A/N - Sorry about last week, busy times and I wasn't very well either.

A/N II - And as always, many, many thanks to people from their reviews, PMs and emails. It's much appreciated. -x-

Chapter 14

Of Mice and Men

In Ironside's opinion, the ability to wait was the most important skill a good police man had. It wasn't always guns and chasing down suspects on the streets of San Francisco, or sitting at a desk methodically going through mountains of files and folders, carefully cross-referencing collating and checking. And it wasn't even speaking to people, questioning witnesses and suspects to dig out secrets and push for sensitive information.

No. Waiting was the most important because it was the most difficult. Sometimes you just had to wait for the perfect opportunity to present itself. It couldn't be rushed, it could only be anticipated. There were times when the waiting was the very last thing he wanted to do.

And tonight was one of those nights. There was nothing the Chief could do to make this go any faster. He could only wait for his officer to appear, and then wait for the suspect to make contact, and then wait for the undercover men from Internal Affairs to bring him in. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Ironside stood at the window in the manager's office on the first floor of the Rum Runner Hotel, looking down to the car park, watching the people come and go. Sitting at the table beside him, Sergeant Reese was waiting too, pretending to read a magazine. There was no one else with them, Anderson was off on an errand on the other side of town, something that the Chief had told him was of equal importance to the trap at the Rum Runner. Andy and a group of officers from Fraud would be busy all night, but at least they had something to occupy their minds, rather than sit around in an office and think about what could go wrong tonight.

There was an art to waiting well, and Carl hadn't mastered it yet. The Chief could tell from the pensive way the Sergeant turned the magazine pages that he wasn't reading any of the words. He was barely even looking at the pictures. Every few seconds there was a sharp snap of paper as another page was flicked over. It was starting to get annoying.

Snap. Another page turned. Trying to ignore the noise, Ironside concentrated on the traffic outside in the car park, tensing every time he saw a cab roll past.

Brown should have been here by now, but there were no absolutes with this operation tonight. That was the ball game. He'd planned as carefully as he could, and tried to think of all eventualities. Earlier, Ed and Carl had both picked the same man from the stills they'd made from the tapes, and even though it was a little blurry and indistinct, it was enough to give the men on duty here an idea of who they were looking for.

Murray had his best and most trusted officers on duty downstairs. They knew very little about the details, only that this was an undercover sting, and nothing more. Even so, the Chief had taken no chances and made sure that none of the officers had time or opportunity to talk to anyone else before they left. They'd all taken it in their stride; they were from Internal Affairs and were used to their superiors playing their cards tight to their chests. The Chief could only hope all the precautions had been enough.

Snap. Reese turned another page and this time Ironside turned to glare at the man in silence. He didn't notice. Snap.

On the desk sat his half-full cup of lukewarm coffee, and Ironside picked it up and took a few mouthfuls. It tasted terrible, worse than the coffee in the department, and it didn't help calm his nerves. Only getting this started would do that. He was as confident as he could be, they'd gone through the plan forwards, backward and upside down. The men knew what they were doing and everything was set. All they needed was Ed to arrive. Where was that man?

Snap.

Resisting the urge to "snap" something inappropriate, the Chief turned to glance at the clock on the desk. It was just a little after ten-thirty. As he moved, he saw Carl look up, having finally finished with his magazine. Reese's mouth twitched into a half-smile.

'You okay, Chief?' he asked.

'Of course.'

There was a short, tense silence. Carl looked down and half-heartedly picked up a different magazine from the table. He didn't open it, just looked at the cover picture and flicked the edges with his thumb. The noise was almost as annoying as the page-turning had been. Ironside glared at him again, waiting. Reese stayed silent for another minute, toying with the edge of the magazine, then finally he took a deep breath.

'D'you think the kid's going to do okay?' Carl asked, looking back up.

Peering at Reese, Ironside tutted.

'I can tell a loaded question when I hear one, Carl,' he said, smiling and hoping to help the other man relax. Reese gave an uncomfortable shrug, glancing back down to the magazine again as Ironside continued. 'But yes, I think he'll do okay.'

Reese pursed his lips. Then he shifted in his seat. Any moment, the man was going to get up and start pacing, and that would be more than Ironside could stand.

