Pretty Pictures (ATF)

by Brandgwen

Disclaimer: The guys belong to Mirisch, etc., the universe belongs to Mog, "Addicted to Bass" belongs to Daemion/Abrahams (copyright 1998 Prozaac Recordings) and "Last Ditch Cabaret" belongs to Mark Seymour (copyright 1997 Mushroom Records). Ezra's past is the sum of previous fanfics, but the rest comes purely from my head, so don't hold me to any facts. I'm not making money, I'm not worth suing.
Author's Note: This fanfic is the first in the Deep Cover series.

Mitchell

Ezra's photograph resembled the agent very little. He had been hired by Conners as a security expert, after the man's existing expert had failed to prevent a surveillance camera being installed in Conners' office and had mysteriously disappeared. His clothing was cheap and casual, but the weapons he carried (a semi-automatic side-arm, a holstered pistol and a small revolver strapped to his ankle) were impressive and to-the-point. Vin Tanner had helped him select them. He wore a baseball cap on his head, his hair long enough to run his fingers through and a three day growth on his face. The sum total was no one you wanted to mess with.

Ezra had never been undercover for more than three months. It was usually a practice reserved for those specially trained. He was, however, something of a veteran agent and the case was very important, so, as the weeks ticked by, Ezra just accepted it. He did miss certain things; his own clothing, for one. He was accustomed to wearing fine fabric in stylishly cut suits. The off-the-rack specials his cover demanded were a long way from being up to scratch. He missed his house. The place he was living in for the duration of the case was a complete dump. Finally, he missed his friends.

Gradually, Ezra found himself being sucked into the world he inhabited. He even found he thought of himself as Alex Mitchell. He began to feel connected to the men he worked with, forget his real purpose for being there, and even care about his assumed job. Whenever this happened, Alex (no, Ezra) would give himself a good shake and get back to business. But, day by day an emptiness grew.

Then she filled it. This lawyer he had thought of as cold became his main source of warmth, his only source of reality. It all began so professionally. He had capitalised on a chance encounter and insinuated himself into her life. He had used his natural gifts to surmise her character, her needs. He had told her what she had wanted to hear and then sat back, waiting for her to tell him what he wanted to know; her part in the smuggling. Gradually, however, he had forgotten this hidden agenda.

It was getting on to six months, now. A small irrational part of him had given up on his ever being recalled from the field. A part of him didn't even want to be recalled...

He had visited her office, as he had done so many times before. They had talked until well past ten and there was no one else in the building. She wore a blue, sleeveless dress and her hair loose around her shoulders. Over the last few months, her dress had become more flattering. Or maybe it was just his imagination. He laughed at the game he was playing with himself. He was thinking of the two of them as if there were normal people; people for whom such a friendship could grow into something else. Oh well, just so long as it was only himself in this game, nothing would come of it.

"What's so funny?" she demanded, watching his broad smile and flashing eyes.

"Nothing," he answered, stifling a yawn, "I think, Ms Jameson, we'd best be going. It's late to be in the office, people will talk."

She half smiled at his joke. Let them talk. He rose from his chair and, gentlemanly, opened the door for her. She approached not the door, but the man and did what she had been thinking about for almost two months. She stood on her toes and gently placed her lips against his.

Alarm bells went off. He thought of all the trouble this would cause and a voice inside his head (sounding for all the world like Chris Larabee) told him to get out, get out now. But he stood there and felt how warm and soft she was. As he breathed in, he caught the apple scent of her hair. He realised how much he needed this. A voice much louder and more urgent than anything Larabee could muster said ahh, what the hell.

The two attended the Smythe cocktail party as a couple. It was beautiful. The marquee was covered in fairy lights, the night was warm and the sky cloudless. Music played from loud speakers, just loud enough to create atmosphere. She was perfect. Then it all went to hell. They heard the raid before it reached them.

"ATF, freeze!"

Women screamed, men demanded explanations. Ezra looked down at Cassandra's horrified eyes and knew; she was part of the smuggling. The core of his body went cold.

"Let's get out of here," she whispered. He nodded, knowing they would be surrounded. Knowing that, were she to succeed in breaking the circle of ATF officers, he would prevent her escape, himself. He swallowed hard as she took him by the hand and they began running away from the house. All the while, a gravely voice sang over the speakers...

Chaos is creeping through your pretty pictures,
Here in this land of savage dreams.
You dare to walk alone through empty streets where
Nothing is ever what it seems.
Somebody calls you, but you dare not answer;
Must be the voice of desperation.
Here in there days of joy and instant karma
You hide your stash and keep your station.

Just let me paint a rosy picture
Where doom and gloom is not allowed.
We'll go cheek-to-cheek
As we squeeze into the crowd.
Your living death blew me away
In this last ditch cabaret...