---
Bobby Hobbes was not a happy camper... still. The weather had cleared just after 0530 and the helicopter had been in the air within 30 minutes, flying swiftly over the desert towards Dulzura and the Hammer Corporation's mine. He hadn't slept a wink, too wired and too worried about Fawkes to relax enough to close his eyes. 'Damn it.' His partner, his friend was out there somewhere, possibly hurt, possibly dead, and all he'd done was sit around and wait. He should've gone in ahead of O'Neill's crew, driven Golda into the ground if necessary, but been out there trying to find Fawkes. Bobby would never forgive himself if Fawkes were hurt. What he'd do if something worse had happened was a subject he avoided thinking about due to the dark paths his mind would turn to every single time.
"Agent Hobbes, three o'clock."
Hobbes acknowledged the words with a grunt and shifted to look out the right side of the copter. Below was the entrance to the mine at the apex of the canyon and on the ground were an H2 and three bodies. The rest of the area had been swept clean by the rain, leaving not so much as a set of tire tracks to follow.
"Papadopoulos?" Hobbes queried.
"According to GPS, the vehicle is his rental, so it's a fair bet one of the bodies is his," Steve responded.
A blonde head appeared next to Bobby. "We should probably arrange to pick up the bodies before the carrion birds get to them," Claire suggested in a cool voice. After all, they were just dead bodies, right?
"And secure the site," Murphy added needlessly.
Damn straight. Who knew what had been really going on in there; speculation of a biotech lab notwithstanding, there had been far more than a couple dozen guys, and the gear had all been military, the set up reminiscent of an army. A personal army. There could be far more than just some chemical nasties buried in the depths of the mine.
They were slowly circling the area, crossing over the ridgeline as they did so. Up near the cockpit Murphy and Steve were exchanging heated words, complete with hand waving and finger pointing. Murphy ended it with, "Agent Hobbes, I think you should see this." He was frowning deeply, as if unsure how the agent was going to take the news about to be relayed.
'Oh crap, they found Fawkes,' was Bobby's first - and only - thought as his stomach dropped, free-falling to the desert floor below them. Murphy shifted to the side - the cockpit was not designed for four - and directed Bobby's attention to a small LCD screen mounted in the console. At first, he had no clue what he was looking at, then it resolved itself into a thermal imaging display of the ground beneath them, currently the ridgeline, a good 100 feet back from the entrance. The mine was glowing; bright white at the center, shading back through yellows, oranges, and reds. In contrast, the ground not over the mine was a dark blue, still retaining the cool temperatures from the overnight hours.
"They torched the place," he finally said aloud, not finding himself overly surprised by that little factoid. "What's it register?"
"Uh... white is 2000 degrees Fahrenheit or higher," Steve answered after fiddling with the display to show the legend.
Murphy grunted as if kicked. "They didn't just torch it, they incinerated it."
"What in heaven's name could they have been doing in there to warrant that?" Claire asked from behind them. Their words had obviously been more than enough for her to understand what had occurred.
"Keep, do you really want to know?" Hobbes asked as he turned about to look at her. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, and now it was looking like they never would.
"Bobby," Claire was looking out the side window, "could the mine collapse?"
He thought about it. "Not a clue. Why?"
"Well, as we have no idea what was in there, if it were to collapse, toxic gases or worse could be released. It's a potential bio-hazard at the very least." Her tone was deadly serious.
"Crap." Hobbes pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed the office. He quickly relayed Claire's concerns to Eberts, who assured Bobby that the situation would be dealt with swiftly. "What a frickin' mess," he pointed out as he put the phone away. "There'll be a HAZMAT team out here in an hour." He sat down, running a hand across his face. The helicopter stopped its circling and turned due east, towards the low mountains a few miles away.
"Good," Murphy said as he sat down across from Hobbes. "We're heading to the Whitney University Excavation Site."
Hobbes looked at him blankly. He still hadn't been granted all the details of the plan. "And that would be...?"
"The rendezvous point," Murphy explained.
"Would... Miss O'Neill have been able to find it without the GPS mapping system?" Claire asked.
