A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. The real action is dead ahead...

Chapter 10

A little after five, Don leaned back in his seat and stretched. He glanced at the clock. It was a little after eight in Philadelphia, and he wondered how Charlie was doing. He'd call him when he got home that night, he decided. Maybe Dad, too. He sat back forward in his chair as Megan approached.

"Hey," she said, "we were thinking of stopping for a bite to eat. Want to come?" She grinned. "I promise; we have no ulterior motives this time."

Don grinned back. "You're sure about that?" he teased. "Who's 'we?'"

"Me, Colby, and David. The last time we went out, we agreed we should do it more often, remember?"

"Yeah," Don growled, with mock irritation. "I also remember you trying to sweet-talk me into letting Charlie consult for the team again."

Megan grinned, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Worked, didn't it?"

Don's face relaxed into a smile, and he rubbed an eyebrow. "Yeah, it did." He looked up at her. "All right, where?"

"How about Tex-Mex – Juan Carlos'?"

"Okay," said Don, "That sounds good." And it did, he reflected as Megan headed for her desk to close up. It sure beat sitting at home alone. He logged off his computer, phone calls to family temporarily forgotten.

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Charlie whirled and looked behind him. His pursuers were already halfway down the stretch of alley, and behind them, he caught a glimpse of a slight hunched figure scurrying out of the doorway, and down the alley that led back to the street. At least Willy was clear. He spun back around, and grabbing his computer case by the handle, launched it up and over the fence, into a pile of cardboard boxes on the other side. He wasn't sure if it would withstand the landing, but he needed to stall them as much as possible. Even if he didn't make it over the fence, they would need to take time to go around and get his computer – it might create enough delay for rescue to arrive. Still, he wasn't about to sit and wait for that rescue – he leapt for the fence, desperately trying to pull himself up toward the top.

He was hampered by his injured shoulder, but it wouldn't have mattered – his pursuers were too close, and he was only three feet off the ground before he felt hands pulling at him. He landed on the ground with a thump, and flung up a hand to ward off a punch to his face, which still managed to find his cheekbone. Stars exploded in his vision, and he wished belatedly, with despair, that he'd found the time to take the self-defense courses that Don had been urging him to attend.

"Where's your computer?" Hands grabbed him roughly by his shirt, lifting his torso partly off the ground.

The sirens had stopped, Charlie noted dimly, with growing terror. Maybe rescue wasn't imminent – maybe the sirens had sounded for someone else. "I – I don't know."

"Go look for it," the harsh voice ordered, and one of the men took off at a run.

"Where's the other one?"

Charlie shook his head, panting. "I don't know – he went another way."

"What's his name?" the voice demanded, and Charlie looked up, peering in the darkness, trying to gather facts for a description. Not that he'd necessarily get the chance to disseminate those facts to anyone.

"I don't know." His response was met with a fist in the gut, followed by two more blows to his rib cage, one to his jaw, and a kick to his thigh. One agony followed the next, and he tried to curl on his side, away from the fists and feet, but a hand still held the front of his shirt.

The blows stopped, and his attacker spoke again. "You don't know much, do you? Tell us where he went. What were you working on?"

"I don't know," Charlie gasped through the pain, struggling as another fist hammered his ribs, and the blows began again. Dimly he heard shouts at the end of the alley, then gunfire erupted over his head, and the hands released him, finally allowing him to curl up in a fetal position, incapacitated by pain.

He heard the rattle of chain link fence; and through slit eyes saw two figures scale the fence like acrobats, and drop on the other side, ignoring calls to halt, and the warning shots that followed. Pounding feet came after them, and then hands were turning him on his back, and in the darkness, he could see Decker peering anxiously at him. "Professor? Where does it hurt? Where you shot?"

The first question was too hard to answer, but Charlie managed a 'no,' for the second. "Willy-," he gasped.

"Zuckerman's got him, he's okay," replied Decker. "He came shooting out of the alley just as we pulled up – that's how we knew you were back here. No, don't try to sit up – we'll get an ambulance."

"I'm okay," Charlie protested through clenched teeth, as he struggled to a sitting position. He was far from it, but adrenaline was still pumping, giving him strength, and he suddenly wanted to be out of that alley in the worst way. He could see an officer bending over a prone figure; and beyond him was another body.

He blinked, trying to get his bearings before he tried to stand. His head was actually fairly clear; his cheekbone and jaw were throbbing, but the head blows didn't seem to affect his awareness. That was unfortunate, because his torso was in agony; his gut and ribcage had taken the better part of the beating, and protested as he clambered slowly, awkwardly to his feet, with Decker's support.

Decker looked at the hunched, swaying figure anxiously. Ideally, he would wait for an ambulance, but he wanted to get the consultants out of the area as soon as possible. He took one of Charlie's arms, and one of the police officers, who had also responded to the call, took the other, and they slowly began to walk Charlie down the alley.

