CHAPTER 14

Judge Travis adjusted his grip on his briefcase and glanced at his watch as the elevator arrived at the top floor of the federal building with a ding.  He patiently waited for the polished steel doors to open then strode purposely past the reception desk, nodding a greeting to the young woman behind it as she raised a hand in acknowledgement without breaking the telephone conversation she was involved in.  The noise of the office as clerks and other personnel worked busily from within the cubicles scattered around the area was just a hum in the background to him as he crossed the expanse and turned down the long hall leading to his quarters.  The noise faded in the distance and quiet enveloped him as he passed several offices before reaching the frosted glass door bearing the name Assistant Director at the end of the passageway.

"Good morning, sir.  How was the Colorado Springs meeting yesterday?"  Sherry White, his tough, no-nonsense secretary greeted him with a cup of coffee and a smile.  She was a thirty-year veteran of the legal system and had been the best secretary he ever had during his years on the bench.  When he had been offered his current position within the newly formed Special Forces Division of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, he had immediately asked her to join him.  She had seen it all during her career, and very little fazed or intimidated her. She was organized, efficient, professional—and easily held her own against the toughest opponents, including Chris Larabee and the yahoos he called a team.  She was one of the very few—actually, the only—person he had ever seen that could back down the awesome power that was team seven's leader on a continual basis, even if it was only for a step or two.

That ability alone made her worth all the gold in Fort Knox, as far as he was concerned.

"Typical." he grimaced at the memory of the business meeting that had tied up his entire day yesterday.  He sipped at his coffee and headed for his office.  "What is on the agenda for today?"

Sherry fell in step beside him.  "You have a nine o'clock briefing with team two on their progress with the Newman case, a ten o'clock meeting concerning the operations budget for next quarter, a twelve-thirty lunch with Justice Harvey, and a two-o'clock conference call with the attorney general.  Team eight's reports on their last case are waiting on your desk for your approval, on time as usual, unlike certain other teams," she frowned in disapproval and he took another sip of coffee to hide his amused smile, knowing exactly to which team she was referring.  "Team one's requisition for assistance on their next case is waiting for you as well, along with team four's funds request for theirs," she continued as he pushed his office door open.

"Oh, and Mr. Randolph called asking—"she stopped in mid-sentence as they entered the room and froze to see the darkly-dressed man leaning casually on the edge of the marble-topped desk, his hands in the pockets of the black leather jacket he wore and his ankles crossed, the steel toe of the black boot on top glinting in the florescent light overhead.  "Mr. Larabee!" she exclaimed.  "How did you get in here?"

Chris straightened up and focused a piercing green gaze on the man before him with barely a glance at the secretary.  "We have to talk, Sir," he said seriously. 

"About?" the magistrate raised a brow in question.

"We have a new lead in our case. It's important."

"Important enough to justify breaking into my office and bypassing the usual channels?"

Chris didn't even flinch at the veiled reprimand.  "Yes, Sir," he answered solemly.

Travis studied the man before him for a moment then motioned to one of the wing-backed chairs to the side as he stepped behind his desk and laid his briefcase on the surface.  "Have a seat," he directed, but the man didn't move.

"Not here," Chris shook his head.  "I need you to come with me."

The judge focused on the team leader's eyes for a moment with a narrowed gaze then nodded once in decision.  "Sherry, clear my schedule," he ordered, handing her the coffee mug as he passed her, following the man out of the office and leaving her standing in the middle of the space, sputtering in exasperation.

"You found Standish, then?" he asked as they exited the elevator into the garage a few minutes later.  He was a bit surprised to see Vin Tanner leaning against the side of a non-descript sedan parked close to the elevator, but didn't comment.

The tracker opened the passenger side door for the older man and nodded in answer to the unspoken question in Chris's eye, indicating that everything was clear before he climbed into the back seat.  Chris slid behind the wheel and started the vehicle.  "We found him," he answered as he backed out of the parking space.

"Is he alright?" the judge asked in concern.