Murphy shrugged. "Possibly. If they aren't there, we'll widen the search area."
Bobby knew that. Of course, that was presupposing they didn't come across a pair of rain-soaked and bullet-riddled bodies lying broken on the desert floor. The mental image that accompanied that thought was both vivid and gruesome, he could see the wounds, the pale, bloodless skin and the open, staring eyes of Fawkes already beginning to cloud over, the vultures gliding into land and pluck off the choice bits first...
He sucked in a long slow breath and blew it out to a count of five. Expecting the worst was one thing, getting the full color mental image was another. Fawkes had managed to survive the uncertain life of a thief, including two stints in prison; he should be able handle a little hike in the desert and getting wet, right?
"Mierda, we have a signal," Juanita suddenly shouted from the cockpit.
Hobbes was out of his seat and at the front in record time. "Where?" he practically yelled as his eyes roved around for the right display.
The helicopter altered course northeasterly. Steve tapped the heads up display. "Here. They missed the rendezvous point by about three klicks." A ghost of a grin crossed his features. "Not bad all things considered."
"Not bad," Hobbes grumbled, knowing that this sudden reappearance of the GPS signal did not really mean anything; a coyote or condor could have bumped the hand-held and turned it back on. "Why's it doing that?"
The blip on the screen was... fuzzy, as if the lock was uncertain at best.
Steve frowned, but it was Murphy who answered, "Low battery, probably."
Hobbes snorted in derision and glanced over his shoulder at O'Neill's yes-man. "Some experts, sending out gear that hasn't been checked. Like I should be surprised."
Murphy bared his teeth. It was not a smile. "Unlike off the shelf models, which have a battery life of four hours max, ours are good for 24 minimum, and it was up to spec. It must have been damaged."
"Yeah, by O'Neill's stupidity," Hobbes snapped.
Suddenly, Murphy looked a lot bigger. Again. 'Neat trick. Wonder how he does it.'
"So, do you want me to pick them up or come back after your pissing contest is over?" Juanita asked sardonically, which was effective in ending the mutually antagonistic stand-off that had been developing.
"You see 'em?" Hope, followed by a rush of outright joy, flowed through Hobbes at those words.
"Unless there's some other stray hikers dressed head to toe in black out there, yeah." Steve pointed out the windshield at the fast approaching ridge, where two figures decked out in dark clothing could easily be seen against the contrastingly light toned ground.
For a moment, Bobby was certain it wasn't them, as Fawkes' signature hair was missing, then he remembered the rain. That'd kill even the gravity-defying abilities of his coif. The howl of wind in the cabin meant Murphy had the door open and ready to receive their wayward compatriots. The copter came in nice and slow, none of the fancy flying of yesterday, settling on the ridge about 15 feet away from the pair, who had stood in anticipation of their ride home.
They came forward at a fast walk, O'Neill ducking as they came within range of the swiftly rotating blades. When Fawkes failed to do the same, she reached up, grabbed him proprietarily by the collar, and pulled his head down and out of harm's way. Hobbes seethed; all the fear, all the worry, the downright terror bubbled to the surface, mixing together and in doing so, altering their state into pure, unadulterated rage. At one time it might have been directed at his partner for being so blindly stupid, but today... today he had a new and more appropriate target to vent at - Fallon O'Neill.
Fawkes hopped in with a sprightly, "O'Neill's Air Taxi Service to the rescue."
That earned a chuckle from her as she doggedly climbed inside. "Wait till ye get the bill," she quipped as Murphy closed and secured the door.
"Clear," Murphy barked, and the helicopter lifted into the air.
"Hey, Keepy, what brings you out here?" Darien asked as he dropped the assorted bits to the floor and claimed a seat as her medical equipment made an appearance.
Claire rolled her eyes, motioned for him to slide his sleeve up, and proceeded to wrap the blood pressure cuff about his biceps. "Do you really need to ask?"
Once Hobbes was satisfied his partner was in good hands, his full attention swung to O'Neill, who was still standing in the aisle, supporting herself by leaning heavily on the one of the seats, and shouted, "Do you normally try to kill off your clients, or was it a special bonus just for us? 'Cause, y'know, it's a stupid-ass way to run a business."