'Did you go through it all?' he asked gruffly.

'Of course, Chief.'

'And he knows what he has to do?'

'Yes.'

'So…?'

Carl frowned and gave long sigh.

'I don't know. Undercover's not that straightforward. Not all the time. He said he'd done a couple of tails after the Academy. And he was part of the group at the Park last year, and that went well. But out on your own, it's different. Real different. Has he got the nerve? Or the skill? Or the patience? He sounded okay earlier, but does he really know what he's gotten himself into?'

'Sounds like you think he doesn't,' Ironside observed.

Carl shook his head.

'No, I think he does, it's just… well… Chief, I'm just not sure.' Carl crossed his arms suddenly, sitting right back in his chair. The expression on his face suddenly showed just how troubled he was. 'You know what he's been through. What happened. I'm not sure this was a good idea, Chief.'

'A little late for second thoughts, Carl,' Ironside replied.

'I know.' There was a long pause. 'I hope we did enough.'

'You've done what you could,' Ironside replied. 'You both have.'

'I know, Chief. I know. It's just, talking it through is one thing. Holding your nerve is another.'

'And will he?' Ironside asked, curious to find out Reese's opinion.

Still looking concerned, Carl thought about the question for a few moments, chewing his bottom lip.

'I'll admit I don't know,' he said at last. 'I'm not sure the kid's got it in him. This afternoon, when we were going through it, I thought "sure, he'd do fine", but right now? I don't know.' He gave another sigh. 'I sure hope he does.'

Inwardly, Ironside was pleased and not surprised to see Reese's concern for a fellow officer. Of all the other people involved, Carl knew the most about Ed's situation and understood how tough it was going to be. He and Ed had spent the afternoon working through the details, making sure Ed was as ready as he could be.

The plan was simple, all the best plans were. The suspect wanted what he thought Ed had. He'd try and find him, and the best place to do that was at the boarding house. It was the only place the suspect would be reasonably certain Ed would go. Ironside had told Brown to go there and then leave as obviously as he could. The suspect should follow him, and Ironside had told Ed to catch a cab come here, to the Rum Runner, the place where it had all started. To the suspect, it would be deliberately provocative, hopefully signalling that Ed did have what he wanted, and was prepared to trade.

But most importantly, as far as the suspect knew, Brown was out on his own, having been cut loose by the department, and he would have no idea that this was a police trap. Murray's officers were positioned in and behind the bar, and they'd put other men outside the building on the exits as well. With men at those strategic points in the Rum Runner, when the suspect made his move, they'd have him.

And that would be that. They'd get the answers they needed. And the case would be closed.

But-

Yes, there was a qualification to that thought. Just like his Sergeant, the Chief was plagued by doubt and questions, although he was better at keeping his poker face. The conversations with Dennis and Murray had been tough, but both men had been right to raise their objections. And he had no real answer to any of them, just his faith in his instinct and this officer.

But that didn't make it any easier. Now they were in it and there was no way back. Was he wrong to believe that Ed could pull this off? Had he seen what he wanted to see? Had he put too much on the young man's shoulders? He'd been as honest as he could with Brown, but he'd not mentioned what might happen to them all if anything went wrong. Knowing that the reputation of the Chief of Police (as well as other prominent members of the department) was in his hands would not help Ed feel any less pressure.

And the Chief still didn't know how Brown would handle that pressure. Carl had been right about undercover work, talking and planning wasn't the same as doing, and it was something you could never be fully prepared for. If Carl, a man who had years of police experience was feeling this nervous, how bad would Brown be feeling right now?

Ironside toyed with the coffee cup, swirling the dregs round in slow circles, thinking back to Murray's warning: If this went wrong, then there would be no way back. It wouldn't just break Ed, it might kill him. Rather than being bait for the suspect, was Ed just on the short walk to the gallows? He let a slow breath out.

'He should be here,' Carl said, looking out of the window. 'I mean, how hard is it to find a cab on a Tuesday night?'

Ironside was about to reply when the other man shifted forward.

'Chief!' Reese said. He was pointing out of the window. 'I think that's him now.'

