A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, everybody. Much appreciated. We're getting near the end of this tale, and the light at the end of the tunnel is not a train driven by Violet.

CHAPTER 15

There were two ways into the armory, other than the main door. Normally Malcolm wouldn't be concerned that an intruder could get in either of those ways, but whoever was stalking Violet had apparently done their homework.

The average, run-of-the-mill intruder wouldn't know about the other two routes into the armory. The easier way was through the ventilation system, but the scraping sound he and Violet were hearing was coming from one of the torpedo launch tubes. The stalker had gotten into the access crawlway a deck above and wiggled his way down. A maintenance hatch would let the intruder into the tube itself.

It was a daring move, not to mention dangerous. Somehow, though, Malcolm didn't think the captain would approve of launching a torpedo simply to dislodge the intruder.

"Get in my office," he told Violet as he listened to the noise. Now it sounded like the launch tube maintenance hatch was being jimmied.

Violet hesitated. "But--"

"Move!" he yelled, giving her a none-too-gentle push to get her going.

Violet had taken only a few steps when, to Malcolm's surprise, the main door crashed open. He whirled to face this new threat, only to duck as a flash of phased energy lanced over his head. Behind him, he heard Violet hit the deck as well.

The noise in the launch tube had been the diversion. The main door had been the objective after all, he realized as he cursed himself for letting himself and Violet be pinned down.

Jon and T'Pol arrived at the docking hatch to find one of Malcolm's security officers standing by. Glancing at the closed door of The Bottom Line, then back at the security officer, Jon asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the mess hall with Ensign Foster keeping an eye on the people from this ship, per Lieutenant Reed's orders," he answered. "When one of them left, I followed."

"Did the man go anywhere else before coming here?"

"No, sir."

Jon paused to consider his options. "I think we've got the problem contained," he said. "One of them is here, and the other four are in the mess hall."

"Begging your pardon, sir," the security officer said. "There were only four in the mess hall, counting this one."

"Damnation!" Jon muttered, casting an anxious glance at the door. Turning to T'Pol, he said, "It's still a good idea to make sure whoever is running around loose can't use this ship as a way to escape."

T'Pol tilted her head in agreement but said, "Commander Tucker, however, is still in there. He could be used as a hostage."

Jon's features hardened. "In that case, we won't knock first."

The remote 'bot he'd set off had operated perfectly. It had worked its way into the access crawlway nearest the torpedo launch tubes and had made enough noise to distract those in the armory from his entrance through the main door. The satisfaction of this accomplishment was outweighed, however, by his irritation at missing with his first shot.

The Starfleet officer had good reflexes. And if he had more time, he'd enjoy toying with him. But his objective was not the officer. It was past the man, hunched down behind one of the torpedo launch racks.

He had his quarry trapped, but he wasn't able to advance and make the kill. He, too, was limited to what he could do by the fact that the Starfleet officer had rolled to one side, sliding under a console for cover, and was returning fire.

The assassin considered. He could use an explosive grenade, but that would likely take out half this deck if it detonated any of the torpedoes. Besides, he had every intention of making it out of this alive so he could collect his fee. Accidentally blowing himself up with a torpedo was not an option.

Once he disposed of his target and her guardian, he'd have to make it safely back to the docking port. If for some reason he couldn't get back to The Bottom Line, he could always steal one of the smaller vehicles carried by this ship. He knew there were two shuttlepods in its launch bay.

But first, time to bring this confrontation to an end. The longer it took, the more chance there was he could be captured, which ranked right after blowing himself up on his list of things not to do. He reached into the pocket of his gray jumpsuit for a stun grenade. It should knock both of them out, and then he'd just have to finish her off.

The three passengers in the mess hall were not happy. Foster, after receiving the captain's orders through the runner from the bridge, had unholstered his phase pistol and pointed it at the group, much to their consternation.

One of the men had demanded they be allowed to go back to The Bottom Line. Another had started shouting something about his rights being trampled. The third had begun edging toward the door. Foster was wondering if he was actually going to have to stun one of them to get them to behave when Chef, brandishing a meat cleaver in one hand and a frying pan in the other, burst through the doors from the galley.

"Shut up and sit down!" Chef ordered the men, advancing on the trio and waving the kitchen utensils in a threatening manner.

Foster was a fairly tall man, but Chef topped him by a good six centimeters. He wasn't surprised when the three men hastily resumed their seats. He knew if he was faced with such an onslaught, he'd do exactly as Chef commanded, too.

"There!" Chef said in satisfaction, gesturing toward the group with the cleaver. "They will do as you say now."

"Thanks, Chef," Foster said, hoping word never got back to his superior about Chef barging in on a security assignment and doing better at it than he had.

"Do not speak of it," the Frenchman said expansively. "Now I go to help protect Ensign Smith. Your boss, he needs my help."

"It's locked from the inside," T'Pol said after examining the access controls and unsuccessfully trying a series of commands to open the door to The Bottom Line.

Holding his hand out to the security officer, Jon said, "Give me your pistol."

The man promptly unholstered his weapon and handed it over. Jon made an adjustment to the gun and pointed it at the control panel. "Stand back," he ordered, and T'Pol and the guard both stepped back a pace.

He depressed the trigger and began carefully cutting around the control panel with the beam of phased energy released by the pistol.

At the high-pitched whine that came through the door, Macklin's head turned in that direction but he kept his weapon aimed at Trip where he was sitting in a passenger seat.