"Bobby," Claire squawked, shocked, the same time Darien snapped, "Hobbes, don't."
Bobby ignored both of them.
"I did exactly as I agreed..." O'Neill began, her cheeks flushing bright red.
"We didn't agree to it. We went into that place blind," Hobbes bellowed. He had every intention of getting his pound of flesh out of her.
Behind O'Neill, Murphy visibly bristled, not approving of Bobby's tone or demeanor and taking it as the threat it was. She raised a hand, as if completely aware of her pet's reaction, and he instantly backed down. Fawkes, on the other hand, took exception to Bobby's words.
"Hobbes, for cripes sake, leave her alone, I'm fine."
"Not the point, Fawkes," Bobby watched O'Neill instead of turning to face his frustrated partner, "and she knows it." He stood there, eye to eye with her, her blushing in embarrassment and feeling more'n ready to pound her into the floor should she blink funny, girl or no girl. So, he was unable to keep his jaw from dropping when she laughed.
Reining in his anger, just barely, he poked her in the chest with one finger. "You think this is funny?"
"Aye," she hissed. "An' what's funnier is that I'm damn sure ye will never understand why." Then she proceeded to ignore him and turned to Claire. "Is 'e all right?"
"Nothing some food and rest won't take care of," the doctor answered. "He's fine." The last was surely directed at Bobby.
O'Neill managed a weak nod and said, "Good. Murphy, you're in charge," and crumpled.
Instinctively, Bobby reached out, caught her, and maneuvered her into the nearest seat. He was quick to realize that she wasn't flushed from embarrassment but from one hell of a fever.
"Shit," Darien gasped, clearly distraught. "I've been trying to tell ya, she was shot."
"So?" Bobby grouched as he was unceremoniously shoved out of the way by Murphy. "She was wearing a vest. Got a bruise..." He swallowed the rest of his grousing when Darien picked up said vest with a single finger poking through the hole.
"Cop killers," Bobby mumbled as he sat down in surprise. It wasn't like he'd known she was hurt, and he most certainly wasn't the type to kick someone when they were down, 'specially a girl.
"Not likely. This is modified Kevlar, it can handle a sniper bullet," Murphy reminded as he removed Darien's jacket from O'Neill's limp body. "Where's the nearest hospital with a helipad?"
Bobby thought about that, but since it wasn't something on his normal need-to-know list, he hadn't a clue.
"Cabrillo," Claire responded. "May I?"
Murphy eyed her warily, then nodded. She didn't hesitate and immediately set about examining O'Neill.
"They won't let you land," Hobbes pronounced.
"Then we won't," Steve stated from up front.
Murphy barked, "Call Nikki and have him wire Fallon's records over, they're gonna need them."
Hobbes shifted to sit next to Darien, who was watching Claire work on O'Neill with concern in those brown eyes of his. "Fawkes, I'd've been here sooner, but..."
"Hobbes, I'm fine," Darien snapped in exasperation. "We followed the plan and everything worked out. Why the hell did you go off on Fallon like that?"
It wasn't until that moment, with Fawkes chewing him out for yelling at the woman who had nearly got his partner killed, that Bobby realized Darien was fine. That while Bobby had been worrying that he'd let his partner down, Fawkes had been handling things like a seasoned pro. No wonder O'Neill had laughed. She'd seen clear as day what Bobby had been blind to. Somewhere along the way, his partner had stopped being an inexperienced greenhorn and become an agent. And even worse, that maybe - just maybe - he didn't need Bobby Hobbes any longer.
After all, who really wanted to be saddled with a neurotic, paranoid, washed up end of the road agent like him?
"Keep, is she okay?" Darien asked, worry seeping into his voice.
Bobby was still reeling, from the realization that had struck him, and unsure how he should react now that their relationship had changed. It left him standing on ground where his footing was less than secure, so he said the first thing that came to mind, "Jeeze, Fawkes, forget about her. She's fine."
