Chapter 2

Lester stood in the late afternoon sun, his shoulder leaning against the lamp post halfway down Stark street as he pretended to check a text on his phone. In reality, he was keeping casual surveillance on Jim Braddock, a known associate of one of the high dollar FTAs Rangeman currently had on their books, and wishing, not for the first time, that his cousin hadn't insisted on a uniform of head to tow black. It was usually fine, convenient even, but summer out doors was the worst. He'd only been out of the SUV five minutes, and already there was a steady stream of sweat dripping down his back.

"Anything?" Bobby said in his ear. The medic had been fortunate enough to in two out three rounds of rock, paper, scissors and was therefore enjoying the air conditioned environment of the sandwich shop two doors down. The bastard had probably bought himself an ice-cold beverage as part of his cover, too.

"Nothing," Lester murmured, swiping a hand over the back of his neck. "He's not stupid. He knows a Rangeman uniform when he see's it."

"If you have a better idea..."

The end of his sentence was left unspoken, but as a real text came through to Lester's phone he had to wonder if it was because Bobby had decided that Lester could infer the rest of it, or if he'd gotten distracted by the same message. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

"Bombers at Haywood. Seventh floor," Bobby said.

"You think she's okay?" Lester asked, lifting the phone to his ear as a cover for the conversation he was carrying out through the ear piece with his partner.

"Hard to say," Bobby said as Braddock crossed to a car that had just pulled to the curb in front of him and climbed into the back seat. "Could be she just needs a hot shower. Or she could be hiding from Morelli, or her mother, the Burg, a bigger threat. You never know with Bomber."

The car roared away from the curb and Lester let his shoulders sag. There was no way they were going to catch up to Braddock now. Not when the SUV was a block away in the opposite direction. He wiped sweat from his brow and dropped the phone pretense, swinging his gaze in the direction of the sandwich shop. "Grab me a coke and I'll meet you back at the SUV," he instructed, not bothering to wait for confirmation before leaving his post. Bobby would have seen the car zoom off and new there was no point in hanging around.

Lester's mind was on Stephanie Plum as he walked. Something had happened between her and Ranger before he'd left on this latest government mission. Something good for a change. Because instead of keeping her distance like she usually did when Ranger was out of town, unwilling to burden the Rangemen with her problems the same way she would call on Ranger for assistance, her visits to the officer were more frequent. She'd been utilising their search programs for her own skips, and 'paying' for the privilege by picking up the slack on Rangeman searches as well. She'd joined the men fro dinner a time or two, and even voluntarily locked herself down in the building while Tank and Junior varified a suspicious package and threatening note that had been left inside her apartment last month.

By all accounts, she'd been doing well, and Lester was thrilled (as were they all) that she was including them in her life more.

"Now if she'd just get some training," Lester muttered to himself.

"Baby steps," Bobby replied. "She's trusting us more, so maybe we can find a way to convince her, or work training into a gathering or something. We don't wanna come on too strong and end up back on the outskirts. I like that she's checking in with us da-"

Lester heard Bobby's message tone sound through their connection, cutting the man off for a second time in the space of ten minutes.

"Shit." Bobby's muttered curse was followed by the distinct sound of CAT boots pounding the pavement as he appeared on the street, sprinting in the direction of their fleet vehicle.

Seeing the intense look of determination in Bobby's eyes, Lester slid behind the wheel and had the engine started and vehicle in gear by the time his partner launched himself into the passenger seat, wrenching the door shut behind him and practicallying yelling "Code Blue!"

That was all the information Lester needed to jam the accelerator into the floor, and let his instincts take over as he wove through the streets at top speed, heedless of traffic laws and speed limits. "Why the hell didn't they call a Code Blue when she arrived?" Lester griped, taking a corner on two wheels.

"The signs aren't always obvious," Bobby reminded him. "She doesn't always present with injuries straight away, and her interpretation of what constitutes a threat is usually wildly different to ours."

Lester just grunted. He knew it was true, but it didn't make him feel any better about the situation. Especially since the fact that he had not received the same Code Blue text meant that Steph was most likely injured. He hated when she was hurt.

