21: Later

Tracy Island, the office-

There was still that smell of newness; of bubble wrap and fresh paint not yet mingled with cigar smoke, caffeine-fueled nights and long briefings. It would take more than a few test runs, Jeff supposed, to break the place and the team in.

...Data collected from Hackebacker's 'rescue' were certainly proving useful, though.

He looked around at the frescoed ceiling, the Persian rugs and teak panels, deeply impatient. There was a giant comm screen on the wall opposite his massive desk; the latest, most expensive tech obtainable, with several smaller versions just behind him. To his left lay a gracefully curved balcony, its wrought-iron stairs descending to the pool deck. To the right, a hidden bank of elevators would someday ferry teams of rescue pilots directly from briefing to cockpit; from office to Bird.

Someday.

Jeff leaned back in his leather chair, hearing bronze casters whisper across and old and valuable carpet.

It was growing dark outside, but he refused to switch on the lights, liking the tropical evening's buttery-soft warmth. Manhattan, LA and Tokyo never went dark; never slowed down or paused for breath. Their blood was data and their pulse was money, and resting cost both. Resting cost lives.

Once again, because he couldn't help himself, Jeff displayed the text of Leisha Bonaventure's urgent message.

"Mister Tracy, this is Bonaventure. Forgive me for disturbing you, but in light of recent developments, I thought you'd want to hear this immediately. Reception was extremely poor… evidently the call was placed from a moving vehicle, Sir… but there was more than enough material to rouse Morris at Interpol, and he piped it on over to me. I've coded the conversation, Sir, using protocol 7. Please listen to the message and advise me, at your earliest convenience. I'll be in the Manhattan office until 9:30 PM, local time. Thank you, Mr. Tracy."

…And then the intercepted call; broken and staticky, decrypted by his desktop receiver. The first voice, silky and insinuating, sounding like the sort of man you counted your fingers after shaking hands with:

"…can confirm that the boy… indeed… Tracy. Needless to… opportunity for tremendous fin… rewards, but as… call."

Then, the second speaker came on line, his voice richly accented and lower in pitch. Mediterranean. Spanish, possibly?

"If… is not to be hastened… Caution and planning, Michaels. The boy and his 'mother' must…"

End transmission.

Must what? Which boy? Alan? Gordon…? Either was a possibility, though one was decidedly closer to home, and very much safer, so.

Jeff Tracy raked a hand through his hair, thinking hard. Among the items piled upon his desk was a large manila envelope he'd removed from the office wall safe. Inside the envelope were the few pictures he had of Gordon, his fourth son… the one whose last days he'd entrusted to a cousin. Except that the boy hadn't died. He'd gotten better, tended and loved by the widowed young woman he now believed to be his mother.

Jeff might have reclaimed the boy at any time. Gordon's adoption papers contained several carefully-worded loopholes for just such contingencies… but nothing of the sort had taken place. Interference wasn't wanted; nor money, either.

Checks had gone out month after month, from a dummy 'charitable relief agency' to an account that was never drawn upon. Not one penny of Jeff's money had Kathleen Tracy ever touched. She could have lived like an heiress, bought her adopted son the best of everything. Instead, she'd moved warily from one small town and menial job to the next. Avoiding him, Jeff supposed; trying to hide.

They hadn't spoken in over ten years, communicating only when absolutely necessary, and then by lawyer. But it now appeared that someone had ferreted out Gordon's existence. That there might be a hostage scheme in the offing (Not the first time, by any means. Something similar had been attempted years earlier, against his three older sons, and even Gennine had once been targeted.).

Question was, how best to handle the matter, without revealing any more than he had to? Obsessively, Jeff began organizing the items on his desk, sorting his thoughts as he did so.

Bringing Gordon to the island was out of the question. Jeff had all he could manage as it was, integrating family, technology and business. He didn't need a fresh headache. Also… there was Kathy.

Jeff sorted through the stack of grainy 5x10s. There. This one had been taken at the seashore. Against a backdrop of tawny sand and rolling grey water, a thin, pretty redhead boosted her laughing toddler above an on-coming wave. The child wore green swimming trunks and small blue water shoes. Looking closer, you could see that the scars had gone, leaving no trace of the avalanche that had killed his real mother, Lucinda.

For just an instant, Jeff tried re-imagining the picture. Tried placing Lucy in Kathleen's spot, with himself at her side and the other boys playing happily in the surf. No good, though. No matter how hard he concentrated, the image fell apart. Lucy was gone, despite all her husband's money, willpower and hired scientists. Dead.

It was Kathy who'd lifted Gordon over that wave, just as it was she who'd wrapped him in a warm towel and walked about collecting shells with the boy. For ten years, she'd told stories, cooked meals, tucked him into bed at night and heard his prayers. She'd stroked away fevers and promised that all would be well… and it was Kathy's heart that would shatter forever, if that boy were taken from her, now.

No... Bringing Gordon back simply wasn't an option, at this juncture. Increased protection was, however. The ID chip could be remotely altered again, the very next time his young son made a candy purchase. Additional agents could be posted, and the call's scheming originators hunted down; quietly. Jeff could defend what he wasn't free to claim, and then get on with the business of running an empire. But…

One more time through the pictures. In some of the later ones, the boy looked nearly as athletic as Virgil. Shorter, though… and more prone to laughter.

Jeff shook his head, spreading the pictures out like a hand of cards.

Where the hell had he gotten that red hair? What did his voice sound like? Any head for business, at all? As a baby, Gordon had sat up earlier than most, showing spurts of stubborn willfulness, even with Lucinda. What was he like, now?

…And, most importantly, was his father doing the right thing by waiting so long to find out? Could the re-united family take another hard shock?

Troubled, Jeff sighed, squared his stack of photos and tucked them back into their envelope. Later, he'd return them to the wall safe. Now, there was a very stiff drink to pour and several calls to make.