"My computer bag - it's on the other side of the fence – in the cardboard boxes," Charlie said, in shaky voice, between breaths. Even breathing was painful, and every step made him aware that one used abdominal muscles when walking, which was something he hadn't recognized before.

There were other men coming down the alley now, more officers who had arrived at the scene, and Decker shot a command to one of them. "There's a computer case on the other side of the fence in the boxes – go get it."

They had made it to the end of the side alley, and were preparing to turn down the one that led to the street when the ambulances pulled up. "Let's just sit here and wait for them," Decker suggested, and Charlie finally conceded, sinking to a sitting position on wobbly legs, as a gurney was unloaded and pushed toward him down the alley, and another behind it. A slight figure broke away and dashed after it, followed by Zuckerman, and Willy darted up next to them, his eyes looking as though they were going to explode from his skull.

"That was the bravest thing I've ever seen!" he was babbling to Decker, as the technicians did a quick exam, and gently transferred Charlie to the gurney. "He made me hide in the doorway, and made them run after him – he saved my life – he saved my life -is he going to be okay? Is he-"

"I'm okay, Willy." Charlie addressed him directly, wearily, as the gurney began to move. "Just some bruises. I'll be fine."

Decker waved the other gurney past them. "Go left at the corner down the other alley – there's an officer there with two downed men – we think both of them are dead."

"Oh," breathed Willy. His mouth was round, and that and his bulging eyes made Charlie suddenly think of his koi pond. "Oh, my!"

Zuckerman stepped next to Decker as they walked alongside the gurney, speaking quietly. "Wilhelm's on his way – we should probably call him and redirect him to the hospital. He's moving Willy to a safe house, and Dr. Eppes, too, depending on when he's released from the hospital."

They'd reached the end of the alley and paused, as a somber-looking officer approached. "We did a preliminary check of the office. Andy and Jerry are both dead – shot. They took down one of their attackers. Funny thing is, there's no forced entry – it looks like either Andy or Jerry must have at least started to let them in."

Decker looked at Zuckerman, his brow knit. "How in the heck did someone get them to open the door?"

The officer raised an eyebrow. "Maybe the question isn't how – but who?"

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Charlie shivered in his hospital gown. He'd tried to put up a brave front for Willy; the man was unnerved enough as it was, but now that Willy had been whisked off to a safe house and the adrenaline was starting wear off, shock over what had just happened had started to set in. The cold X-ray table hadn't helped either – he was starting to tremble a little, even though he was now back in the ER exam room, on a gurney and under a blanket.

The nurse in the room noticed. "I'll get you another blanket," she said, and bustled out, passing Pete Wilhelm in the doorway. He stepped inside, followed by Decker and Zuckerman, his face contrite.

"Dr. Eppes, how are you?"

"Please, just Charlie. A little sore," admitted Charlie, "but okay." It was actually a blatant understatement; he ached all over, and his rib cage burned like fire with each breath.

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"Andy told us you were coming to pick us up. We had just packed up our laptops when I heard voices at the door – I thought it was Agents Decker and Zuckerman at first. Then I heard something that sounded like a struggle, and as we came to the end of the hall, someone fired. The light wasn't on in the hall, but it looked like Andy was at the door, and he went down. Jerry was in the hallway, firing at whoever was trying to come through the door. I didn't stick around – I grabbed Willy and we went out the front. We tried to flag down a car, but it took off." He made a rueful expression. "I guess we scared them."

Wilhelm smiled a little. "Yeah, you two are pretty scary, all right."

That comment earned him a wry grin, but it faded as Charlie went on. "We got to a cross alley and made a left. There was a recessed doorway just around the corner, and I told Willy to hide there, and to sneak back out once they were past us – all the important stuff is on his computer. I took off down the alley, and they followed me. It probably would have worked a lot better if there hadn't been a fence there. I couldn't see it in the dark until I was right up on it. I tried to go over it, but they pulled me down."

Wilhelm frowned, sympathetically. "Did they speak to you?"

Charlie shifted a little, wincing, trying to find a comfortable position. "Yeah – one of them asked where Willy was, and what his name was. I wouldn't tell them. That's when they started to hit me – then you guys showed up." He quit trying to move – comfortable seemed to be out of the question. Another shudder passed through him.

"Did you recognize any of them?"

"No."

"All right, Charlie, one more question and we'll leave you alone. I know you reported to us earlier you had the possible meth lab locations, and Philly PD is getting warrants and proceeding with the plans for the raids. What we need to know is; did you make any progress on where the money was going?"

Charlie shook his head, and grimaced slightly. "No, but the algorithm is complete. Willy just needs to run it. I'd be very surprised if it didn't turn up who the three recipients of the illegal funds are. One should be Moran, and one, his man, Conaghan. I expect the third will be Dave Maxwell's suspect. Willy can run it overnight – it's going to take several hours, maybe even up to a day or two."

