A/N: reviews please...
Chapter 11
Don set down his mug and reached for the cell phone in his back pocket, grinning at David and Colby's good-natured bantering. Megan leaned back against her seat, relaxed, smiling, listening to the conversation. It was nearly eight, and they were still at Juan Carlo's and done with dinner, but the plates hadn't been cleared yet, and they were lingering over a beer. Lively mariachi music played, as Don glanced at the number, trying to place it. He flipped the cell phone open and answered, and Megan's sharp eyes caught the fading of his smile.
"Excuse me for a minute," Don said quietly to the group, and he rose and made his way through the busy restaurant, through the outer door. Their eyes followed him; then they glanced at each other. Colby shrugged and picked up the conversation again with David, but Megan's eyes remained on Don as he exited, and her brow furrowed slightly.
Outside, Don moved away from the entrance toward an empty stretch of sidewalk. "Okay, Pete, I can talk. What's up?"
Pete Wilhelm took a breath on the other end, as he drove one-handed through the dark streets. "It's about Charlie."
"What about Charlie?" Don's words were sharp, made impatient by a sudden surge of fear.
"First of all, he's okay. We had a little incident tonight, and he got roughed up a bit, but he's all right."
"What little incident?" Don's voice rose. "What in the hell are you talking about, Wilhelm?"
Pete was beginning to understand Decker's reservations, when he mentioned that he planned to call Don Eppes. He was glad there was the better part of a continent between them. "Some men attacked Charlie and our other consultant at the office where they were working tonight. The attackers killed two police bodyguards. Charlie and the other consultant ran for it; Charlie arranged for the other man to escape, and drew the attackers after him. They caught him in an alley, and beat him up some before we could get to him. It was pretty gutsy on his part."
Pride at his brother's bravery and concern over his condition fought for dominance, tying Don's tongue for a moment. "You said he's okay though – where is he? Can I talk to him?"
"Not right now – he's in the hospital – they're holding him a couple of hours for observation – they don't see signs of concussion or internal injuries, but they want to be sure. The X-rays came back – he's got a couple of cracked ribs and some nasty bruises, but that seems to be the worst of it. We moved the other man to a safe house. When Charlie's released, we'll take him there, too. He can call you from there."
"Do you know who did it?"
Pete understood the unspoken portion of that question. Do you know who did it, so you can keep them from doing it again? He tried to sound reassuring. "Not yet, but we will soon. Charlie and the other consultant have finished their programming, and it's running right now. We expect it to name not only Moran, but others. We picked a safe house run by the DEA – not FBI. Only me, Decker and Zuckerman, and Dave Maxwell know where they are right now. The three of us are staying there personally tonight."
"I'm going to make arrangements to fly out there."
"No, there's no need. Charlie's done all he can here. We're going to fly him back home tomorrow – but you can arrange to meet him at the airport. We should be issuing arrest warrants, hopefully tomorrow, too – there shouldn't be any risk to him, after that." Pete paused, and his voice changed, tinged with regret. "Look, I'm sorry, Eppes. I don't know how they found him. He was my responsibility and I blew it. I won't let it happen again."
"Damn right, you won't," thought Don to himself. A residue of anger still simmered inside, but he bit off the caustic words that rose to his tongue. "Just keep him safe, okay? And have him call me when he can."
"You got it. We'll be in touch."
Don snapped the phone shut, and turned back toward the restaurant, to see Megan standing by the entrance. "Everything okay?" she murmured, as he approached.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Everything's okay. Charlie…was in a little accident, but he's fine. He's coming home tomorrow." Her eyes were on him – those eyes that saw more of him than he liked, and he looked away. "Let's get back in there." He composed his features, looked back at her, and smiled. "Or should we stiff Colby and David with the bill?" She laughed as he held the door for her.
Hundreds of miles away, Pete Wilhelm pulled his car into the parking garage at the FBI office. He needed his computer and his files if he was going to stay at the safe house. He'd already arranged to get Dr. Eppes there undetected from the hospital, which would involve a ride out in an ambulance to a drop off point, where Zuckerman would be waiting. Decker was already at the safe house with Willy, and Pete would join them there.
He hit the elevator button, entered, and hit another, riding in the heavy silence, musing over the occurrences of the evening. It was nearly eleven p.m., and the parking lot and the building were quiet, deserted. The only cars he'd noticed were Agent LaBonte's and an SUV he didn't recognize. It registered suddenly that the SUV was a rental, and he frowned, pondering that oddity, as he stepped off the elevator, and rounded the corner toward the bullpen. A glance toward LaBonte's desk brought him up short. "Aw, Jesus," he breathed in shock and despair, as the sight and the smell of blood and neural matter hit him at the same time. "Aw, Jesus."