"He's just fine, Sir," Vin met the older man's eyes in the rearview mirror, a slight smile stealing across his face in reassurance.

"Then he had better have one h**l of an explanation for his disappearance," the magistrate commented gruffly, a hint of anger flaring to life in his visage as he pulled his seatbelt across his lap.

"He does," Chris replied, pulling out into the busy morning traffic.

"And?"

Chris glanced into his rearview mirror to make sure they weren't being followed before turning to his boss.  "We'll explain everything when we get there."

Not satisfied with the answer, but realizing that he would learn nothing else from the two laconic agents, Travis dropped his line of questioning and settled back into his seat.  He noticed their constant vigilance and frowned, wondering just what the trouble-prone team had gotten themselves into this time.

* * * * * * *

"I don't believe it!" he growled forty-five minutes later from his seat on Ezra's couch, looking up from the files and photographs in his hands and interrupting the explanation that Ezra had been reiterating to him. "I have known Paul Randolph for years.  He's a model citizen. He routinely donates to several charities around the city and was a staunch supporter of the crack down on crime the mayor launched in this city last year.  H**l, he was of the key voices that brought the very organization that you work for into existence here in Denver!  There is no possible way that he could be involved in something like this!"

Ezra grimaced slightly at the anger in the older man's voice, and averted his eyes from the accusing glare directed at him.

He had known this was going to be laid directly at his feet.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid the evidence speaks for itself.  I personally witnessed his nefarious activities first hand.  Paul Randolph is indeed the power behind one of the largest criminal organizations in this state," he stated firmly.

"And I'm supposed to take your word for that," the judge snapped back in irritation as he flipped through the photos in his hand once more, trying to come up with any explanation for his long-time friend's presence in them other than the obvious.

JD straightened from his slouch against the opposite wall in indignation, ready to come to his friend's defense, but a sharp, scornful voice from the doorway beat him to it.  "No sir, you are supposed to set personal feelings aside and look at the facts in hand objectively and believe that evidence." 

Judge Travis looked up and watched with the others as a young lady he had never seen before stepped into the room.  Quiet blue eyes met his steel gray ones in a steady gaze with a hint of respect, a measure of self-confidence, and a healthy portion of ire at the perceived insult in his words. A long braid trailed over her shoulder and she flipped it behind her back as she came to stand beside the undercover agent across the coffee table from him.  "The fact that you have two eye witnesses to back up what you have in your hands, especially when one of those witnesses is your own agent who risked his life getting this to you, should only be a side benefit.  Or are you in the habit of foolishly tossing aside a case because it affects you personally?"

The judge frowned at the girl, bristling at the obvious rebuke.  "And you are?"

Alex held out her hand in greeting, meeting his austere gaze unflinchingly.  "Alexandria Sanders, Sir."

Travis shook her hand, noting her polite introduction and firm handshake while taking in her clean but worn appearance, which stood as a stark contrast to the polished style of the man beside her.  "And what is your role in all of this, Miss Sanders?" he asked, fixing her with a stern gaze.

"I was in the hangar on Thursday night and saw him," she pointed to the photo of Randolph lying on the coffee table where the judge had dropped it, "enter the building and give orders to the man who was overseeing the transfer.  I also witnessed a murder that he directly ordered and watched, and almost witnessed the execution of Mr. Standish as well, that was also directly ordered by him." She stood tall and lifted her chin slightly in her anger.  "Or are you going to doubt my word as well?"

"No, young lady, I am not," the judge replied sharply, focusing his dark and forbidding gaze directly on the girl, "nor am I disregarding the evidence that Agent Standish has gathered."  And I do not appreciate having my authority and integrity questioned, his expression declared.

Neither do I, Alex's intense blue eyes flashed back defiantly, refusing to be intimidated or cowed.

He finally ended the staring contest after a moment, reached down to pick up the photograph of his old friend, and studied it, his expression growing just a bit wistful and melancholy as he slowly sat back against the cushions behind him.  He pinched the bridge of his nose and laid the picture back on the pile before looking up at the others in the room.  His features were composed, but he looked as though he had aged ten years in the last five minutes as he sighed.  "Alright," he said, a hint of anger and hurt darkening his eyes to a stormy gray, "Explain to me again just what we have on our hands here and what we can do to bring him down."

