Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1.

I really appreciate your reviews, especially Jennifer – you cracked me up! If there's anyone else I haven't thanked over e-mail, well, leave another review and I'll respond. :) I put a lot of work into this, and I'm pleased that you're enjoying it.

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Chapter 8
Friday, June 24, 2005
9:15 P.M.
Port of Long Beach, Pier J

It had been pouring for the past hour from a highly unusual June thunderstorm. Los Angeles often went from May to November without seeing a drop of rain, but once in a while, the heavens really opened up. Don shifted from one foot to another, trying to stay under his umbrella, as the Japanese crewman opened yet another container and indicated for him to look.

It was as empty of smuggled freon as all the other containers he and his team had examined in the past two hours. The crew had been unfailingly helpful and polite despite the inclement weather, and he wasn't getting the same vibe he had on the "Buir Lake." Considering how unwilling Mick had been to help them at first, it was surprising that the information he had sent them wasn't panning out.

"Thank you," he said to the crewman standing beside him. When the man gestured inquiringly toward the adjacent container, he shook his head. "No, that's okay."

Walking across the deck, he found Terry, who was looking as frustrated and damp as he was. "Anything?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Every container on this ship matches one in the manifest. No one's trying to hide anything, near as I can tell."

"Sorry to bring you out in this weather," he sighed, thinking of how he would much rather have been spending this evening, particularly after the way he and Karen had said goodbye to each other in the parking garage. "We can have them start lifting the ones off the top and look underneath, but I get the feeling we're not going to find anything. Looks like Mick had some faulty information."

"Yeah, I guess so." Her brow was furrowed. "He obviously thought it was important to send to me, though, or he wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of disguising it."

"Maybe they got wind of our coming and put it overboard somewhere."

"How could they have? It's only been fourteen hours since we confirmed this bust, and most of the team wasn't notified till noon."

"Yeah, I know." Then a thought occurred to him, and he slowly raised his head. "What about Mick?"

"Don, why would he tell us about the bust and then warn the smugglers?"

"No, no," he said urgently. "What if he was fed false information to see if he was talking to us? He was worried about being watched the other day; what if he was?"

Terry looked a little sheepish. "I already called Tyler, the agent we have tailing him, an hour ago. He's safely ensconced at home."

Don raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't have anything better to do on a Friday night?"

"Maybe he really got spooked by our visit." She pulled out her cell phone. "Let me give him a call and see how solid his info was."

When a few seconds went by with no answer, Terry's eyes flickered nervously to his. Underneath the pounding of the rain, he heard the distant crackle of a recorded message, and her look became more grim. She punched the "end" button, and then redialed. Same result.

"Let me try Tyler," Don said, pulling out his phone. The phone rang four times before going to voice mail. That wasn't right. An agent on active surveillance was always supposed to answer their phone when it rang. He checked the phone to make sure the storm wasn't interfering with the reception. Then he redialed, his stomach sinking with every unanswered ring.

As he dialed a third time, Don was already looking around to find David, who was about to move from third-in-command to running what was left of the operation. He spied him, and waved for him to come over.

"Don…"

"I know, Terry." Tyler's voice mail came on for the third time, and he flipped his phone closed. "Let me hand things off to David, and we'll go see what's going on, okay?" He gave her a look that was meant to be reassuring, but that he knew was as grim as her own expression.

It looked like the only trap that had been sprung was on them.

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Five minutes after turning over control of the operation to David, Don and Terry were barreling down the Pacific Coast Highway, a second vehicle behind them for backup. It was about ten miles from the port to Huntington Beach, and thanks to the siren on top of the Suburban, it looked like it would take less than fifteen minutes, even with the rain still pouring down.

Terry had checked the clip in her gun twice before Don reached over and put a hand over hers. "It's probably nothing," he said in his most reassuring voice. "Tyler's phone battery probably ran out or something. Maybe the storm cut off his reception."

"You really think so?"

If he thought so, he wouldn't have been driving so fast. But instead he said, "You told me Mick was in the army back home, right? He's a pretty tough guy?"

She sighed. "Yeah, that's right. Sometimes I wonder if he wasn't Special Forces or whatever they call them. That coded message he sent wasn't something the average person would do."

"How'd you know about that picture, anyway?"

"Oh, we went to an exhibition together at the Getty once. It was the closest thing to a date we ever did." The corner of her mouth turned up. "He probably figured that was a particularly memorable evening or something."