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Charlie sank painfully, wearily onto the bed in the safe house, and hit speed dial on his cell phone. It was after one a.m. in Philadelphia, ten p.m. L.A. time, and his brother answered on the first ring. "Charlie?"
"Yeah."
Charlie's voice sounded husky with fatigue and pain, and Don felt a pang of sympathy. He'd give anything to be there right now. "You okay, Buddy?"
Charlie snorted softly, mirthlessly. "I guess you could say that. Pretty sore, but nothing serious. It got a little hairy here tonight."
"Yeah, I heard. What in the hell were you thinking – making them come after you?"
Charlie sighed. "It seemed like the thing to do at the time."
Don's voice softened. "It was pretty damn brave of you – stupid, but brave. I'm proud of you."
A smile crept to Charlie's face, and he felt his heart lift. Suddenly the events of the night didn't seem quite so terrifying. Don was proud of him – he couldn't ask to hear anything better than that, he thought. He was wrong.
He tried to sound nonchalant, to keep the almost giddy happiness out of his voice. "I'll be home tomorrow, probably tomorrow evening. The jet's in use – they can't get it until around five our time. I'd like to make sure that algorithm runs correctly, anyway."
"Call me and let me know the time," Don replied. "I'll be there. Did you call Dad?"
"No – I think it's better if I just tell him after he gets home."
"Yeah, you're probably right," Don admitted. "Did they give you pain medication?"
"Yeah."
"Well, take some and get some sleep. Love you."
Charlie nearly dropped the phone. 'Love you?' Don had only said that once, to his recollection – that night at his apartment, and they were drunk. Now he was tossing the words out as if they were a fact of life, a foregone conclusion. The phrase was reminiscent of how their father had signed off on long distance calls when they'd been in college, but Charlie had never heard Don use it, before now. His heart swelled with emotion, and his lips curled in an amazed, ridiculously happy smile. "Love you too," Charlie said softly. The call disconnected, and he sat there, still smiling, clutching the phone to his aching chest.
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Pete Wilhelm didn't make it to the safe house until 3:00 a.m. In spite of the late hour, Decker and Zuckerman were both up, and they looked at him expectantly as he lowered himself wearily into an armchair. He'd called them and told them about LaBonte – somehow press had shown up with the emergency personnel and the city cops; someone somewhere along the line had leaked the information to the news media. Pete had notified LaBonte senior, and there was no reason not to release Mike's name, although Wilhelm wasn't about to reveal it as a suicide, at least not yet. Still the word was out; the story would hit the morning broadcasts and papers.
"You're sure it was suicide?" asked Decker quietly. "I just can't see it."
"There was no note, but it sure looked that way," said Wilhelm. His voice was heavy. "But there's something you need to know. There was a number on his cell phone – he'd made his last couple of calls to that number, and received a few also. I looked it up – it's registered to Jack O'Brien. I had Philly P.D. put an APB out – we're gonna bring him in for questioning."
"Jack O'Brien," repeated Zuckerman, in amazement. They'd run across that name during the investigation, as an associate of Moran's. "As in Dillon Moran's old buddy, Jack O'Brien?"
Wilhelm nodded. "One and the same. And here's the other thing – there was an SUV in the parking garage when I got there tonight – a rental. PD checked, and found out that it was rented by LaBonte."
Decker hated the way the conversation was heading. He'd liked LaBonte. "Maybe his car was on the fritz."
Wilhelm shook his head. "His car was right there in the garage. He'd driven it in that morning, and we took his keys and checked it – it started right up."
Zuckerman swallowed. "A dark SUV?"
"Black."
Zuckerman looked at Decker, who was miserably regarding his shoes. "Remember, I told you I thought that SUV was behind us too long."
"Yeah, but we lost him as we got closer," Decker argued. "How would he have found us again?" The implication of his words hit him – LaBonte would have known about the location of the travel agency office – it was no secret among the agents. "Aw, shit."
Pete sighed. "You got that right." A short silence descended, and he rose. "I'm going to grab a couple of winks – one of you should, too. How's Willy?"
