JD's body shuddered as the wind swept past him, his hands shaking, hovering over the bleeding wound but not daring to touch the blood.

He hated blood.

It was icky and smelled bad and all too often meant something bad was happening. And that someone would be taken away from him.

"I'm scared," he said softly.

Trying to be brave.

Trying to be strong.

But he knew Vin felt the same way. They had both lived through this. Too many times to count.

Ezra groaned and shifted the leg nearest JD and two hopeful faces popped into his wavering vision, whispering softly. The pounding of his own heart drowned them out.

Pain was radiating through his side, shooting up his chest every time he took a breath and threatening to either overturn him with nausea or send him careening into unconsciousness.

It hurt to breathe.

But he had to breathe.

He saw the boys again. Not realizing that he had missed seeing them seconds before.

He must have blinked.

The hard ground beneath him wasn't helping. He had to move. It was just too damned uncomfortable.

Almost as though by silent command his hand started to move up and away from his body, but he realized it was not under his own power. It was Vin. He was reaching . . . for something.

Inside his jacket maybe?

Pain shot through him, spiking and fading, quick enough that he could only grimace.

Vin was doing good. Whatever he was doing. The look on the boy's face said that he was trying to be responsible.

To do right, and it was reassuring enough for Ezra.

He felt tiny hands on him again, rifling through his pockets. Looking for a . . . cell phone?

But it wasn't there it was . . . in his pant's pocket.

He blinked sagging eyelids and tried to move the hand. His thoughts even seemed to tire him. He kept trying until another awkward maneuver from Vin sent pain bolting through him and he stiffened concentrating on not making a

sound.

Concentrating on breathing. He wouldn't scare the boys. And he most certainly wasn't about to leave them out here all alone. But the pain wasn't going away this time.

He found himself forcing his eyes open again.

Had he closed them?

He could see Vin again, looking up at his face then back down to what had to be the wound causing the inordinate amount of pain. It struck him then. The pain wasn't leaving because Vin had found something to hold against the wound.

He wanted to smile, to pat him on the back.

To reassure him that this was good despite the undercover agent's paler color and harsher breathing. But even that seemed daunting.

Why was he so goddamned tired?

It couldn't have been that bad, could it?

His last thoughts were that Nathan would be proud. If he ever got to tell him.

* * *

Vin pressed the cloth down as hard as his trembling muscles would allow. The fancy, silk handkerchief didn't seem to want to work. It was supposed to stop the blood from escaping Ezra's body. Almost like the cloth had the same

mentality and avoidance to staining as its owner.

He pushed harder, knowing he was causing Ezra pain, and hoping that if he didn't look at his Uncle's face . . . he wouldn't have to worry about anything.

He wouldn't see the pain. And there'd be nothing to fear.

Not that Ezra had feared anything in his life. Except perhaps Daddy Chris.

JD was still standing stock still beside Vin, trying not to look at the dark red that continued to seep from Ezra's trembling body. The moment was frozen in time until an equally shake voice reached them both.

"JD . . . JD."

Blinking away tiny tears the shivering boy looked up and into pain filled emerald green eyes. He looked down at the shakey hand that belonged to the voice as it was raised and understood enough latch onto the hand and creep closer to Ezra.

" . . . pocket . . . pants p-pocket."

JD sniffled, eyes wide.

"Uncle Ezra you've been shot."

Perhaps Ezra didn't understand that he was bleeding.

Why would he want to give JD some of the candy he had in his pocket? JD thought they were saving that.

Ezra managed a weak smile, the gold tooth just barely catching the sunlight.

He wanted to laugh. Or shake his head. But his face was taught in response to the pain, he could barely breath and it was getting harder and harder to stay awake. He squeezed the tiny hand in his, trying to put a more insistent tone

into his voice. Though he doubted very much his accomplishment.

"JD . . . phone . . . m'pocket."

JD's mind worked fast, but Vin's hands were faster. He grabbed a hold of the concept and the phone as soon as he heard the whispered words from his Uncle's mouth. He stared at the number pad numbly; trying not to sob in desperation as his mind went blank. Who should he call? Chris? Buck? Uncle Nathan?