The lightless territory of the Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station stretched away to the east, matching the dark expanse of the ocean to their right. Don accelerated as the traffic, already minimal because of the weather, decreased further. Five more minutes. "You know where he lives, right?"

"From what he said the other day, I don't think he's moved. Up 21st Street, in two blocks and it's on the left."

"Right." They drove the rest of the way in tense silence, Don switching off the siren and lights as they exited the main highway to avoid alerting anyone to their presence.

"It's the pink stucco on the left." She checked her gun one more time, and he didn't stop her.

Don pulled to a stop behind a Range Rover and killed the lights. Their backup pulled past them, then did a U-turn at the next intersection and parked a few houses away. He checked his gun and vest, both still on from the port. After last week's fiasco, he had figured the extra protection was worth the extra sweating they would bring.

"Is that Tyler's car across the street?" Terry asked quietly.

He squinted through the falling rain at the dark sedan, barely visible in the dim glow of the streetlights. "Could be. There's definitely someone sitting inside."

Weapons in hand, they quietly climbed out of the SUV and made their way across the street, watching each other's backs. The smell of the sea air was sharp in Don's nostrils, and the faint roar of the surf a few blocks away was barely audible over the raindrops. The street was deserted other than themselves, though a few lights were on in some of the small, bungalow-style houses. The pink stucco Terry had pointed out had a faint glow indicating a light was on in the back.

They reached Tyler's car, the other two agents a few steps behind, and Don rapped on the tinted glass. When no one responded, he slowly released the door handle.

The tall, blond-haired man inside was obviously dead. The way his body fell out of the car was a clear sign of that, as was the neat bullet hole in his temple. "Shit," one of the agents behind him said quietly.

Terry was looking towards Mick's house, wiping rain off of her face. "All right, Adams and Bayer, radio in for more backup. Then go up to the front door, but don't enter. Don and I will go around the back. There's a living room in the front, kitchen to the left and dining room behind it. I think that's where the light is coming from. If it becomes necessary to enter, we'll enter from the back door, but be ready for anyone coming your way. The rain is probably loud enough to muffle most sounds from inside."

The other two nodded, both casting a nervous glance at the dead Tyler before crossing the street into the shadow of a tall hedge and making their way back to their vehicle.

Don gently replaced Sam Tyler in his car, then eased the door shut. "Terry, we should really wait for more backup. We don't know how many people we're dealing with here."

"Don, for all we know Mick is already dead!" she hissed back. "If not, every second counts. I'm not waiting for anyone else."

"All right, be careful. I've got your back."

They crept down the short driveway, staying in the shadow of the house and ignoring the rain that was soaking through their clothing. Around the back, they crouched down to avoid the window of what Terry had said was the dining room, although the drawn shades prevented Don from seeing what was inside. Then they heard a noise coming from inside, and both froze.

There was a cracking noise, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a grunt of pain. Don exchanged glances with Terry, then leaned over and breathed in her ear, "What's the floor plan?"

She whispered back, "The back door next to us opens into the laundry room. Dining room's to the right, bathroom's to the left. There's only room for one of us to enter at a time."

He gave her a worried look. "That's not good."

She rolled her eyes. "I know, but it's what we've got to work with."

Her voice had risen a little on the last few words, and he grabbed her arm. He opened his mouth, then froze at a sound above them. Someone was pulling up the shade. They flattened themselves back against the house, hoping that whoever was inside wouldn't look straight down.

"Shto eta?" a voice called from inside. Don could see a shadow spreading out along the grass from the window above their heads.

"Slushala inogdaa," came the response from right above them.

The first voice grew closer, along with its shadow. "Shto videtye?"

Then there was a crashing sound from farther inside, and the heads of both figures whipped around. A pistol fired. The screen door slammed open, and someone came stumbling outside into the rain.

"Mick!" Terry lunged sideways and grabbed his arm, pulling him towards them.

The Ukrainian had blood running down the side of his leg, and he was cradling his right hand with his left arm. But he didn't seem surprised to see them, or at least he took it completely in stride. "Two in back, two in front," he murmured, ducking down behind the two agents.

"Just like us," Don muttered as the first man appeared in the doorway.

