Their speed was slow, allowing Charlie to limp across the airport tarmac at his own pace to the waiting private jet that Don had hired for the flight home. Don had tried to get another wheelchair, the same as he'd obtained for Colby, but his brother had steadfastly refused.

"I walked in here," Charlie informed him, blinking rapidly to keep his one eye open, "and I'm going to walk out." He held up a brown plastic bottle with a white label, hand trembling. "Besides, with these babies, I can probably fly back to L.A. all by myself, no airfoils needed. Wheee!" He listed to one side.

Don moved in to shore him up, hiding a grin. His brother had staggered into this mission, and he was staggering out. Showed a certain amount of karmic balance in the world. "C'mon, Chuck. Let's get you into the nice jet before you fall flat on your nose and break it."

"Won't be able to tell," Charlie giggled. "Got too many bruises right now." Hic. "You said so."

"Yeah, I did." It was going to be a long flight home, Don mused wryly. Charlie high on pain-killers promised cheap entertainment that they all could do without. Charlie always babbled, only this time they wouldn't be able to tell if he was making sense or not.

"C'mon, Charlie. See if you can keep up with me," Colby said from his wheelchair, David behind doing the pushing. He glanced at Don. "Hate to be paranoid, Don, but are you sure about this? Wouldn't be the first time that a small jet has gone down in these mountains."

"Let's just say that I got a recommendation for the pilot from some friends," Don told him. "The guy's private, and likes it that way. We can trust him. We'll get home safe."

"And then?" David looked at the future and didn't like what he saw. "We all have to write up reports on this mission, boss."

"Write away," Don invited. "Just make sure to put in that Charlie wasn't able to decipher the code."

"I did, you know," Charlie confided drunkenly. "Cracked it wider than a toothpick."

"Don't you mean barn door, Charlie?"

"Yup," Charlie agreed, hiccupping. "Wider than a darn bore. Barn bore. Darn door. Whatever." He staggered, his legs giving out underneath him.

Don caught him easily. "Plane, Charlie. Sit down."

"Glad to." Charlie clutched at the door frame to the jet that Don had hired, missed, and grabbed Don instead.

That was okay with Don.

Area Director D'Angelo studied the hard copy of the report that Don turned in. He flipped the first page over and moved on to the next, keeping Special Agent Eppes waiting in the chair in front of him. "I find myself singularly unimpressed with the results of this assignment, Eppes."

"Yes, sir," Don agreed, keeping his posture relaxed. "I'm sure that the NSA was disappointed, as well. It's not often that Charlie doesn't come through." He guided the discussion to where he wanted it. "However, sir, if you look at the overall picture, you can see that the FBI did what was asked of it. We provided security for the NSA consultant, and did it successfully under extraordinary circumstances. In addition, we apprehended a large terrorist cell in the area."

"None of them lived to tell the tale, Eppes," D'Angelo observed dryly.

"Yes, well, there wasn't much option over that." Don scuttled around that point. "We were significantly out-numbered. The NSA should also be grateful that we identified their mole."

"Yes, whatever did happen to Agent Foster? Any hints that didn't make it into your report, Don?"

First name basis, so this part wasn't going into D'Angelo's own report. Don allowed his voice to have honest regret. "No, sir. Wish I did." Because I'd really like to hunt him down for what he tried to do to my brother and my team. "Best guess is that he ran for it. I put his name out for Immigration to watch for but as good as he is, I don't expect them to catch him crossing the border." He sighed for dramatic effect, keeping it subtle because D'Angelo didn't need anything more for Don to make his point. "He's the NSA's problem now, and good riddance."

D'Angelo grimaced by way of agreement. "I see that the NSA withdrew their request for that army psychologist to provide them with an independent report of the matter."

"Yes, sir. The unofficial story that came down to me was that someone at the top levels realized that Dr. Ainsley didn't have high enough clearance to interview Dr. Eppes on a matter of this importance. I understand that Dr. Ainsley has been reassigned back to Washington." And has disappeared, Don carefully didn't add.

"I see." D'Angelo paused. He glanced at the report in his hands, then back at Don. "You're certain that Charlie didn't crack this code? Didn't come up with any names?" A significant pause. "No one I should know about?"

Don looked his superior straight in the eye. The guileless gaze came straight from years at the poker table, learning it from the best: his father.

"No, sir," he lied.

Dr. Larry Fleinhardt entered Dr. Eppes' office, a package under his arm. "Don, a pleasure to see you, as always. Charles, you're looking better. Your bruises can now be mistaken for a five o'clock shadow rather than the pugilistic pummeling that they were." He peered more closely. "No, I believe some of that truly is a five o'clock shadow. Are you neglecting routine hygiene in favor of working on Cognitive Emergence Theory? I warn you, inadequate hygiene is inconsistent with the concept of cognition."

"Hey, Larry." Don waved a hand in the air, one with a slice of pizza in it, and finished by aiming it for his mouth for another bite. He leaned back in his chair.

"I'll start shaving again when I've finished healing," Charlie informed his colleague glumly. He motioned to the pizza sitting on his desk, mushrooms on one half and pepperoni on the other. "Join us for lunch?" He eyed the package that Larry was toting with concern. "What's that you're carrying? I'll warn you, I'm behind on a lot of things. Losing my laptop has set me back for several months. If it's a new project, I may not be able to get to it for a while. I've even told Don not to bug me for the next two weeks."

"He's serious, this time," Don groused. "Do you have any idea how much work has piled up, just over that one weekend?"

Larry perused the package that he had brought in with him. "No, Charles, much as I would like to enlist your assistance, I am well aware of your status. The loss of your laptop was devastating, and will likely take you far too long to return to your previous level of research. It is fortunate that you had the majority of the information backed up on discs, or it might have been years." He handed the package to Charlie. "Actually, a young man brought this to me, asked if I would be so kind as to deliver it to you with his compliments. When I asked for his name, I found that he had vanished into the rushing flow of humanity outside my office." He looked at it again. "Do you have any idea of what it might be?"

