Dissecting The Toad
(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 "Into Temptation" belongs to Neil Finn (copyright 1996 Capitol Records). All characters, with the exception of the Seven, are of my own creation; any resemblance to persons, real or fictional, is entirely coincidental. I'm not making money, I'm not worth suing.
Author's Note: This fanfic is the second in the Deep Cover series.

Jennings

Eric Jennings rocked back and forth in his chair. The small, almost imperceptible movement somehow seemed to calm him - settle his nerves. He wished his lawyer would hurry up and get him out of there. The small room was stifling.

He regarded his interviewer as he entered the room, carrying a briefcase and a manilla folder. The man was physically imposing, but seemed to move with a quiet assurance that marked him as a thoughtful person. You can take this guy, Eric. Just keep your mouth shut.

"Mr. Jennings, my name is Nathan Jackson. I'm an agent with the ATF," the man offered his hand, which Eric warily shook.

"Hi. I'd like to call my lawyer, now."

"I'm pretty sure that's being taken care of," Nathan placed the manilla folder on the table and began to sit.

"Yeah, well, why don't you make real sure," Eric was impressed by the cockiness in his own voice.

He was even more impressed when Jackson stood, walked to the door and called the man guarding the entrance over. "Double check that the lawyers have been called, will you?" the guard nodded and Nathan closed the door.

"I have nothing to say, you know," the impertinent exterior was holding, but, inside, Jennings could feel his bravado falter.

Nathan nodded, resuming his seat and opening the manilla folder. "We really don't need you to talk. We have you cold."

"Right, which is why you're wasting your time interviewing to me," Jennings drew his hand across his forehead, agitated.

Nathan didn't respond. Instead, he pulled a stack of computer printouts out from the briefcase. Placing them, one by one, on the desk, he organised the documents into three piles.

Eric shifted in his seat. "What're they?"

"These are your accounting files, Mr Jennings. Don't you recognise them?"

Eric picked up one of the piles and began flicking through the pages. "Nah, these aren't mine. These have names, rather than account numbers. I'd never print out hard copies of this sort of thing. Even if I did, I'd shred them, when I was done," a high, nervous laugh formed in the back of the accountant's throat, like fingernails on a blackboard. "Nice try, Agent, but you got the wrong guy."

"No kidding," Nathan smiled a small smile. He replaced the accounts in the briefcase, leaving only the manilla folder on the desk. Next, he retrieved a smaller stack of printouts, statements bearing the banners of various national and international banks. "How about these?"

Jennings read the first page as closely as he could. Every now and then, his attention would wander, or his eyes become cloudy, causing him to lose his place. Finally, he settled with flicking through the stack, seeing the different page headers. "Means nothing to me," his face betrayed the lie. This information explained how the numbers on his account sheets had been replaced by names.

"Nothing? Well, here's the problem; we have witnesses and documents which indicate, not only that you ran these accounts, but you made direct profit from them."

Eric's hands shook before him and his eyes betrayed an unusual degree of alarm. This guy would sell out his own mother, Nathan thought.

"I hear you're a heroin user," Nathan suddenly changed tack, testing to see how well this potential witness would stand up.

Eric Jennings inhaled sharply and frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Nathan ignored his denial. "When did you last shoot up?"

"I said," agitated, Jennings leaned over the table, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Stupid kid. "Listen. I'm with the ATF. I'm not after drug connections, I just want to know if you are going to go into withdrawal any time soon."

Eric leaned back in his chair and regarded the agent before him. "Looking after my welfare, right? Very charitable of you. How about you just get me my lawyer."

"He's on his way. As for charity, it's actually got more to do with my not wanting you to be sick in my interview room. Now, seeing as your lawyer isn't here yet and we can't use anything you say, now would be a good time to tell me when you last took an opiate."

Eric leaned back in his chair and scowled. "Yesterday evening. Methadone, to help me relax."

"Methadone?" Nathan was surprised. People didn't get high on methadone.

"Yeah, methadone," Eric squirmed a little, "I use it when I need to keep it together. You know what I mean." Somehow, Eric doubted the man before of him did know what he meant.

Methadone, just to function normally? This one must be more screwed up than I thought. "When? What time."

"I don't know," Jennings snarled, running a, now, violently shaking hand through his hair, "six, seven."

Nathan looked at his watched. Eleven o'clock. Maybe twenty-nine hours since Eric had taken the drug. "Nothing since then, though?" Nathan could see his answer in the young man's face. Cold sweat dampened his hair and he seemed distracted, confused. The symptoms had set in.

"We were gonna shoot-up at the party. You guys showed up before the drugs did."

"Who are we?"

"What? Oh, uh, me and just a few others..." the sentence drifted off, then, suddenly, a flash of suspicion shot through Jennings' eyes, "why do you ask? You're ATF. No interest in drugs, you said. What's the deal?"

Stupid, stupid kid. "Same as before. I just want to know if anyone we have here is going to lose it. Who else?"

"No one. I have nothing more to say..." A violent trembling ran through the accountant's body.

The speed with which Jennings replied bothered Nathan. Was he protecting someone? Certainly not Conners; he would never let his guard slip so far. Smythe, perhaps? Or someone else? Six months undercover, would Standish go so far? Nathan felt the blood run to his head.

Jennings exhaled a painful sigh and began to pace the room. "Hey, listen, I'm not feeling so good..."

Jackson left the room as Eric vomited in the corner. Stupid, stupid, stupid kid.

"You know, I bet his parents spent a fortune on that brat's education. What does he do with it?" a violent heaving sound emanated from the interview room.

Chris grinned. He had assigned Nathan to Jennings interview because, of all his men, Nathan was the one best equipped to deal with a drug addict. He had, however, anticipated Jackson's lack of sympathy. "I take it, then, he would be a less than stellar witness."

Nathan glared at the interview room door. "Dose him up on a weeks worth of opiate and I'm sure he'd be fine."

"That's a no. Can't say I'm surprised," Larabee's tone went flat. Three down. Things were looking bad.

"So Standish might have to go back," Nathan stated, his anger flaring, now at a new target.

"Looks that way," noting his companions obvious ire, Larabee studied Nathan's face, "there isn't anything else you want to tell me, is there?"

"No," the answer was automatic.

Chris nodded and began to walk away.

"Hey, Chris," Nathan swallowed as much of his anger as he could, finding it replaced by concern. "I didn't see him when he came in. How is Ezra?"

Chris paused. "You wouldn't recognise him."