JD saw the desperation but not the reason.

"CALL THE AMBLI-ANTS," he screamed. The shrill sound of his voice and the life-or-death shock of the

situation hung heavily over them all.

Ezra barely heard JD's desperate cries as he continued to coach his cousin, trying to remember where they were and how they had gotten there. Vin was firing the information at the 911 operator the minute that it came but the woman

just didn't understand.

"It's the lake Chris takes us to when we go fishing. It's big and deep. And there are bass and pike. And we always take a rowboat because your not allowed to have a bigger boat. And there are picnic tables and places to make

hamburgers . . . "

"Now slow down son, please. Just tell me where you are-"

Silence met him suddenly.

Vin pulled the contraption from his ear and looked at it as though it had betrayed him. As it had, the deepest betrayal ever. The battery had died.

Cut out without a second thought or care.

Anger, fueled by fear, boiled deep in his seven-year-old soul. Stemming from what appeared to be yet another failure, this time he had failed to keep Ezra safe.

He had waited too long to make the call.

Or if he had remembered the name of the lake.

Or gotten a map out of . . . Ezra's Jag.

Which was no longer there. Probably his fault as well.

He turned burning eyes toward Ezra.

He was lying still on the grass. But his eyes were open. The ATF agent had his own hand pressed against the wound but he was sweating and shaking. Like JD did whenever he got scared. But Ezra didn't look scared.

He looked brave. And strong. Like Vin had to be.

For Ezra. For JD. For himself.

He tromped over to Ezra and threw the disgusting contraption down beside the man's head.

"It broke . . . before I could tell them."

Ezra blinked up at Vin. Nodded slowly.

As his heartbeat had slowed he had been able to hear the conversation and his hopes were sinking fast. The pain

was dying slowly, but that was only good if you were in an ambulance or hospital. And it was colder, whether it was his own loss or the temperature he couldn't tell.

"We . . . need to um . . . "

He closed his eyes tightly and fought the wave of pain broiling through him. He couldn't think of himself. Not until the boys were safe. Yes he was a coward. Yes he was a terrible baby-sitter. But he cared about these boys. He was going to get them to their caretakers safe and sound, as he had promised that morning.

So long ago. So far away . . .

JD's voice broke into his thoughts. "Someone's coming!"

Ezra snapped his eyes open, trying to bring his head up. The world around him spun dangerously. But he forced himself up, leaning heavily against one elbow.

Vin slid himself behind Ezra's back and started shoving him upward further, offering as much as his body could muster in the way of strength. The burning in his side flared every time Vin pushed at him but the boy was helping. It was most certainly helping.

Ezra soon found himself on quaking knees, one hand supporting him while the other was still clamped onto the wound.

"Please . . . let this be someone . . . with a heart of gold."

* * *

Chris closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. The hammer in his hand half- raised. He was seriously debating beaning Buck over the head with it. It was just too damned hot up there to be fooling around like that.

"I swear it you better not be given me a line of shit, Buck."

He waited for a smart-ass answer and was more than surprised when he received none.

His half-smile became a frown as he waited and glanced around from his perch. He sat atop the crest on the barn and except for the two ends of the peak he had a clear few of most of the surrounding countryside.

"Buck?"

Nothing. Nada. Not a sound.

Hooking the teeth of the hammer on the crest of the roof he gingerly swung his left leg over to the right side shimmied along the incline to the ladder . . . or at least to where the ladder was.

He smirked and shook his head.

"Buck Wilmington, you got five minutes to replace that goddamned ladder or I'll make good on my supena threat."

The ladder was resolutely smacked into place.

"You know you ain't got no sense o' humor, ol' pard."

"I also got a nail gun up here."

There was a pause, most likely for the preparation of final requests or prayers, then . . .

"What'd you like for dinner?"

He laughed triumphantly, peering over the lip of the roof at a properly chastised Buck Wilmington.

Only to receive a plump water-balloon in the face.

"DAMMIT BUCK!"

