The last thing that Charlie remembered was his father fussing over him: tucking a blanket around him, propping his cast-covered leg up on yet another pillow, and insisting that Charlie take a nap. Charlie had given in; it was too much work to convince his father to bring him something to work on and the pain killers that Alan Eppes had forced on him were kicking in. Sleep had followed within minutes.

The next thing he knew, something cold and plastic smelling was being forced over his nose and mouth. He tried to yell, tried to force it away, but he could barely move his arms and legs. His head swam.

"Don't fight," a female voice hissed into his ear, "or I'll shoot the old man."

That penetrated. Charlie froze.

"Better," she told him. "Now get up and walk to the car."

The cold plastic was an oxygen container, he found out in the next few moments, and it smelled vile. His assailant was a young woman in her twenties who was holding her own oxygen mask over her face and what looked to be a small cannon in her hand. She aimed it at Alan Eppes, slumbering peacefully in the easy chair. The bodyguards that Don had assigned—Charlie had protested at the time, thinking it was overkill. Now he knew better—had slumped to the floor. Garibaldi had been headed for the phone, and Taylor looked as though he'd tried to smash something through the window before he'd been overcome. For the first time, Charlie regretted getting the higher quality windows. Cheap ones would have shattered under the impact of the plastic baseball trophy that Don had won as a kid and that his mother had cherished.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened. This young woman had somehow introduced some sort of gas into the house, and everyone had fallen asleep before they were able to call for help. Charlie wondered how she'd done it, then withdrew the question. Anyone with enough technical savvy to put a computer through what she had would find it child's play to gas the occupants of his house into unconsciousness. And, given what she'd already done, Charlie could well believe that if he resisted she'd put a bullet straight into his sleeping father. He stumbled out to her car, barely able to keep his feet even with the crutches.

"You won't need those." She tossed the crutches away onto the lawn, leaving him clutching the frame of her car for balance. "Get into the trunk."

"The trunk?"

"Yes, the trunk," she told impatiently. "For a genius, you're not too bright. But then, I knew that long ago." She keyed open the trunk to her car—dark blue sedan, California plates, C3141—she forced him in before he could see the rest of the numbers, shoving him down onto the floor of the trunk to bang against the un-inflated spare tire.

Sorry, Don. Listening to you taught me to pay attention to the details, but what do I do if I can't tell you those details? The trunk slammed shut, leaving him in darkness.

Dammit, where was the LAPD patrol car? Don had sounded the alarm as soon as he couldn't raise anyone at his father's—Charlie's—house. They should have been there by now; no, there they were, sirens screeching as if they'd floored it from Hollywood Boulevard half-way across town. I take back all the nice things I've been saying about the locals. They respond to emergencies like kids to cooked carrots. Which wasn't fair or accurate, but Don wasn't in the mood to be reasonable. Don slammed on the brakes, jerking the Suburban to a halt just inches from the garage, jumping out of the driver's seat and racing to the front door. David was inches behind him.

The front door wasn't locked. And Charlie's crutches had been tossed onto the front lawn.

"Dad!" he yelled, frantic. "Charlie!"

"I'll get the back." David knew the drill. There was danger here. Guns were drawn.

The first whiff of foul air caught Don hard, sent his head reeling. He staggered back, then grabbed his handkerchief and slapped it over his nose and mouth to charge recklessly forward.

Windows. Windows first. Dammit, did Charlie paint them shut the last time he went on a home improvement frenzy? No, the latch gave and Don hoisted the pane open, breathing deeply of the clean outside air and letting the foul stuff out. "Get an ambulance!" he yelled to the oncoming local cops.

There were three bodies overcome by the fumes, only one plopped into a chair. It was that body that he aimed for first: his father. The gas stole Don's strength as he seized the older man under the arms, dragging him toward the front door. Then David materialized next to him, grabbing one side, sharing the burden. They pulled the senior Eppes outside, depositing him carefully on the front lawn before dashing inside to rescue the two agents that had been assigned to prevent this.

"Where's Charlie?" David put into words what Don was wondering himself.

"Upstairs?" Please, please, let him be upstairs. His brother had to be upstairs, overcome by the fumes drifting upward, dragged up there hours ago by a caring father aided and abetted by a couple of solicitous agents assigned to ensure the safety of the FBI consultant. The crutches outside were… well, they just were. Charlie had to be upstairs.

"Take this." The patrolman shoved a small green canister into Don's hand. Don stared at it stupidly before recognizing it: oxygen. With a mask. "Put it over your face," the patrolman urged, as if Don didn't know what to do with the thing. At the moment, with adrenaline stuck on high, Don didn't.

Training took over. Don savagely twisted the little bottle to open and pressed the plastic-smelling mask to his nose. Sweet oxygen assailed him, and he headed for the front door and the stairs. The gas burned his eyes. He dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, too terrified even to pray. The door to Charlie's room sat open, inviting him to witness what lay within. Mocking him. Would there be a body in there, lying on the bed, overcome by the gas?

Empty. No Charlie.

Don's world came crashing down. Again. Only this time, there were no cinder blocks to dodge.