"Okay," said Decker dispiritedly. "A little freaked out, but not too bad. I think he's a little high on all of it – thinks he's some kind of super-consultant now, like his hero, Eppes. He's sleeping, but he's got his program running."
Pete stretched. "Did either of you check on Eppes? The doctor said we should wake him up once or twice, just to make sure there was no problem with a concussion."
Zuckerman shook his head. "No, not yet. We didn't get here until almost one."
Pete headed for the stairs. "I'll check him. Which of you is up first?"
"I will," sighed Decker. "I don't feel much like sleeping right now, anyway."
Pete passed the first room at the top of the stairs – that was the one he would use, and paused at the second door, easing it open gently. The light from the hallway illuminated Willy's profile, his mouth was open, and he was snoring loudly. Pete shut the door, and moved across the hallway to the third room, and his heart leapt as he softly pushed the door open. The room was dark, and the bed was empty.
For a moment, he stood dumbfounded; then he noticed the figure huddled on the floor. "Crap," he breathed to himself. Had Eppes collapsed? He strode across the floor, and knelt next to him, shaking his shoulder gently. "Dr. Eppes?"
Charlie groaned as he woke, and the pain of his injuries reasserted itself. He slowly became aware of Pete Wilhelm, bending over him. "What?" he asked groggily. "Is the program done?"
The response reassured Wilhelm – apparently Eppes was thinking clearly enough. "Are you okay? I looked in to check and saw you on the floor – did you fall?"
Charlie blinked. "No. I'm fine – I just – uh, it's more comfortable – the support for my ribcage," he stammered, lamely. After his heroics of the evening, he hated to admit that he was afraid to sleep in a bed. The floor was horribly uncomfortable, but he'd already tried the bed, and the ensuing nightmare, worse than normal, had made the floor seem like a reasonable alternative.
Wilhelm frowned in confusion. "Let me at least get you a blanket."
He pulled one off the bed and laid it over Charlie. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, fine," said Charlie. He could feel the rising claustrophobia that the blanket generated, and he fought it down with an effort. "Thank you." He closed his eyes, and as soon as Wilhelm had let himself softly out of the room, he threw off the blanket, and took in a big painful, gasp of air. He lay still for a moment as his breathing regulated, trying to ignore the pain, and finally, utter fatigue won, and he drifted off to sleep.
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Walsh padded down the hotel hall to the stairwell at four in the morning, and slipped behind the heavy metal door. It was raining outside – hard, and he could hear the constant rushing sound of water in the quiet. He'd been wakened by his disposable cell, and didn't dare try to talk in his room – it could well have been bugged while he'd been out the previous afternoon. "Yeah," he croaked, after looking and up and down the stairs and listening for a moment. This wouldn't be an option ordinarily, but at this time of night, the stairs were empty. Still, he needed to be careful of what he said. "What is it?"
Moran's voice floated over the line, filled with tension. "I just got a call from Philly. LaBonte's dead."
"What?"
"They're not saying how, but I got inside word that it was a suicide."
Walsh swore softly. "That dumb bastard!"
"They got an APB out for Jackie, too – he's hiding and they haven't picked him up yet, but the bottom line is; we've got no one now who can figure out where they are. We're running out of goddamn time."
Walsh was silent for a moment. "There is one person who knows – and he's right here."
"Who?"
"Don Eppes."
Moran paused. "How do we know he knows where they are?"
Walsh hissed impatiently, in a stage whisper. "He met with them, right? Before Dr. Eppes left for Philly. Your man said that he saw Don Eppes with his brother and two agents at the professor's office, and then Dr. Eppes left with those same two men on the flight that evening. We didn't know then, but we know now, that he was headed for Philadelphia. Don Eppes had to be in on it."
Dillon pondered that for a moment. "Even if he doesn't know where they are, it might work. We could use him as leverage to get Dr. Eppes to stop work – maybe even get the professor to come out in the open, where we could deal with him. We don't have a hell of a lot of other options. Let me think on this."
Jason pulled the phone from his ear, listening. It was still quiet, but he paused a little longer, thinking rapidly. He resumed the conversation. "If you decide to do it, make sure you have an alibi when it goes down, and let me know what's going on and when. And I need a favor. I need one of your men this morning. Someone not afraid to get his hands dirty." Somewhere above, a door opened and closed, and Jason went rigid.
"Why? For what?"
"I can't talk now," replied Walsh quietly. "Just do it." He disconnected, and slipped back through the metal door, as the plodding steps of the security guard descended the flights above him.
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End Chapter 11
