Chapter 9

Steve took a deep breath - and ignored the trio of guns pointed directly at his head. ''Alright; you got me. I'm not deaf...but if it's Frank Morrisey you're talking about, I'm the one to deal with. I can help you.''

''Men make great promises when their lives are at stake,'' Rubens scoffed. ''Why should I believe a word out of your mouth?''

''Let me call him,'' Steve suggested calmly. ''Or his people, anyway. I can have him back off or arrange negotiations; whatever you need.''

Rubens seemed to be letting this sink in, although he still didn't lower his weapon. ''I might be interested in a deal,'' he allowed. ''But your boss needs to stop changing the arrangements midstream. I offer him a price for his 'services' and then he tries to up the ante. Doesn't fly with me. And sending you in here to spy on us makes me like him even less.''

''I'll take care of it,'' Steve promised. ''Just take me to a phone...''

Jaime's 'tune-up' wouldn't take very long, and although she'd been right in saying Mark couldn't exactly psychoanalyze a two-year old, he thought perhaps little quiet time with Becca might give him a better idea of what was troubling her so badly. He took her outside for a walk around the grounds, pointing out birds and flowers and the child maintained her equilibrium, appearing happy and even enthusiastic...until they reached the track.

''Jessy...'' she said softly, pointing to the spot in the trees where Mark had earlier seen her emerge,

Mark got down on the ground so he could talk to the little girl on her level. ''Becca, was Jess here?''

''Jessy!''

''You saw her here?''

''Jessy!''

Mark picked her up and carried her around the track, stopping at various points and at each spot asking Becca if she'd seen the nurse there. Whether she truly understood him or not, each time, she looked back to the original spot and pointed, saying the name. Mark noted that there was no screaming...no tears or tantrums. Becca seemed content, perhaps because Mark was listening to her, believing her - instead of ignoring what she'd said or (worse yet) telling her she was wrong. Even nurses with the best intentions didn't have the care and raising of a child while her parents were too ill or injured to do so themselves...and Mark was beginning to question Jess's intentions. He would have a serious talk with her very soon, but for now his chief prerogative was the little girl who was happily toddling along, holding his hand as they headed back into the hospital.

Quality time with her parents (and a hefty dose of understanding) would likely be just the ticket for what was troubling Becca. Dinner with Jaime would just scratch the surface but it was a start. A little table was set up in a room in the makeshift bionic wing and while mother and daughter ate and talked, Mark made arrangements for a second, smaller bed to be moved into Jaime's room. Jaime would be pending the night so the doctors could keep an eye on her now that she'd been tuned to full power, making sure she had no adverse reactions. It would be better for Becca to be tucked into bed and spend the night with her mother - and not more nurses - especially if Jaime would be going overseas in the morning.

Russ was on the phone with Peggy when the 'check-in' phone finally lit up. ''Gotta go!'' he said urgently as he dove for the other phone. ''Yes?'' he answered.

''Russ, it's me,'' Steve said slowly. ''Is Morrisey in?''

''Steve, he's in his own office on the other side of the city.'' Russ began choosing his words carefully because Steve knew where the OSI attorney was - and knew the number to reach him. Instead, he'd called his own check-in line. ''Are you alright?'' he asked.

''No. Get me Morrisey on the line - now!''

''Are you in jail?''

''NO! And tell him he has a lot to answer for, with my new friends here.''

Russ got the message like a load of bricks dumped into his lap. ''What can I do to help you? What do you need?''

''Dammit! I need Morrisey! Seems he's not playing fair, from what I'm told, and I'm investigating whether his services should be continued here.''

''Wrap it up,'' Rubens ordered. ''And get me some results! Tell him he has 8 hours to come up with a respectable offer - or you won't be around to negotiate any further.''

''Listen,'' Steve relayed, trying to get his own message across as well as that of his captors, ''you find my not-so-good friend Morrisey and get him where he belongs. When I call back in eight hours, he needs to show some respect for the people he's dealing with. His information might be valuable but if he can't be trusted at his word the deal's off. '' With a gun pressing at each of his temples, Steve's next thought was to protect Jaime. ''And tell him not to send any of his flunkies to try and pull me out. He deals directly with me. Eight hours - and that's final.'' Steve set the receiver in its cradle, breaking the connection. He could only hope Russ got the message - and would act on it accordingly. In other words, Russ, Morrisey may not be one of the good guys. He's selling valuable information; he can't be trusted. And Russ, whatever you do please (please) don't send Jaime after me. They plan to kill me in eight hours...

Steve knew that even if Frank Morrisey himself got on the phone to talk to Rubens (which was about as likely as a snowstorm in Los Angeles in August), he'd have served out his own usefulness to them; there was no way his captors would let him live after that. Even if they did send Jaime (and he prayed that they wouldn't), she would arrive too late. He'd have to wait for an opening and take his own best shot at escape.

He had eight hours.