The Russian saw them almost immediately, and raised his pistol. Don and Terry both fired, and he fell back into the house, clutching at his chest. A second man leaned around the corner long enough to squeeze off a shot, and then they heard his footsteps retreating into the house.

Gunshots coming from the front of the building meant that Bayer and Adams were engaged, too. "Okay, Mick, you stay here. Terry, let's go through the house and clean up."

Once inside, they took turns providing cover around each doorway. The second man was waiting for them behind the kitchen counter, and as he popped up, he got off a round that sent Don staggering back against the wall. Wincing at the blow, Don fired back, sending the Russian sprawling on the floor. He rubbed at his chest, knowing if his vest was thick enough to stop a bullet, he wouldn't be able to feel the pressure of his hand. Still, he was going to be sore there tomorrow. He snatched up the dead man's gun and tucked it away in his belt before nodding to Terry.

The gunfire from the front had died down, and they approached cautiously, knowing it could mean anything. To their relief, they found Bayer handcuffing one suspect, with Adams training his pistol on another who had already taken one shot in the leg. "You guys all right?" Don asked.

"Thanks to God and Kevlar," John Bayer said, snapping the cuffs shut before wiping his wet hair off his brow.

"I hear you," Don agreed.

Terry had disappeared into the back, and now she returned, supporting Mick, who had his arm thrown over her shoulder. "You okay?" Don asked him.

Mick nodded tiredly, his handsome features drawn with pain. "I am glad you came, though." He indicated his right hand, which he was still holding carefully. "There were still eight fingers to break."

Terry gave him a gentle squeeze. "We'll get that taken care of right away, Mick. That and the graze on your leg. There should be EMTs on the way."

He looked Don in the eye. "I suppose I do not have a choice anymore about your protective custody, do I?"

Don shook his head. "Afraid not." The welcome sound of sirens outside was drawing closer as he spoke.

Mick looked down at the man handcuffed on the floor, who gave him a glare and spat something at him in Russian. Bayer gave him a none-too-gentle nudge in the side with his foot, and he went quiet.

For a long moment, Mick regarded the man who had been holding him captive. Then he looked up and spoke crisply. "I suppose you also will be wanting information from me?"

"Not as a precondition of protecting you, but if you have something to tell us, we'd appreciate it."

He nodded slowly. "Can you walk with me to the ambulance?"

Don exchanged a glance with Terry, asking her to keep an eye on him, and she reassured him that she would, all without saying a word. "Go on ahead. I'll be out in a second."

As soon as two more agents had entered and Don had given them directions as to how best to assist Bayer and Adams, he went outside to find that the rain was tapering off. Mick was seated at the back door of one ambulance, his pant leg cut open to above his knee. Terry was standing off to the side, watching him as the medics cleaned the gash on his leg where the bullet had almost missed him.

He looked up as Don approached. "I think I can help you quite a bit," he said quietly, "but I need a promise from you. I need to know I will not be in trouble for anything I tell you."

"You want immunity from prosecution." When Mick nodded, he rubbed his jaw. "I can talk to my boss about it tomorrow."

Mick was shaking his head. "Tomorrow will be too late. I know places that you need to look, and by morning, they will be empty. I need your word."

He looked at Terry and tilted his head to the side. She followed him a few steps away, then spoke in a low tone, "Don, you have to. We're the ones responsible for him being in danger and being injured. And if we don't find out what he knows and act on it tonight, it will probably be too late."

"You know him, Terry. Do you think he's bluffing?"

She gazed over at Mick, whose face remained impassive as an EMT started to set his broken fingers. "I don't even know him well enough to know what kind of illegal activities he might have done. But he's more serious than I've ever seen him, and I think he deserves everything we can give him."

"All right. But if Merrick gives me any crap about making a decision like this in the field, I can tell him it's based on your professional evaluation of an informant?"

The ambulance's lights were still flashing, and the strange red-and-yellow shadows they cast through the drizzle made it hard for him to read her face. But her voice was firm as she said, "Yes, you can."

They walked back over to Mick, their feet crunching on the gravel at the side of the road. His leg was bandaged and his hand splinted, and he stood up as they approached. Terry hurried to his side when he started to waver, but then he stood up straight and gave her a small but reassuring smile.

"You have a deal," Don said, extending his left hand.

They shook hands, and Mick unexpectedly grinned. "Get paper and a pen, and be ready to call your office. I think there will be a lot of FBI agents called out of their beds tonight."