Ezra and the others took turns outlining the events of the past weekend, including his escape from the hangar with Alex's help, the discovery of Banning's involvement as well as that of the construction company, and the discovery of the warehouse leading to the contact with Team Seven.  Ezra ended the story by outlining Alex's involvement in his escape and her help in the investigation.  "Her diversionary tactic was most advantageous for myself, Sir," he concluded.  "If she had not seen fit to intervene, I most certainly would not be here tonight." 

The judge looked at the girl again and raised an eyebrow, revising his earlier estimation of her, and she colored slightly at the praise.  He turned his attention back to his agent with an amused glint in his eyes. "Was the explosion a result of this 'diversionary tactic'?" he asked dryly.

"Ah, no, sir," Ezra coughed slightly.  "That unfortunate happenstance was due to a faulty gas line and the attempt of one of the miscreants to perforate myself with a few rounds from an assault rifle."

Travis shook his head.  "You boys just can't do anything by halves, can you?"

They all shifted uncomfortably and averted their eyes from his censuring gaze.

The judge broke off his silent reprimand and sighed, rubbing a hand across his face before once again focusing on Ezra.  "That still does not explain your lack of contact for three days, agent."

"I had no choice, Sir.  Randolph recognized me immediately.  With his close connections to yourself and the ATF, it was necessary that I cut all communication ties with the agency to ensure the safety of myself and that of Miss Sanders," Ezra explained.  "It is imperative that Randolph believe us to be deceased, or that he remain without knowledge of our whereabouts at least.  And I was able to utilize the time to continue my investigation of the organization."

"I don't like it either, but I have to admit he has a point," Chris spoke up from one of the recliners in defense of his agent, much to Ezra's surprise. "Randolph is intent on expanding his business, and as long as he thinks we have no idea where Ezra is, he'll feel safe enough to continue with his meeting with Hammings on Friday."

"But if he finds out Ez has gotten in touch with us, he'll split," Vin picked up the train of thought. 

"With his ties to the foreign markets, he'll easily disappear and rebuild his empire somewhere else," Nathan added.

"And he would probably come after Ezra later in the future," Josiah pointed out.  "The murder of Bannings suggests that he won't tolerate betrayal of any kind.  And with the loss of his American holdings and reputation, it only follows that he'll want revenge on the agent responsible."

The judge tapped his chin and grunted. "So you believe that this meeting Friday is the only chance we'll have at bringing this organization down, then."

"Yes, sir," Chris answered.

The magistrate nodded at the leader.  "Anything you need for this operation, you have, Chris," he said.  His eyes narrowed in fierce anger and his voice took on a hard edge.  "I want this organization brought down."

Chris rubbed a hand across his eyes and sighed.  "It's not that easy, sir."

Travis raised an eyebrow, demanding an explanation.

"It turns out this Hammings guy is more than just a gun smuggler," JD filled in as he handed the judge a second set of folders that he held in his hand.  "He's actually a well-established criminal mastermind wanted in several countries around the world."

"His real name is Sean Bartinol.  He's started out as a thief back in the late seventies and worked himself up in the world," Nathan explained from his seat on the piano bench.  "Besides his black market sales of stolen artifacts, he also deals in the mass manufacture and distribution of narcotics in Asia and South America, Poaching in Africa, as well as illegal weapons sales to third world countries and terrorists.  From what the European authorities can tell, he has ties to the Japanese, Russian, and Chinese Mafias, as well as a host of other criminal families across the continent."

"The man is extremely careful," Josiah added from the other recliner.  "Compare him to Sherlock Holmes's Professor Moriarty, if you will.  Interpol, Scotland Yard—even the Russian Secret Police and German authorities have been after this guy for years and have never even come close.  He hides his tracks extremely well, and has an extraordinary ability to play the system."