They arrived at Rangeman in record time, abandoning the SUV with the keys still in the ignition and doors flung open, not even fully in a parking space before running up the stairs at full pelt. When they reached the landing on the fifth floor, the caught sight of Tank, one flight ahead of them and put on an extra burst of speed to catch up so that they all burst through the stairwell door on seven at the same time. Taking no more than two seconds to calm themselves, lowering their heart rates and relaxing their faces, Tank swiped his access card and entered the apartment, Lester following close behind while Bobby brought up the rear, having the presence of mind, now that they were closer, to pull the door shut behind him.

The scene they found in the dining room was, at once, both better and worse than Lester expected. From the limited report Bobby had managed to get out of Binkie on the drive back, they'd assumed some kind of grievous injury combined with life-threatening stalker situation, so he was relieved to find her in one piece, seemingly unharmed, but the way she was clinging to Hal made every muscle in Lester's body tense.

Judging by Hal's attempts at a pep talk, she wasn't in a good place, mentally. He spoke about being in the driver's seat and not relinquishing control, and deciding what failure looks like, so Lester assumed whatever had happened had already hit the Burg grapevine and spiraled out of control when her mother caught wind of it, resulting in a verbal dressing down. But that didn't make sense, because Ranger's Burg informant hadn't reached out to warn them of the gossip like she usually did. Lester shared a glance with Tank to confirm, and sure enough, the big man gave a negative shake of the head. The gossip mill had been quiet for almost a week.

"As long as you're clutching the keys in your fist, you're the one driving," Hal said with more conviction than Lester had ever heard in his voice.

Steph held his gaze for a moment, processing his words before lowering her eyes to the table. "Okay," she sniffed.

That wasn't the Steph they knew and loved. Where was her confidence? Her conviction.

Averting his gaze from everyone's favourite bounty hunter, Hal cast a worried glance to the three men looming in the doorway behind the housekeeper. Lester read the concern and panic there and had just sent him a nod of approval for his efforts in handling the situation, knowing that big displays of emotion were no more his thing than they were Steph's, when a gut wrenching sob cut through the momentary silence of the dining room, snapping all attention back to Steph.

Lester couldn't have held his position if he'd tried. Steph had become one of his best friends, and seeing her hurting like this was pulling on not only his heartstrings, but his protective instincts as well. He wanted more than anything to find the person responsible for the pain she was enduring and inflict some pain of his own. But there were more important things in his immediate future, like easing the anguish in those expressive blue eyes.

"Hey, Beautiful," he said, crossing the distance between himself and Steph in three strides. "There's no need to cry! Hal's metaphors weren't that bad! He managed to stick to a single mode of transport this time."

Steph's sobs only got worse as she flung her arms around Lester's neck, her whole body shaking as she held on for dear life. Lester found himself fighting back his own emotions as he scooped her up out of Hal's lap and settled into the nearest empty chair with her, murmuring the kinds of soothing words that his mother would whisper to him in his youth when he woke screaming from a nightmare. He still didn't know what was wrong, but was clear that this was not your average, run-of-the-mill Bombshell Bounty Hunter situation they were dealing with. Something was very wrong in Steph's world.

Hal, Bobby and Tank left the room - likely to discuss what little intel they had and figure out the best response - but Ella remained in the doorway, wringing her hands. Lester sent her as reassuring a look as he could manage, given the circumstances, and tightened his arms around Steph.

"I don't pretend to know what you're going through, Beautiful," he sighed against her chaotic curls. "But I'm here for you. We're all here for you. And when you need to talk, or yell, or cry, or shoot something, we'll be right there beside you. I'll even loan you my gun."

Ordinarily, the mention of facilitating her use of firearms for therapeutic purposes would have earned him an eye roll and a derisive snort from Steph, her aversion to guns leaning her toward more conventional forms of stress relief, yet more creative ways of getting her skips to cooperate. If anything, though, Lester's words caused Steph to sob harder, her shoulders heaving, fingers curling into tight fists where they gripped his shirt.

"No guns," she pleaded between gasping breaths. "Please."

"Of course," Lester soothed, frowning as he wondered what could have caused such a thorough break down. "No guns." He paused for a long moment as Steph struggled to get herself under control, sucking in deep breaths and scrubbing her face with the inside of her wrists. "Can you tell me what happened?" he requested quietly when she'd finally lifted her watery gaze to his. Her face immediately crumpled, but before she could bury her face in his chest again, he caught it between his palms, forcing her to maintain eye contact. "I won't make you talk about it," he promised. "But believe me when I say that talking can definitely help, and I'd be honoured if you chose to tell me what's upsetting you."