The cab pulled up at the door of the Rum Runner and Ed got out, paying with the cash he'd got from the Chief precisely for that purpose. As hotels went, the Rum Runner was at the lower end of the market, close enough to the waterfront to have a scenic view, but far enough away from the suburbs to be awkward to get to. It also had a reputation for cheap rooms, cheap drinks and no questions, making it an ideal place to conduct shady "business deals" of all varieties.

It was a relief to get out of the cab. The drive over from his home had been a slow-burning torture. The traffic was heavier than usual and they'd crawled through the centre at snail's pace, it felt as if the driver was deliberately taking his time. Stuck in the cab and unsure of how to act, Ed didn't know if the suspect had taken the bait and the plan was working, worried that it was but terrified that it wasn't and this was all going to be a waste of time.

The cab drove off, and Ed turned to face the implacable grey stonework of the hotel, trying to keep calm. Now he was here, he was suddenly so anxious he could barely stand. The attack of nerves he'd had at the boarding house paled into insignificance. He felt all the blood rush from his head, and he went cold all over, as if he'd fallen into a freezer.

Stunned by the sensation, for a second Ed couldn't move. He felt awkward and unsure, obvious but isolated. His heart rate skyrocketed, and he struggled to draw breath.

The reality of what he was doing hit him. There was a killer on his tail, a man who'd killed a cop, but also killed his friend.

The chill in his body intensified. He couldn't go through with this. He wanted to back out. He wished he hadn't agreed. He wished he was safely back at the department, in protective custody without any of the responsibility or problems. He wasn't cut out to be a cop, not if it meant dealing with all of this. He'd just screw it up. He'd screwed up the stakeout with Leo, he'd screwed up the account of the assault as well as he could barely remember any details about the men who'd attacked him. Almost all he'd done was screw up. Days, weeks, months. It was just like after… after the Dayton Case ended… In those few months he'd screwed up again and again; he and the Division Commander had a daily appointment and-

Shuddering, Ed forced himself to stop, and tried to take a deep breath.

Panic was taking over, he recognised the feeling from yesterday. And he didn't want to panic today, and not right now. He hated that feeling. Besides, panicking in the middle of an undercover job would only get him in deeper trouble. He needed to pull himself together and keep going. The Chief needed him to do this.

Ed took another slow, uneven breath in and reminded himself that he'd agreed. He and Carl had spent all day going through the details. And Ironside thought he could do this. He didn't want to be the one to prove the Chief wrong.

More importantly, the hard part was over. He was here at the Rum-Runner, and all he had to do was get a room, go to the bar, and wait. There wasn't a lot that could go wrong with that.

The flash of panic subsided as quickly as it had appeared, it must have only been a few seconds at most, and afterwards, Ed felt calmer and more in control. He wasn't going to back out. He wasn't going to screw this up either. There was very few things he could do to screw it up, but standing at the doorway looking like an idiot was one of them. He had to keep going.

Gulping against the dryness in his mouth, Ed walked forward.

The hotel had a spacious, airy foyer decorated in shades of light-grey and white, giving the sensation of walking into a cloud. There were a couple of doors off at either side, each marked "Stairs", as well as elevators up to the higher floors. Directly opposite the outer entrance were two sets of revolving doors that led through to the main concourse.

His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked across the marbled floor, making Ed feel more uncomfortable and less confident, very aware of the thin scratches and colourful bruising on his face and neck. Any moment, he expected someone to appear, and ask what he was doing there, but no one did.

As instructed, Ed pushed through the doors and went straight to the front desk. He checked in, ignoring the odd look the clerk gave him, asking for a single room on the first floor. For an extra couple of dollars he got them to take his case up there straight away. Then, once he'd signed in and had his key, Ed made his way through to the bar.

It was smartly decorated, if a little out-dated, with green carpet and paint, contrasting with the plain wooden tables and chairs. One side of the room had large windows that would have given a pleasant view of the Bay in daylight. There were seven other groups of people sitting at tables, spread-out in the room as well as a smattering of regulars propping up the counter. A couple of waiters darted around with trays of drinks, and the barman was deep in conversation with one of the customers.

Again following the Chief's instructions, Ed went straight to a table near the windows, choosing one that was discretely out of the way.