"But he will be at this meeting in person," Nathan continued.  "He wants to expand further in the US and will be here, in Denver, on Friday.  This one bust has the potential of bringing down not only Randolph and his organization, but Bartinol as well.  It's a once in a lifetime chance." 

It was the judge's turn to sigh as he took in the full implications of Nathan's statement.  "In other words, this has just turned into a jurisdictional three ring circus," he grimaced.

"That would be about it, sir," Buck agreed, shifting his stance against the doorway beside the couch and crossing his arms.

The judge leaned back against the couch and rubbed his forehead wearily.  "Wonderful," he sighed.

"It gets worse," Chris interjected grimly.

Travis looked up at the agent in disbelief.  "Worse?"

"Alex here has run into Bartinol in the past," Buck answered helpfully with a nod at the girl.

The judge turned his attention to the girl still standing beside Standish and cocked his head inquiringly.  "Explain."

Alex gave him a shortened account of the story she had shared with the others, a bit amazed to find herself doing so not once, but twice in less than twenty-four hours.  The room lapsed into silence as she ended the narrative, the others waiting to see the judge's reaction.

Travis, for his part, sat back in disbelief, hardly able to believe the coincidence.  He glanced up at the girl, but she slipped her hands into her jeans pockets and looked down at the photographs with a hooded expression on her face, avoiding his gaze.  He felt a flash of sympathy for her before he turned his attention to the team leader. "What do you want to do?" he asked.

Chris leaned forward in his seat, a feral light coming to his eye.  "We already have teams eight and three keeping an eye on the warehouse and the construction company.  I want to continue with our plans for the bust on Friday."

"With the involvement of Bartinol, you do understand that we will have to contact Interpol and the FBI, at the very least," Travis pointed out.

"Yes sir, we realize that," Chris nodded, "and we're willing to work with them.  But I want it made clear that this is our case and that we have a say in what happens.  I do not want regulated to back up or kicked off the case entirely."  His expression clearly indicated that he would not negotiate his terms.

The judge rubbed his chin thoughtfully before nodding in agreement.  "I'll see what I can do."  He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and turned it on.  "Well, Boys, let's get this ball rolling," he commented as he quickly thumbed a number onto the keypad before turning to the girl.  "Now.  What did you say was the name of your father's supervisor for Interpol?"

* * * * * * *

Timothy Johnson sat at his desk in his plush office in Washington, D.C., hard at work on the latest cases to pass into his hands.  The senior agent had seen more than his share of violence and victims in his twenty years of field service for the FBI followed by the last ten years in the US National Central Bureau of Interpol, and would have assumed that he had grown hard in all that time, but some crimes and atrocities still managed to get to him. 

Such was the latest case that he had completed, involving an international prostitution ring.  The women—no, the girls—were mostly from third world countries in South America and Eastern Europe.  Many had been promised a new home and life in America only to arrive to find themselves trapped in a horror much worse than what they had been living in at home.  Others had been kidnapped and some had even been sold into service.  No matter the circumstances, all the women were treated like objects to be bought and sold, used and abused, with no regard to their well-being or rights to humanity.  Indeed, they had been stripped of that humanity and regulated to the level of animals.  The mere thought of the horrors that they had faced still sickened the agent, and even now that the ring was broken, the girls were finally getting the help that they needed, and the monsters who had exploited them getting their just reward, he still had trouble containing his anger.  It was one time that he was thankful for the mountain of paperwork that only seemed to grow larger on his desk. 

It would prove to be the perfect distraction.

He completed his report and sat back with a sigh, reaching for the lukewarm cup of coffee sitting at his elbow and swiveling his desk chair around so that he could take in the view of the snow-covered lawn outside his window.  The crisp blue sky above and the warm rays of the late morning sun spilling in through the glass helped to calm his spirit some and he closed his eyes, enjoying the stolen moment of peace.  Lately, he had been feeling every bit of his fifty-eight years, the aches and pains left from the various abuses and wounds he had subject his body to over the decades becoming more pronounced.  Perhaps his wife was right—he needed to take some time off.  His last vacation had been to Florida—or was it Southern California?  In all honesty, he could barely remember. It had been three years ago, after all.

