearly as the cold green eyes set in the narrow face and the utter humiliation he'd dealt him. His mind started racing. What were the odds -- why was Gillis after Howland -- why the hell had he put his gun away -- where was his partner --

"Hey, what's going on?" Howland burst out, twisting in his grip.

Don pressed him harder against the concrete wall with a muttered, "Quiet," trying to figure out what move to make. If he was lucky, he'd get out of this with two fugitives in his grasp. If he had to choose, he'd pick the killer over the drug dealer as his arrestee of choice. Of course, if he wasn't lucky, two bullets from Gillis would end things really quickly. And if he was really unlucky, this would explain why he hadn't seen any sign of his partner yet.

Gillis was coming closer, his feet crunching on the broken concrete about twenty feet behind him. "Take a step to the right, Agent. Nice and slow. You're not the one I'm interested in."

Don suddenly realized that the hit man had only seen the bright yellow letters on his vest, not his face. He wondered if he would recognize him, but it was worth a shot. Raising his hands into the air as if he were going to comply, he slowly stepped back, turning sideways so his right side was hidden. Then he swiftly turned his head towards the gunman.

It only took a second for the disbelief to flash across the other man's face, but for that moment, he was frozen in place and that was enough for Don to yank out his own weapon and raise it. "Drop it, Gillis," he growled the words he'd been wanting to say for years.

The other man's lip curled up. "Well, well. Agent Eppes." He shifted his aim so his gun was pointed right at Don. "Get out of my way, rookie."

He steadied his own aim on the other man's center of mass, adjusting his stance so he was in front of Howland. His vest was going to have to protect them both. "No way."

Gillis jerked his chin towards the man behind Don. "He's not worth your life. Being a hero might be one thing if the bastard was worth it, but no one's going to miss this guy."

Don briefly thought of the man's sister only a few blocks away. "If he's that unimportant, then what are you doing here?"

Gillis gave a sideways nod as if to say Touché. Aloud he said, "I'm not warning you again."

"Neither am I." He heard movement behind him and snapped without looking, "Stay still, Marcus!"

He heard Howland mutter something, but it was the sound from his left that caught his attention: running footsteps, followed shortly by a voice he was extraordinarily glad to hear. "Don, what the hell…?"

Gillis looked sharply to his right and only then did Don risk a quick glance to see Billy Cooper a hundred yards distant, coming their way at a dead run and reaching for his weapon. When he looked back, Gillis was taking a step back, gun still raised. "Guess I'll see you around," he said.

And then he pulled the trigger.

Don fell backwards, his own gun discharging into the air. He hit the ground on his back with a thump, the breath whooshing out of him. His first thought was that he must be dead; no one could get shot in the chest at that close of range and stay alive for more than a few seconds. His second thought was that he really should have called home more often and that Mom and Dad apparently had been right to worry about him so much.

Then his brain caught up and reminded him that he was wearing Kevlar, and that the sudden pain he felt in his sternum was the relatively soft punch of an absorbed projectile and not the sharp bite of a bullet. Still, it was all he could do to catch his breath and fight down the rush of fear and adrenaline that was every bit as paralyzing as if he'd actually been shot.

It registered in the back of his head that someone was shouting his name, and he woozily lifted his head just as Coop came charging up, his face wreathed in fear. "M'okay," he muttered, waving his right hand, still holding his weapon, in the direction where Gillis had been. "Go get him."

Billy hesitated only a second before racing off between the grain elevators, back towards downtown. Don watched him go, and then a noise to the right caught his attention: Marcus Howland was trying to sneak away in the excitement. He snapped, "Hey, hold it," in the strongest voice he could muster. It wasn't very strong, but he was able to raise his pistol with both arms, shaking only slightly, and point it at the fugitive.

Marcus instantly leaned back against the wall. "Stay cool," he said. "I didn't have nothing to do with you getting shot, man."

"No, you didn't," Don agreed, slowly sitting up. He pressed a hand to the part of his chest that ached the most, wincing as he did so. Damn, that was going to hurt in the morning. When he realized his hand was almost directly over his heart, he couldn't hold back a shudder.

Suddenly, it was really cold out here.

"You all right?" the dark-skinned man asked. When Don looked at him in confusion, he went on, "Dude meant that for me, not you. You're crazy, standing in front of me like that."

"It's my job," was the only answer he could make. Which seemed to consist of chasing down two-bit criminals and saving their lives, instead of the grander scale of the public that he'd sworn to protect. "You're gonna have to tell us why a hired killer would be after you."

Marcus's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything. They stayed quiet for a few minutes: Don hunched over, gun halfheartedly aimed at the bail jumper, who for his part wasn't moving a muscle. When Coop returned, grim-faced and empty-handed, Don let him help him to his feet. They trudged back to the car and loaded Howland in. They'd head for the field office, which was ironically only a few blocks away. They'd hand in their fugitive and sound the alarm on Gillis. Then Don would probably be forced to submit to a medical exam, even though he needed to be out there hunting down the man who'd just tried to take his life.

Damn it, he wanted to catch that guy! He brooded as they drove downtown that as long as he was in Fugitive Recovery, even as good as he and Coop were, they weren't going to get to choose their assignments. Besides, it would take a lot more than the two of them to bring in Shaun Gillis. He reached out and cranked the heat up as high as it would go, trying to ignore the ache in his chest and to forget the panic he'd felt when Gillis had fired.

Maybe it was time to come in from the cold.

oooooooooooooooooo

Sorry to any Minnesotans out there; I know it's a cliché to write about it being too darn cold, and I know Minneapolis-St. Paul is magnificent in the summer, but it fit in with the story…