As he sat down, he breathed a deep sigh, feeling more relieved and relaxed than he had done for days. He'd gotten this far without anything bad happened. Of course, there was always the possibility that the suspect hadn't followed him and this was a waste of time but, in spite of his doubts and nerves, he'd done what he Chief wanted him to do. All he had to do now was wait.

Night-time in San Francisco could be beautiful, and Ed sat looking out to the dark waters of the Bay, watching the lights of the boats as they bobbed up and down. The darkness on the other side of the glass looked tranquil, but Ed knew that the impression was false. Out there it was dangerous. It was dangerous in here as well, and he took a surreptitious glance around at the nearby exits. He'd seen the positions on the drawing Carl had shown him, so he knew where to look, but each of them looked more awkward to get to than he'd thought.

At the Academy they had been told about undercover work. It had sounded exciting and glamorous, all the men thought so, even though the teachers had always stressed how difficult it was, and how dangerous. Hiding in plain sight and tracking down criminals, there was an edge of a Doc Savage adventure about it.

But that was before. It didn't feel like that today.

Ed fidgeted with his room key before tucking it into a pocket. Tonight, he didn't feel excited, he still felt a little sick. Was undercover work always so unpleasant? It was as if he was in a parallel world, where everything looked the same on the outside, but was inverted in the inside.

He wasn't sure who he was anymore: someone just pretending to be a man on the edge of running out, or if that really was who he was now? The lines between reality and imagination were starting to blur.

As Ed looked around, he imagined that anything could happen. Any of these people could be a cop, and anyone could be their suspect. At any moment, one of them could snap, pull a gun and the room would erupt with violence, bloodshed and death. Or nothing would happen, and he would sit there as the hours dragged slowly past, waiting and getting more nervous until the bar closed at three and he staggered off to his room. He wasn't sure what he would do in either of those scenarios. He wasn't sure what he should do next.

Some cop I am, whispered the voice in the back of his mind. The doubt sent a shiver across his aching back. But he'd made it this far without anything going wrong, he reminded himself. And now was the most straightforward part. Ironside had told him to take a seat and stay there. He'd been very clear: sit and wait for the man to make contact. As soon as he did, Murray's men would strike and that would be that.

It was out of his hands now. Giving in to all the doubts and fears wasn't going to help. All he had to do was hold his nerve and the others would take care of the rest. It sounded simple. What could go w-

Ed stopped himself. That was a dumb thing to think. He'd learned over the past few days that no plan was perfect and whatever he anticipated might go wrong, there would be at least three other ways he'd not thought of. Better to trust in the Chief and that the plan was sound, and not try to second guess anything.

There was the sound of soft footsteps on the plush carpet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the barman approach. Ed flicked a bill towards the man, too nervous to look round and make eye contact.

'Bourbon,' he said, sounding more calm than he'd expected. 'And bring me the bottle.'

It was what the Chief had told him to do. The barman took the money without asking any questions and vanished back to the bar.

For the next few minutes Ed went back to staring out at the night and the lights. He wasn't thinking about anything for longer than a few seconds, ideas and images flitted across his mind almost at random. His heart was still thumping, he had the urge to start tapping his foot or move the ashtray around on the table. What he really needed at that moment was a cigarette. That would help take the edge off his nerves and help him keep his cool. Maybe he could get a packet from the barman. Or not. That would be the wrong thing to do. He had money but it was on loan, and before expenses. He had no idea how long this would last. What if he ran out of cash after blowing half of it on cigarettes? How was he going to explain that to the Chief?

The barman returned. He laid a square, white napkin next to the ashtray, and put a glass with ice on it. Then he poured a measure of JB Sefton Whiskey out before putting the bottle in the centre of the table. He hovered attentively at Ed's shoulder, and Ed felt obliged to take a sip.

At the first taste, he stifled his shock with a graceless cough. What the flamin' hell…? Instead of the warm burn of bourbon, it was cold tea. Plain, normal, common or garden English breakfast tea.

Ed took another quick taste. It was tea and he wasn't imagining it.

Thoroughly confused and alarmed, he looked up sharply at the barman, about to demand an explanation. The words vanished as he recognised the man. Lieutenant Murray Simon looked down at him, unimpressed.