Trip identified the sound as a phase pistol set to a cutting beam. With a notion of talking Macklin into giving up, he said reasonably, "They're on to you. If I were you, I'd call it quits."

"Doesn't matter," Macklin said. "If I have to, I can leave. It will just mean I have to break your nice docking port."

"Hey!" Trip said, standing up in alarm at this announcement. "I don't wanna go along with you."

Macklin waved the pistol at Trip. "Sit down!"

Before Trip could comply, there was a loud popping noise from the door, and both men looked that way.

Malcolm couldn't move out from under the cover of the console, but neither could the other man move from behind the work table where he was crouched. They were stalemated for the moment. But Malcolm knew time was on his side, as he could wait out the other man. Reinforcements ought to be arriving soon. They'd made enough of a commotion that anyone in the vicinity should come running.

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Violet was tucked in behind one of the torpedo launch racks. As long as she stayed where she was, she should be okay. The assassin couldn't get a clear shot at her.

He turned back toward his opponent. Beyond the work table where the man was hiding, Malcolm could see the open door of the armory. He caught a glimpse of gray fabric as the man put his arm up and threw something over the table in his direction. A spherical object arced through the air, landing just behind Malcolm.

Too late he realized he wasn't going to be able to wait until reinforcements arrived. He was twisting around with a half-formed idea of tossing whatever it was back when a flash of light blinded him, followed by the distinctive sound of a stun grenade. Just before he lost consciousness, he could have sworn he heard the sound of running feet coming from the corridor.

As soon as the control panel fell out of place, T'Pol reached into the exposed opening and ripped out several wires. Jon, poised with pistol still in hand, was ready when the door flew open. He leaped inside, hit the deck, and rolled to one side behind a row of seats.

His entrance provoked no reaction from those inside, other than what sounded like an amused snort from somewhere at the rear of the passenger compartment.

Jon cautiously lifted his head to peer toward the back and was greeted to the sight of Trip leaning nonchalantly against the back bulkhead, a pistol dangling from his hand.

"'Bout time you got here," Trip remarked with a huge grin.

Clambering to his feet, Jon was able to see something he hadn't been able to from where he'd been behind the passenger seating. His relief at finding Trip unharmed was sorely tried by the engineer's cocky attitude. Gesturing toward the still form of Captain Macklin sprawled on the deck at Trip's feet, Jon said testily, "If I would have known you had taken care of things in here, I wouldn't have cut open the door."

Pushing away from the bulkhead, Trip fessed up. "Well, actually, you helped. All that noise you made breakin' in here distracted him, and I was able to get the drop on him."

Jon frowned. "Somehow, I can't see you taking him on in hand-to-hand combat, especially with two bum hands."

"Naw," Trip drawled. "I used this." He pulled an electrical probe out from under the splint on his broken finger. "I shocked him while you were trying to bust in. Then I hit him."

The door to the armory was open, which struck Chef as odd since Foster had said the department had been locked down, but his concern about Ensign Smith urged him to dash recklessly through the entrance.

"Ensign Smith, where are you?" he called out as he stepped into the armory.

His gaze fell on the body of the tactical officer, and his lip curled in a sneer. He had been right to rush to the armory, as Lieutenant Reed had not been up to the task of protecting the delectable Ensign Smith.

And he apparently wasn't up to the task either, Chef realized with chagrin, as a man clad in a gray jumpsuit rose up from behind a work table. He had a very large pistol aimed at him. Chef had time only to wonder if Ensign Smith was unhurt before the man fired.

As the man in the outlandish white outfit fell to the deck, the assassin began to relax. What kind of ship were these people running? They'd sent a cook, complete with meat cleaver and frying pan, to assist in the armory. They were not going to believe this back at the assassins' guild.

As it was, the frying pan had made a terrible clatter, bouncing and rolling over to the torpedo racks, and he cast a glance at the open doorway. He'd have to hurry.

Stepping carefully over the prone form of the man in white, then skirting the fallen Starfleet officer, the assassin edged over to the torpedo launch racks. She should have been rendered unconscious by the stun grenade. All he had to do was set his phase pistol to kill and this job would be almost over. He'd just have to make his get-away.

Glancing back once more at the open doorway as he switched the weapon's setting, he didn't see the hand that snaked out from under the torpedo rack and grabbed the frying pan from where it had finally come to rest against the rack.

He rounded the end of the rack and grinned. This was going to be so easy.

And then the frying pan hit him right in the Adam's apple.

Jon, T'Pol and Trip hurried into the armory to find a groggy Malcolm trying to rouse Chef. T'Pol immediately dropped to her knees and began checking Chef's condition.

Glancing around but not seeing Violet, Jon asked, "Where is she? Is she OK?"

Malcolm nodded jerkily, closing his eyes at the pain in his head.

"Where is she?" Jon persisted.

Malcolm opened his eyes and stared blearily at him for a moment. Then he pointed toward the torpedo launch racks. Jon could make out someone standing behind them, and he hurried over.

Violet, a frying pan clutched in her hands, was standing over an unconscious man in a gray jumpsuit. A large welt was on the man's neck, and a big lump was on his forehead.

Jon heard unsteady footsteps approach and turned to see Malcolm, assisted by Trip, coming to join him.

"I wouldn't get too close if I were you, sir," the tactical officer said. "She's got a hell of a Frisbee throw with that frying pan, not to mention a wicked backhand."