Darien's eyes narrowed and he swung his full attention to Bobby. That was not a happy camper look, he noted silently.
"Fine? Man, what is your malfunction?" Darien growled. "Fainting generally ain't on the top 10 list of things being fine."
Fully aware of his error, Hobbes tried to soothe his partner's frazzled nerves. "Fawkes, just calm down..."
"Oh, shut up," Darien told him bluntly, then turned away, the intent to ignore Hobbes clear in every line of the man's body.
Hobbes didn't fight it, shifted in his seat to face front, pulled out a bottle of pills and dry-swallowed one. It was the only thing he could think of to do.
"ETA five minutes," 'Nita called from the cockpit.
"They letting you land?" Darien asked in curiosity.
"Nope," Steve answered, "but we got it covered. This beast does hover."
Darien's attention swung back to those sitting in the rear of the copter. "Claire?"
Claire draped the stethoscope about her neck and pulled out a pair of surgical scissors, which she used to cut the away enough of O'Neill's t-shirt to get a good look at the damage. Hobbes actually winced in sympathy. "Not good, I'm afraid. Pulse is thready and weak and she's running a temp of 104 degrees."
"One hundred and four?" Hobbes echoed, shocked. No wonder she'd gone down like a pole-axed steer.
"How long has she had the fever?" Claire asked.
"Since 4:30, at least. We had some company about then." Darien ran a hand through his hair, but instead of remaining upright, it flopped back down into his eyes. Strangely, it didn't look half bad. "She refused to use the GPS sooner. Didn't want to lead you into an ambush."
Hobbes met Fawkes' eyes, knowing that tidbit of info was aimed at him, and damn near flinched at the resentment in their coffee brown depths. As if Fawkes was mortally insulted that Bobby had just assumed he'd screw up and need his partner to come save him. The fact that Bobby couldn't find fault with O'Neill's logic, especially if Westgaard had his bully-boys out hunting for them all night, just made it hurt all that much more.
The helicopter ceased its forward motion and Steve popped into the cabin to open the door. They were hovering about a foot off the deck, and as near to perfectly still as Juanita could keep it. Well, they hadn't landed, that's for sure. Claire stood and moved to the door, medical bag in hand.
"Claire, what are you doing?" Hobbes whined in confusion, feeling like he was losing his only ally.
"Bobby, I'm a doctor and the only one with any information on her current condition," Claire explained as if it should have been obvious.
"Doctor, that's not necessary," Murphy said as he carefully lifted the unconscious O'Neill from the seat.
"Yes, it is," she insisted as Steve offered his arm to assist her out and reminded her to duck. "She's the Agency's responsibility."
Hobbes sighed. It was true after a fashion. "I'll have Alice and Green meet you here."
"Perfect." She waved for the orderlies with the gurney to come closer.
Murphy stepped out and then turned about to lock eyes with Steve. "See to it these two are returned to their agency safe and sound."
"Will do," was the reply, accentuated with a mock salute.
Murphy, bent over awkwardly to protect his cargo, moved away from the helicopter and towards the waiting medical staff. Then the door slid shut, cutting off the view.
"Back to base, 'Nita," Steve said as he slid back into his seat and put the headset back on.
Hoping that he and his partner could talk, Bobby said, "Fawkes..."
But Darien ignored him, leaning forward in his seat so those up in the cockpit could hear him. "Any chance we can hit a drive-thru? I'm starved."
---
Darien stifled a yawn and forced his eyes to remain open. Shit, he was tired and hungry and in need of a shower and a change of clothes and 12 hours of sleep and... well, you get the idea. Although his request for food in the helicopter had indeed been facetious and successful in deflecting the conversation Bobby wanted to have, the need was very real, but once alone in Golda, his partner had gone into full brood and Darien decided against repeating the request. There were plenty of other things to think about, not the least of which was whether a certain green-eyed lady was still among the living.
As ordered, the ever-calm Stevie escorted them back to the Agency and into the presence of the Official before he considered his duty discharged. Which meant being granted an audience with his Royal Bossness without first inputting the mandatory caffeine required to deal with the Fatman in a reasonable frame of mind. That whole short on sleep thing was a secondary consideration at best.