'You need to relax a little, Mr Brown,' he said in a low tone. 'Try to stop looking like you're at your own funeral.'

Ed's jaw tightened at the phrase and the implied rebuke. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the "barman" and put the glass down with a thud.

'You're not getting a tip,' he said loudly. 'Not for service like that.'

Although the barman mumbled an apology, Ed saw the Lieutenant give him a thin smile, and just made out the words "that's better" as he walked off.

Ed gave the man one last sullen look, then reached out to take another mouthful of his drink. He grimaced, but forced it down anyway. Tea indeed! Very funny! And just when he'd wanted a double to help steady his nerves.

But Lieutenant Simon was right, he needed to relax and stop jumping at every noise or movement. He had to trick the suspect into the open. Doing that would have been a lot more difficult if he had been drinking straight bourbon. Considering the day he'd had, and the painkillers he'd been taking, after one glass of bourbon he would have found it hard to string a sentence together. Another and he'd probably have been sound asleep, face-down on the table. Ed gave a muted huff. Damn it, was Ironside right about everything? And all the time?

Resigned, Ed finished the glass in one mouthful and poured himself another. The doubts from earlier returned, he was just as anxious and unsure as he had been earlier. But he leaned back, mulling over what the Lieutenant had said, trying to keep relaxed.

All he had to do was follow the Chief's instructions. Do nothing, go nowhere, and wait for the suspect to try and contact him. So that was what he was going to do. However long it took.

He sighed. It was going to be a long evening.

The Chief glanced to the clock and stifled a yawn. It was just after midnight. Time had crawled past, each second, each minute stretched out to the limit of his patience. Waiting had rarely been this difficult before, even on other dangerous undercover assignments. He'd never felt the pressure of waiting as acutely as he did tonight. Or this morning, as it was now.

He stifled another yawn, aware that letting his thoughts dwell on the negatives was going to make it all the harder to concentrate. Coupled with the stodgy flow of time was the fact that he was tired. It had been a difficult few days and he'd pushed himself to keep going. Although he didn't need a lot of sleep, the previous night he'd been up working on those tapes and was at Carl's early in the morning. This office was too warm, the seats a little too comfortable. If he hadn't been so anxious about Ed and what was happening downstairs, he'd have been sound asleep in the armchair.

And what was happening downstairs? Nothing! Someone had called the office to let them know Ed had arrived and was following the plan by sitting in the bar, waiting. But so far nothing else had happened.

Beside him, Carl was sitting, his elbow on the side of the chair, his head propped up by a hand and his eyes half-closed. He was someone else who'd had a night of broken sleep and was feeling the consequences.

The empty coffee cup sat on the desk and the Chief contemplated having just one more, to tide him over, but decided against it. He'd had enough caffeine tonight, and he couldn't stand any more terrible hotel coffee. A thin smile touched his lips, thinking of coffee and then of tea, wondering what Brown thought about the "bourbon". They'd had no idea how long this would take and it would have done no one any good if Brown had ended up smashed on whiskey, so he'd told Murray to swap tea instead. It was a trick he'd learned in the old days on the force, how to look like you were drinking but not having any alcohol. A small part of him would have liked to have seen Ed's face when he'd tried it.

Ironside leaned back, and for the millionth time, glanced at the clock. With every minute that trudged by, the Chief grew very slightly more anxious.

This was taking a long time; too long.

There were only two possibilities: that the suspect hadn't followed Ed from the boarding house and this was a waste of time. Or the suspect had followed him and was deliberately delaying the confrontation.

The first possibility was annoying and would have meant they'd wasted a perfect opportunity. The second was a lot more worrying. If the suspect was delaying, then there had to be a reason, and that couldn't be good.

Above all, at the moment, Ironside wished that something would happen.

At the thought, the phone rang and beside the Chief, Carl twitched nervously. Ironside grabbed the receiver.

'Ir-'

He got no further before Murray spoke, almost shouting the words over the wire.

'He's cut and run, Chief!'

'What?' The word was out of Ironside's mouth before he registered exactly what Murray was meaning. He felt a wave of shocked disbelief, unable to comprehend what he'd heard. Then Murray spoke again and the reality sunk in.

'Brown's gone!'