"Not a clue." Charlie set it down on top of his paper-strewn desk, heedless of the mess underneath the package. He aimed for the twine.

"Hey, wait a minute." The FBI in Don got rattled. "Charlie, let's hold on. Who's this from? Remember where you've been, guy." He pulled the package closer to him and away from his brother, listening for the tell tale sound of ticking. Nothing.

"Don--"

"Hang on, buddy." Don looked it over, and failed to be reassured. There was no return address, only Charlie's name and title scrawled across the front. He hefted the package, trying to estimate the weight, wondering how much a pound of C-4 weighed just before it exploded. Stupid question, Eppes. A pound of C-4 weighs: a pound! He considered; this package weighed considerably more than a pound.

Then it hit him. Don had a fairly good idea of what was inside, and who it had come from. He smiled. "Go ahead, Chuck."

"Don?"

"Go ahead," Don repeated, broadening his smile. "It's okay."

"Okay," Charlie echoed, puzzled but reassured. If Don said it was okay, then it would be. If it wasn't, then Don--sitting next to him--would share in the consequences. Charlie pulled out a pair of scissors and snipped at the twine that kept the package intact. "Let's see." He unwrapped the brown paper, saving the address. It bore only his name, a formal Dr. Charles Eppes, CalSci, written in a neat and unremarkable hand. There was no return address, and no suggestion that it had gone through the postal service or had any intention of doing so. Charlie pulled the paper away.

It was a laptop. It was a laptop with a number of scratches on the outside cover. Don sat back, a satisfied expression on his face.

"Charles?" Larry clearly admitted to puzzlement. "Charles, that appears to be your laptop. I thought you told me that it had been destroyed in the cave in."

Charlie stroked the small box along the edge. "Two things, Larry."

"Which are?"

"One: whatever anyone says, this is not my laptop. My laptop was crushed beyond repair during my last consulting job for the NSA, and I will tell that to anyone and everyone who asks."

"I see. And second?"

Charlie grinned broadly. "I believe that I will now have time to help you with your latest project, Dr. Fleinhardt. I suddenly find myself all caught up." He flipped the lid open, hitting the power button. The insides whirred in relief at release from enforced inactivity, and the various programs reached out and connected with the wireless internet weaving invisibly through the atmosphere. Several files automatically updated themselves.

Charlie frowned. "Maybe not. Look at all this mail. The ratio of spam to legitimate messages is hello!" he broke off.

"Charlie?" Don leaned forward.

"This isn't mail," Charlie told him. "This is a powerpoint, and someone told it to start when I turned the laptop on. Hang on a sec; let's see what pops up."

It didn't take long. The first screen arrived, cold and unadorned. The words popped onto the screen:

Professor Eppes, kindly request your brother to join you prior to advancing any further. TPR

"TPR?" Larry asked. "Who might that be?"

Neither Eppes answered him.

"I'm already here, Chuck," Don said. "Next slide?"

Next slide: Special Agent Eppes, given the graphic content of the following slides, you may wish to encourage your brother to exit the immediate vicinity. Likewise, it is recommended that no one other than yourself view this information.

That didn't sound good. "Charlie?"

"I'll stay," Charlie said grimly. The shadow covering his eye seemed to darken slightly. Don had his doubts, but Charlie had earned the right to make his own decisions. He knew the risks. He had almost gotten killed by those risks.

Larry, on the other hand, was another story. The physicist held up his hands. "There are times, Don, when the mysteries of the Universe pale in comparison to the mysteries of man. I suspect that this is one of those instances, and so, in order to avoid excessive concern and confusion, I shall absent myself at this time. Charles, I shall take you up on your offer to assist in my next article, and shall rejoin you later today, after class."

"Office hours finish at four." Charlie's attention was on the computer screen, watching it for signs of an impending explosion.

"Later, Larry." Don turned back to the laptop after Larry had shut the door behind him. "Go for it, buddy."

Next slide. This one had a smaller font size, the better to fit more information onto the screen.

The home of a mutal acquaintance was broken into recently. Unfortunately, the intruder was discovered by the man's wife who demonstrated her proficiency with a handgun. Just thought you'd like to know.

Charlie exchanged a worried glance with his brother. "One more slide," he murmured.

There were no words on the last slide, only a slightly grainy picture, as though taken with a cell phone camera with an inadequate focus. It didn't need to be better; both Eppes recognized the features of the man in the photo, the dark hair and the neatly trimmed hair. The eyes were closed, and the bullet hole straight through the forehead broke up the monotony.

It was Steven Foster, the erstwhile NSA agent. Traitor to his country. No longer a problem for anyone except the coroner's office.

Charlie closed his eyes, and swallowed hard. The pizza on his desk suddenly seemed incredibly unappetizing.

Don closed down the screen. He pulled up the menu, selected the file, and tapped 'delete'. Then he took hold of Charlie's good shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

"It's okay, Charlie," he told his brother. "The case is now closed."

Final A/N: Some of you will be disappointed that I didn't 'name names' of those 'upper level people' directing the twisting of the operations for and against our boys and that they 'didn't get what they deserved'. That was deliberate; I and others are growing more and more concerned that various world leaders may be using their power, either intentionally or accidentally, for personal gain rather than the welfare of our planet (can you spell 'paranoia'?). Educate yourselves on current events and select whichever names seem to you to best fit the criteria for this piece of fiction. For those of us eligible to vote, it is more important than ever that we not be swayed by rhetoric but instead carefully consider which candidate is best suited to make this world a better place for all, and then vote our conscience.