"Two of them broke," Megan greeted him at headquarters, no smile on her face. David must have called ahead, Don realized. There was no other way for Megan to be aware of what had transpired at his father's house. Charlie's house. Whatever. "We have a location, and a field unit ready to roll at your signal."

"Good." He had to say something. Anything more than monosyllabic grunts would emerge as hysterical and panicked screams, and that was unbecoming to an FBI agent. Of course, getting himself kidnapped was unbecoming to an FBI consultant, but that hadn't stopped Charlie.

He swallowed hard. He had to get control of himself, recognized that his thoughts were becoming a little less than coherent. Panic does that to a guy.

Megan moved to a safer topic. "Your father?"

"He's at the hospital, fighting with the doctors. Wants to go home right now. They're keeping him for observation for a few hours. I'll pick him up tonight."

"He's all right, then. Garibaldi and Taylor?"

"Knocked for a loop, but they'll be fine. They're already released, and being questioned by our people. We found the conduit that she used to pipe in the gas, and the Crime Lab is working to identify the substance. That should give us more leads, if we need them. You said that two of our suspects broke?"

"Just as you predicted. The first started babbling half way to the LAPD station and the other as soon as they shut him in holding, away from the lead character from the bust."

"You have a location?"

"We have a location," Megan confirmed. "How do you want to play this?"

"I want to play it so that I don't get Charlie killed!" Don snapped. He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Megan. You didn't deserve that."

But Megan put into words what he had been dreading: "You need to take a step back on this one, Don. You're too close to the situation."

"He's my broth—"

"You're too close," Megan insisted quietly. "Turn this operation over to David, or better yet, let the LAPD SWAT team handle this part. They're ready to roll; Colby already got the warrant and SWAT is set to move on our signal." She gave the word 'our' just the slightest emphasis, reminding Don that they were a team. That he wasn't alone, and that there were people he could count on to help. "You're too close, Don," she repeated. "Step back."

It was a long moment. It could have gone either way. He could have screamed out his frustration at the profiler or—Megan was right. Don took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tell SWAT to move in as soon as they're in position. Tell the captain it's his call."

Megan nodded ever so slightly, approving. "That doesn't mean that we intend to wait politely off to one side."

"You're staying here. You're on light duty."

"So I'll wait in the truck," Megan shrugged. "You can keep me company. I don't think I could stand not knowing what was going on." She indicated the white cotton sling. "It was my arm that got banged up, not the part of me that does the thinking. Or the worrying."

It was a small house in a middle class neighborhood. Colby's rapid fire research turned up that it had been rented to a woman calling herself Charlotte Eppes just a couple of months ago. "Think it's a phony name?" was the bitter mutter. The block was cleared by SWAT personnel, and the neighbors questioned: the occupants seemed to be quiet and kept to themselves. In fact, most of the neighbors weren't even sure that anyone lived there. A couple of cars would be parked in the driveway, then would leave for days at a time. Sometimes they'd see a woman, and one neighbor was quite clear that she'd observed three men going in and out but when given pictures of the suspects she was unable to verify their identity.

But the warrant was good. The captain of the SWAT team, making sure his team was in place and all exits covered, gave the signal.

The point man and the back up sidled up to the house. He rapped on the door, standing clear so that any shots going through the opening would miss his vested torso. Best case scenario: the occupant would come to the door to see who it was and get grabbed. SWAT could then swarm the house with no loss of life on either side.

It didn't work out that way.

There was no answer to the point man's knock. He knocked again. Still no answer. A questioning raise of the hand to his captain; the captain looked at Don, sitting beside Megan. Don remained stone-faced, barely daring to breathe; no help there.

The captain made his decision: go ahead.

Point nodded. One last knock, this one more demanding. Then: "LAPD! Open up!" And the back up rammed in the front door. "Go! Go! Go! Go!"

Men in blue with vests and face shields, guns in hand, swarmed in the door. Don knew the same thing was happening at the back door. He listened, dreading the anticipation, waiting for the sounds of shots fired that would tell him that he had suddenly become an only child.

Nothing.

Don took a breath. Still nothing. Beside him he could feel Megan re-start her own breathing. Unbidden, his hand started to shake, and he sternly commanded it to stop.

Several centuries later—was it really only three minutes?—the point man emerged to wave an all clear. "Deserted," he reported to his captain, making certain that Don and Megan, at the captain's elbow, could hear. "We searched the place. Recently abandoned. There are some clothes, dishes in the sink, that sort of thing."

"Woman's clothing?" Don asked.

The point man nodded. "Size sixteen long. Whoever your mystery woman is, she's not the petite type. It looks like she hustled out a couple of hours ago."

"Which is when we took the other three down." Don felt no joy in the realization. "She must have figured that we'd crack her people." Which means that I'm the cause of Charlie's kidnapping and my father being nearly asphyxiated. Retaliation.

"Retaliation," Megan mused, unconsciously echoing his morbid thoughts. "It fits the profile, Don. She's angry that we out-thought her. We correctly predicted her next move. That upped the ante."

"So what's her next move? Murder?"

Megan refused to give him false hope. "It's a possibility, Don. It's just as likely that she'll use Charlie to taunt us with, but we've been pushing her hard. We can't afford to stop. Charlie's life depends on our ability to follow where she leads."

"Then we'd better find her fast."