Maybe he could take one weekend and spend some time with his wife—it had been a while since they had really been able to just sit and talk.  They could head for one of the ski resorts in the Appalachians, rent a cabin, spend a few days getting to know each other again. It would be nice to leave the bustle of the nation's capitol for a while and get away to someplace quieter, more peaceful, simpler.

The idea was definitely appealing, and he could think of the perfect place to hide away for a while, too.  And it was no more than a five hour drive from home, nestled in the hills of Northern West Virginia.  The thought of the state brought to mind a picture of his young partner during the final years of his tenure with the FBI, and his smile turned wistful.  The brash young man had been a remarkable agent, with a cool head and great instincts for the job, despite his age.  Though he himself had been in the role of supervisor and senior agent to the young man, they had gone beyond that and formed a fast friendship that had lasted long after their partnership ended with his taking his present position with the Interpol office and Allen going on to larger and greater things with a new partner. And then they found themselves once again working together, when Sanders and his new partner accepted an assignment from the FBI to the Interpol office.

His thoughts turned maudlin as they eventually led up to their last case together—the one in which he had failed the young man, his partner and friend.  His smile faded into a frown and he turned from the window, the enjoyment of the day gone.  Had it really been six years since that fateful day, the day that he had lost that friend?  Where had the time gone?

He shook his head and reached for the next pile of papers sitting in his in-box after placing his mug back on the coaster beside the phone.  Though lunch was in about thirty minutes, he needed something to turn his thoughts from the dark trail they had started down.

His phone suddenly rang, and he reached for the speaker phone button without evening looking up.  "Yes?"

Mr. Johnson?  There is a phone call for you on line two.  It's from an Orrin Travis, in Denver, Colorado.  The voice of his secretary sounded loud and clear over the microphone.

He stopped what he was doing and frowned at the phone.  "Orrin Travis?  I don't believe I've met the man.  Who is he?"

You haven't, sir.  He is a retired federal judge and is now the Assistant Director for that new special forces division of the ATF that started up out there not too long ago.  He says that he needs to speak with you regarding a case one of his teams is working on.  He says it's urgent."

"Put him through, then, Carol."  Johnson laid his pen down and sat back in his chair.

Mr. Johnson?  A new voice came over the line a few moments later.

"I am he.  And you are the Honorable Orrin Travis from Denver?" Johnson answered.

I can assume your secretary has told you who I am, then.

"Yes, she did.  So what can I do for the ATF?" he asked as he reached for his coffee mug.

During the course of their investigation into an illegal weapons merchant here in Colorado, one of my teams recently uncovered evidence linking the said gun runner to a man named Sean Bartinol.  I was told that you have had a past connection with the man?

"Bartinol!" Johnson exclaimed, nearly dropping the mug in shock.

Yes.  It seems that he has decided to expand his enterprises into this area and has set up a meeting with our gun runner.  He will be personally attending. We thought that you would like to be involved in the arrests.

"Bartinol?  In the US?"  his expression hardened and he balled his free hand into a fist.  "When and where?" Thoughts of retribution and finally arresting the man responsible for the death of his friend filled his mind.

From what my team has found, he will be arriving here in Denver on Thursday night and will be escorted to the meeting Friday morning.  Realizing that this has become an international matter with his involvement, we are asking for your organization's assistance.  We have also been made aware of Bartinol's information network in various agencies, and thus ask that this be kept on a strict need-to-know basis.  We do not want to jeopardize the mission or the lives of the witnesses involved.

"Of course.  You will definitely have all the help you need from Interpol.  And you're right—the man does have spies everywhere, something I found out the hard way, I'm afraid.  We have done everything possible to find those leaks, but…" he trailed off as he lifted the mug to his lips.  A sudden thought occurred to him, and he paused.  "I know that it is standard procedure to ask for our assistance in matters involving international crime of this nature, but how did you know of my personal interest in Bartinol?" 