There was a most thorough and mostly coherent debriefing that took well over an hour as Darien recounted everything, including the fact that he was the reason the GPS handheld had been broken. He also fully credited Fallon for locating them a place to hole up for the night, even if the actual finding had required more than a bit of luck.
Eberts made him go over exactly how long he had remained Quicksilvered again and again, as if that information was of great import. That Darien had revealed the ability to Fallon seemed to be only a minor concern, which worried him. The Official had been known to take extreme measures to keep the project secret in the past, and would surely do so again in the future. Who knew what he'd do to Fallon? A quick call to the hospital, a mark called in and, oops, she'd die on the operating table. It was with that thought in mind that Darien insisted that it was his and only his idea to go haring off to "rescue" her. That she had never called for help and had made it quite clear after he'd made his needless attempt at heroics that her move, stupid as it had seemed at the time, had been part of a greater plan.
The Official made a show of bluster and anger, but Darien could tell it was half-hearted at best. Plainly, the 'Fish had expected Darien to screw up and let the proverbial cat out of the bag.
Once the debriefing was concluded, they moved back to the Official's office.
"Overall not a bad job, boys," the Official said as he sat down behind his desk. "Aristid Papadopoulos is out of business..."
"He's dead," Bobby pointed out.
"... the Greek government," the Official continued, "is thanking us for our timely assistance, and," he paused, purely for dramatic purposes, "we made a nice profit on this mission."
Bobby poked a finger in the air. "Uh, Chief, we didn't get Westgaard, so there's no reward money."
"True, true," the Official conceded. "But thanks to Darien's forethought..."
"You mean his need to steal anything not nailed down?"
Darien decided to take umbrage with that, however accurate, observation, but only managed a yawn-filled, "Hey."
"... we scored a half million dollars. Not bad for a day's work and 10 times the reward." The Official smiled, clearly basking in the momentary solvency of his Agency.
Darien whistled. "Five hundred thousand? What the hell was he buying? The Maltese Falcon?"
The Official shrugged. "I'm sure the Doctor will figure that out in time." He shifted, the springs of the chair creaking ominously under the stress. "Now, as the Keeper is otherwise occupied, I suggest you go home and get some sleep. I'm certain she'll want to run all sorts of tests bright and early tomorrow."
Bobby was up already and headed for the door before Darien absorbed the words. Not that he didn't want to take advantage of the 'Fish's sudden generosity, but he had a question niggling at him. "What was it you wanted Fallon to do for you?" Yeah, he'd done a lot of thinking and had come to the conclusion that there must have been some side deal between his boss and her, it just fit the 'Fish's style to a T.
Ebert's entered at just that moment and he had obviously heard the question. "This." He waved a file as he crossed the room and handed it to the Official.
"And this would be...?" Darien prompted, hoping to elicit an actual response this time. He knew Bobby hadn't yet left, but he was still over by the door as if waiting to see what would happen next.
The Official opened the file and slid what appeared to be no more than a sheet of paper in Darien's direction. He heaved himself out of the chair and over to the desk. It was a photograph, a pretty damn good one, of Tormond Westgaard. "Pictures? Fallon got herself shot over some pictures?" Four of them total, all clear, crisp and indisputably Westgaard.
"Yes. And we get credit." The Official gloated. "The only ones to ever get a photo of him."
"But he's still on the loose," Bobby reminded them.
"True, but he won't be able to hide as effectively," Eberts responded. "By this time tomorrow every security agency in the world will have a copy of these. His anonymity will be gone. I predict he'll be in custody within the next six months."
Bobby snorted in derision. "I'll take that bet. Westgaard'll go to ground and still be causing trouble in a year's time, you can take that to the bank."
"Bet? But I didn't..." Eberts tried to protest.
"Too late, Ebes," Darien said around a grim smile, agreeing with Bobby. "Hobbes already suckered you." He gazed at the photographs, wondering if getting this tangible evidence of a ghost had been worth it.