Steph's eyes squinched closed for several seconds, her frown deepening briefly as she took a slow, deep breath. "It's Dad," she whispered, voice shaking as her lower lip trembled. She was milliseconds away from dissolving into tears once more, but instead she closed her eyes pressing her cheek more firmly into Lester's hand. "He..." Her breath hitched and she tried again. "He's... he's in the hospital and it's all my fault!" The last few words were wailed as she managed break free of his hold, surging to her feet. She paced to the end of the table, breathing hard before turning on her heels, taking two steps back toward Lester and changing her mind once again.

Lester kept his expression neutral as her words sank in. It was no secret that Steph was a Daddy's Girl, so her reaction to his current state, whatever that may be, was understandable. And, he reasoned, if Steph was proclaiming that it was her fault, then the likelihood of her having already received a lecture from Helen Plum was high. The woman had a knack for turning any situation into evidence of her daughter's apparent failures. It was one of the reasons the guys always made themselves available when Steph invited them to dinner at her parents' house even thought they knew it would mean enduring the deceptively strong, pinching fingers of her Grandma Mazur. Any support they could offer to Steph when facing off against the devil incarnate was worth the layers of skin they lost when scrubbing themselves down in the shower later.

Steph was like a caged animal as she paced back and forth, unsure of where to turn and what to do with the energy steamrolling through her. When her hands started flapping and her breathing started tipping toward hyperventilation, Lester barely even paused to think about his solution, instead, he stood, grabbed Steph's hand and tugged her toward the door with a quiet, "Let's get some air."

She followed willingly. Past Ella, down the hall, out into the foyer and up the short flight of stairs to the roof top. The wind was stronger up here than it had been at street level earlier, gusting past them and blowing Steph's hair into her face. And thankfully, with the setting sun, the temperature was starting to lower, making it almost chilly. Steph wrapped her arms around her middle and took a deep breath, her gaze flitting from Lester to the Trenton skyline. "Sorry," she murmured, not looking at him. "I hate when I get all -" she didn't put words to her emotional state, choosing to give a vague gesture, accompanied by her screwed up nose.

"There's no need to be sorry, Steph," Lester assured her. "We all get like that sometimes."

She sent him a doubtful look. "Even Ranger?"

"Even Ranger," Lester confirmed with a laugh. "He just doesn't do it publicly. Years of discipline have taught him to squash it down until he's alone. You're more alike than he'd care to admit in that department."

Steph shook her head and wondered over to the wall around the edge of the roof, batting her hair out of her eyes as she went. "I wish he was here."

"I bet he does, too," Lester agreed, sticking close to her and leaning his elbows on the barrier. "Being here with you is infinitely better than whatever hell he's currently facing."

She made a non-committal sound and mirrored his stance, staring out at the mingling clouds and smog. Neither of them said anything for several minutes, which made Lester nervous because Steph wasn't known for being silent and still, but he supposed it was better than her inconsolable sobbing downstairs.

"Is your Dad okay?" he asked curiously, even though he'd already assumed the answer would be 'no' based on her reaction thus far. Things had to be bad to warrant such a strong display of emotions from Steph. "Is it his heart?" Lester knew that Frank Plum had high blood pressure and that a lifetime of eating the hearty meals the Burg was fond of had lead to a worrisome condition with his heart that the doctors were keeping a close eye on.

Her shoulders tensed, her lips thinning into a grim line. "He was shot." She took a deep breath, eyes narrowing at something in the distance.

"Damn, Beautiful," Lester breathed. "How did that happen?"

The silence that followed his question was stifling. Lester could sense the upheaval still reigning inside his friend, but didn't want to push her to talk and create a rift between them because of it. He knew that sometimes these things take time to come to terms with, and given how upset she'd been just minutes ago, he couldn't blame her for clamming up. Eventually, though, she sighed and turned away from the edge, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Dad was driving the cab. Best Eddie and Carl could put together from witness statements is that the fair he picked up got spooked and shot Dad to get away."

"Is he okay?" Lester asked quietly. He got the sense that she was leaving details out, but at least she was talking about part of what was playing on her mind. It was a start, if nothing else.