Wilhelm nodded. "That's good. If that's the case, there may not be a reason for you to stay – we could arrange for you to go home tomorrow. I'm going give your brother a call; let him know what happened. Did they say how long they were keeping you?"

"It depends on the X-ray results," said the nurse, as she came back into the room with a heated blanket. "He may be released as soon as they come back, or the doctor may elect to admit him, depending on what he sees." She laid the blanket over Charlie, and he closed his eyes, gratefully.

Wilhelm nodded, and stepped out, with Decker and Zuckerman at his heels. He paused in the hallway, out of hearing of the guard posted at the doorway. "It sounds like Andy recognized someone at the office door, or he wouldn't have opened it. The question is, who?"

"Another cop?" suggested Zuckerman.

"Possibly," said Wilhelm slowly. "Or one of us."

Decker and Zuckerman exchanged a troubled glance. "I'd have a hard time believing that," said Decker, shaking his head. "Unless it was the guy that Maxwell suspects – but how would he have found out where they were?"

Wilhelm sighed, and began to move down the hall, and they moved with him. "I guess we'll know as soon as that program runs. As soon as we get a report from the doctor, I'm going to step outside and call Don Eppes."

The statement brought to Decker's mind a vision of Don Eppes, propped against his brother's office desk, his arms crossed, as he leaned over them, with a smile on his face and a threat in his eyes. "Good luck with that," he said darkly. Wilhelm glanced at him sharply. "Sir," he amended, as they moved down the hallway.

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Moran got the call a little after six p.m. L.A. time. One of Moran's men had gone to get food, and they'd eaten together at the warehouse as Dillon discussed the progress his expert was making with the computer program. Walsh was still there, but was preparing to have one of the men drive him back to downtown Burbank when the cell phone rang, and he sank back into his chair.

"Shit!" Dillon exclaimed into the phone, and Walsh's stomach turned, as he listened to the one-sided conversation.

"They're going to hide them somewhere else. Get LaBonte on it, pronto. We need to know where they're moving them." Dillon snapped the phone shut; his face dark. "That was O'Brien. They botched the damn job. He said three of his men escaped, along with LaBonte, but three of them were killed. They killed the two guards at the office, but Eppes and the other consultant ran for it. They caught up with Eppes, but lost the other guy, and then the feds and some more cops showed up, so they ran."

Walsh swallowed the lump in his throat. "Did they find out who the other consultant was?"

"No." The word was spat out with disgust. "They've already taken him somewhere, and O'Brien thinks Eppes is at the hospital, at least for now. The guys beat him up some, but they didn't think he was seriously hurt. You can bet as soon as he's released, they'll put him back with the other guy. We need Agent LaBonte to find out where that is."

"So is he working on it? LaBonte?"

"O'Brien can't get him to answer his damn phone. I told him to keep trying. Jack's man said he was sure LaBonte got out of there – as soon as the struggle started at the door, he stepped back, and then Jack's man saw him hightailing it for his vehicle. Chicken-shit."

Walsh looked reflective. "Maybe it's a good thing. We still need him – he's our only man on the inside. It wouldn't have done us any good if he'd gotten shot. Was there any chance the cops could ID him?"

"They could if they were alive," snarled Dillon. "They were both taken out."

"Then we're still okay," said Walsh. "We just need to get LaBonte to find out where they put them. He did it once, he can do it again." His words were calm, but the beginnings of panic were stirring in his gut. The reality was, Wilhelm would tighten security, and LaBonte's job would get even harder. The reality was; their backs were now against the wall.

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Mike LaBonte sat at his desk in the darkened office, took a pull from the whiskey bottle in front of him, and stared at his vibrating phone. He didn't need to see the number to know it was Jack O'Brien, undoubtedly calling to cuss him out, and then to give him another assignment. Well, it was too damn bad, he reflected, as he swallowed another slug. He was done.

The sight of the cop, Andy, going down, had sickened him. He'd worked a couple of cases with the man. Andy had a wife and teenage kids in college, was only a few years from retirement. Now he was a corpse – set up by him, Mike LaBonte. It was his face that had gotten Andy to open that door. Andy had trusted him, and that was what it got him. A bullet in the heart – a sucker shot.

A photo of his father stared back at him in black and white from the frame on the desk in front of him. Steely-eyed, with a proud smile, an agent himself, now retired. He'd told Mike it was one of the best days in his life when Mike had joined the Bureau.

'Now look at me,' LaBonte thought, his face twisted. Worse than any criminal he'd ever gone after – because he'd set up one of his own. He took another pull from the bottle and set it down with a shaking hand. O'Brien could go to hell. He was done.

He took one last look at the picture, then picked up his service revolver from the desk, placed the muzzle in his mouth, angling it up against his hard palate, and pulled the trigger. The back of his head exploded, raining blood and bits of skull and gray matter against the file cabinet behind him. His body slumped forward over the desk in front of him, the gun not quite falling all the way out of his mouth before the table pushed it back in, where it helped prop up what was left of his head. He was done.

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End Chapter 10