Buck took off past the barn and towards the ranch house with something akin to a howl and impish laughter.

The laughter Chris supposed, was a take off of JD, but the tricks and the childish behavior were completely Buck's doing. The man never grew up.

Chris started planning retribution as he pulled back from the edge of the roof. The water had actually been a welcome relief; it was the sinking, sticking feeling of sugar that had him upset.

Bees'd attack him, humming birds, and all other manner of creatures within seconds if he wasn't off the roof and cleaned up soon. And Buck knew it just as well.

He gathered the tools, moving nimbly along the roof and hurried down the ladder already fighting off insects. Stowing the tools and running for the ranch house he almost expected the door to be locked, but apparently Buck wanted to live today.

Good thing too as they were celebrating the man's birthday that evening.

Buck had requested nothing special but the boy's and Chris himself had been insistent. Buck finally allowed them 'there little celebration' but only if he were allotted some quiet time of his own.

He had spent most of the day riding, and since Chris had to fix up the barn and some other odd jobs Ezra had offered to occupy the boys until that evening's festivities had begun.

The offer had been a surprise to Chris. Since when did Ezra start offering to do menial labor, not to mention one of the hardest tasks known to man: baby-sitting dynamite.

But the man had offered.

Chris wasn't fool enough to pass it up and he indeed trusted him. Whether Ezra or anyone else was willing to believe it. He had seen Ezra with children. There was magic and understanding that children always seemed to posses for him and vice versa and JD and Vin were no exceptions to the rule.

He wondered if the rest of the team would ever know the man in such a seemingly personal and private way.

Inside the house he headed straight for his bedroom and was intent on taking a shower when the phone rang. It was quickly picked up so he assumed Buck had caught it and stepped into the shower.

Five minutes later, Buck's voice stopped him cold. All he heard was his name shouted but the tone and the repeated call galvanized him into motion and he knew . . . KNEW . . . something was wrong.

He stepped out of the shower, just barely remembering to turn off the water, stepped into sweat pants and ran to the kitchen.

"Buck?"

The ladies man stood, looking a little pale and as though he was supporting himself completely by the hands clenched tightly around the edge of the counter. He was staring at the answering machine on

which he had recorded the call.

"Listen."

Chris frowned and pushed the play button.

ring ring ring

B: Hello.

911: Sir, is this the Agent Chris Larabee residence?

B: Um pause I think so Ma'am. This is Buck Wilmington, special agent under Chris Larabee. How did you get this number?

911: This is 911 dispatcher Gloria Thatton. I received a call from a cell phone. We traced the number to an "Ezra Standish" of Denver, Colorado. Our records say he is an ATF agent. The call was cut off before I could get any valuable information. However the child did mention a Chris and I assumed that would be the agent under which he

serves, Chris Larabee. If this is true may I speak with him?

B: Ah, no ma'am. He's unavailable right now. What pause what's going on?

911: (pause) Sir . . . I really need to speak with him. This is an emergency. pause I really don't know. Let me play the tape for you sir.

(scratching sounds)

911: 911 What's your emergency?

(a long pause)

V: You gotta help. Ezra's been shot and they took the car so we can't go nowhere.

911: Calm down now son. Just stay with me. Can you tell me where you are? What's your name?

(the signal is growing weaker, the sound of static)

V: We're at the lake Chris takes (static) fishing (static) bass and pike and we always take a row boat (static) allowed to have a bigger boat (static) picnic tables and (static) make hamburgers (static)

911: Now slow down son, just take a deep breath and tell me where you are.

(pause)

Son?

911: We lost it. Did we get a trace on that sig-

Buck pushed the stop button.

"She said they'd try to trace the call."

Chris' heart pounded in his chest, his stomach roiled. His mind going wild. They . . . whoever had stolen the jag . . . had shot Ezra. The boy's were out there alone. At Kimball lake. A good three hours out.

"Get Nathan and Josiah headed out that way. Let's go. Tell the paramedics where they are."

He grabbed his coat and ran outside, his face in a grim determined line. First things first and then there would be hell to pay.