A new voice answered his question.  We've been told that six years ago, an FBI agent assigned to you was working on a case involving Bartinol.  Something went wrong, Bartinol found out, and the agent, an Allen Sanders, was killed along with his wife, while Bartinol escaped."

"And you are?" Johnson asked sharply, realizing that the judge must have had him on speaker as well.

Chris Larabee, team leader in charge of this investigation.

"Agent Larabee.  You are correct on all accounts, but that investigation was kept under tight security.  Who told you about it?" he questioned, taking a sip of his coffee.

 Alexandria Sanders.

Johnson spewed his drink across his desk.  "That's impossible!" he coughed.  "She's dead!"

If that's the case, then I wished someone would have told me about it.

The voice that answered was older than he remembered, more mature, but definitely unmistakable. "Alex?" he gasped.  "You're alive?"

At the moment, she responded dryly.

"How?  Are you all right? What are you doing in Denver?  And where the h**l have you been all this time!" he demanded, shock, relief, and anger flooding his voice.

Let's see.  Bartinol missed, I'm fine, Denver seemed just as good as any place to be, and around.  Does that answer all your questions? She replied cheekily, a touch of humor coloring her words.

"Smart a**," he growled, shaking his head ruefully, though a somewhat giddy grin slowly spread across his features. 

She was definitely her father's daughter.

If you don't mind, can we finish the question and answer session later? Larabee brought their attention back to the matter at hand.

"Yes, yes, of course.  I'll make arrangements for a flight to Denver as soon as I can get there.  You're right—I do want to take care of this personally.  Is there a number where I can reach you? I'll let you know my arrival time."  He quickly wrote down the number Larabee gave him.  "I will most definitely keep this as quiet as possible.  I do not want Bartinol slipping through my fingers again," he declared firmly, a steel-edge entering his voice.

No, we don't.  I'll have someone waiting for you when you get here, Chris answered.

"Alright. I'll see you then." He reached for the phone, but paused.  "And Mr. Larabee?"

Yes?

"Keep her safe." He quickly disconnected the call and hit the intercom button for his secretary.  "Carol?  I need a flight for two to Denver today, just as soon as you can possibly get it."

Yes sir. Came the reply. Anything else?

"Clear my schedule for the rest of the week and the beginning of next week.  I'll take care of the rest.  Oh and Carol?  This is to be kept in strictest confidence.  Make the flight arrangements on your personal cell phone, use one of my aliases, and don't keep any records at all.  No one, absolutely no one, is to know of my whereabouts.  Just tell anyone who asks that it was a personal emergency.  Do you understand?" 

Yes sir, I understand.

"Good.  Thank you, Carol." He sat back for a second, the shock of the call still lingering.  Alex was alive?  And not only that, right in the middle of another case involving Bartinol!  He rubbed his forehead and shook his head in disbelief before reaching for the handset to make one last call.  "Eddie?" he said when the call connected.  "I need you to clear whatever you have going right now.  We're going on a trip.  I'll explain when we're on our way, and I need you to keep it quiet.  Tell no one where you're going.  I'll clear it with the brass for you.  Okay?….Thanks….I'll meet you on the mall in an hour."

He hung up the phone and rounded his desk, headed for the coat tree in the corner, all thoughts of lunch gone from his mind.  As he reached for his coat, the framed photograph hanging on the wall caught his attention.  He reached up and gently touched the glass protecting the picture of a much younger version of himself sitting in a little row boat, holding up a large bass, his arm around the shoulders of his teammate.  Allen Sanders' brown hair was wind blown, his bright blue eyes twinkling with humor, as they both grinned up at the camera.  In Sanders' lap sat a small girl, no older than six, who proudly help up her own catch of a small blue gill. Johnson closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the long ago camping trip before he turned away and pulled on his coat.  He then strode for the door purposely, but paused in the doorway and glanced back.

"I won't fail you this time, Al, I promise you that," he whispered, then quietly flipped off the lights and closed the door, leaving the lone picture to reflect the glare from the winter sun into the empty room.