Steph seemed to collapse in on herself then, all the wind leaving her sails. "I hope so," she whispered. "Eddie called me to let me know about Dad, and then Mom called me to yell at me for being the cause of it all, no one in the family had ever been shot before I started bounty hunting. When I said I was coming to the hospital she basically said she'd disown me if I went anywhere near Dad right now, that I'd done enough damage. I didn't wanna make thing worse, so I -" She shrugged, forlorn. "I'm a terrible daughter."

"You are not," Lester countered, wanting to shake the thoughts out of her head, but knowing that it would only add to the chaos. "You can't control how other people act. You didn't force the guy to shoot your Dad. And if we're labelling anyone as terrible, it's your mother. Who the hell tells their daughter to stay away from their Dad when they're in hospital?!"

Steph's shoulders crept up in another shrug, her head hung low. "She has a point. It's my fault."

"Stephanie Plum, do I need to wash your mouth out for saying such harmful things about yourself?" Lester demanded, hands on hips. He was trying for that mockingly stern tone but realised a little late that now probably wasn't the best time to start sounding like one of Helen Plum's lectures. "I just told you that you can't control other people! It's not your fault. Say it with me. It's not your fault."

There was a short pause while Steph stared down at her hands, avoiding his gaze. Lester was about to repeat his command, when Steph's tiny voice reached his ears. "What if he doesn't make it?" she asked. "If Dad dies, it'll be my fault, and everyone will know it. And all because I couldn't fathom working at the button factory or any of the other sane, and Burg-approved jobs my mother has been shoving down my throat for years. I should have listened to her. I should have tried harder to be who she wanted me to be. I should have-"

"Enough!" Lester exclaimed, grabbing Steph by the upper arms and turning her to face him. He couldn't stand seeing her like this. It was bad enough when she was embarrassed because of the Burg gossip, now she was suddenly thinking she should become one of the carbon copy drones they favoured? No, thank you. Steph's spunk was what made her Steph. If she wasn't the spontaneous and adventurous woman she'd grown up to be in spite of her mother, Lester wouldn't have spared her a second glance. He would have written her off as one of his cousin's weird sexual cravings and dusted his hands of her at the earliest opportunity. "What would your dad think if he heard you talking like this? Didn't you tell me that he always encourages you to be who you want to be and ignore Helen's nit picking? What was it you said he told you to do with your mother's words again?"

Steph bit her lip, tears brimming her eyes as she fought to keep them at bay.

"Throw your head back and spit her words into the wind," Lester provided when it was clear that she wouldn't, or perhaps couldn't, do so herself. He'd memorised the advice, because he thought it was the perfect reaction to the poppycock Helen liked to let loose and figured that one day he would need to use it to remind Steph how unrealistic her mother was. If only he'd been wrong. "And you don't worry about the cracks in your walls that Helen seems so fond of filling. The cracks are what make your beautiful. They let the light in. No matter what that woman and the Burg do, what fresh hell they put your through, they can't tell you to change who you are."

"But they do," Steph groaned. "They always have. You don't understand how hard it is to just ignore everything I learned growing up. It's all I know."

Lester shook his head, leading Steph back over to the edge of the roof. "That's it," he said in the no nonsense tone he reserved for only the direst of situations. "Reminding you of the advice in theory clearly isn't working, so we're going to have to do a practical lesson instead. Tip your head back and spit."

Caught off guard, Steph's eyes widened at him. "I'm pretty sure Dad meant something like say the words and let the wind take them away from me."

Lester raised an eyebrow. "Why say 'spit' then?" he questioned. "Come on, just do it. If nothing else it'll break the tension seething inside you." And to encourage her to follow her father's instructions to the letter, he threw his own head back and spat. Unfortunately, the saliva that had been aimed over the edge of the roof was caught in a fresh gust of wind, and landed with a splat right in his eye.

He hadn't planned the humiliating spectacle, but the fact that it made Steph laugh had him wishing he had. At least the tension was broken like he suggested. Maybe now he could get her to see that all this was just a cruel twist of fate, no one could have predicted it, no one was at fault.

"Your turn," he said, gesturing toward the edge with a grin as he swiped his face dry. "Spit, and then we can go downstairs and call the hospital for a status update."