Michael landed in a heap on the floor of the padded room and heard the loud slam of the door being closed followed by the snick of the lock being thrown. He rolled over onto his back and winced. He breathed deeply to get past the pain and slowly shuffled into a sitting position with his back against the far wall grateful that it was in fact padded and not made of hard brick. His one good eye looked at his surroundings. Everything was a little blurred without his glasses. He raised a cautious hand to his bad eye and checked the eye patch was still in place. He gave a sigh of relief before his hand move to his right temple and came away bloody.

Head injury, possible skull fracture and concussion.

He didn't even remember how it had happened. Hell, he thought tiredly, the hours since his capture had all merged into one long mess of being beaten, interrogated and beaten. The last thing he remembered clearly was the sight of his aide, Tricia, being shot by her conspirators. He eased his bruised body into a less painful position and sighed. He made a determined analysis of his own injuries. Nothing was broken as far as he could tell, just bruised. That was good. They had bizarrely gone easy on his legs, his weakest point. It wasn't information they were after, he mused. The questions had been routine but not directed at something specific. Someone wanted him personally, Michael realised, and since he was still alive there was good bet that meant whoever it was wanted to face Michael themselves before…before they what? Killed him? It was the most likely possibility.

Michael made a brief review of the room. It was empty and white. He almost laughed at the irony. He was going to die in an all white cell with padded walls. Maybe he should rethink the whole white thing, he thought tiredly. His codename, Archangel, had less meaning with the disbanding of his division. He rubbed his ribs and coughed a little. He missed having a division more than he would admit to anyone. The Airwolf project was his baby and he loved it, but it wasn't the cut and thrust of international politics and espionage.

He wondered how much time had passed. He figured it was over a day, maybe more since he'd been snatched. He had passed out on a couple of occasions and he had no idea how long for. It was likely that the Company had written him off. They had even less reason to affect a rescue than the FIRM had the last time he'd gone missing. Maybe Hawke…he sighed. Hawke didn't have Airwolf anymore. Even if the other man made it to Washington through ordinary means of transport it would be another twenty-four hours before he could realistically start to search and the trail would be cold by then. Hawke might find him but it would probably be too late.

Angelina.

His heart ached and for a moment he rubbed his chest as though he could physically reach it before he realised with a start that the ache was emotional. He loved his golden-haired daughter more fiercely than he had ever imagined. She was so bright and loving. Remarkably well adjusted given all she had been through. He had wanted to see her graduate high school, and college. She would be a stunning woman and although he couldn't fathom letting her date and go out with boys, he could already see how beautiful she would look on her wedding day. He blinked the tears out of his eye.

Weddings, he thought tiredly. He had been thinking about asking Marella to marry him. He hoped she was OK. They had talked about the likelihood of one of them dying when they had all thought Caitlin was dead for a brief time, when Hawke had lain seriously injured. Both times it had prompted a frank discussion between Michael and Marella about their own mortality. They had both been in the business a long time, both had suffered brushes with death and both knew it was more than likely that one of them would die in the line of duty. They had both accepted the risk but a rational discussion when they were both safe and well was one thing, Michael mused, the reality would be another.

Still, he thought, if he had to die he knew Hawke and Caitlin would be there to support Marella and get her through her grief, that they would take care of his daughter, become loving parents to her in the same way they were with their own child. He couldn't ask for better friends. More than friends, Michael acknowledged, more like family. He wondered if Hawke would be shocked to know Michael considered the younger man as a brother, how he slightly resented Saint John for returning.

His eye closed. Maybe he should sleep, conserve his strength for what was to come. Yes, he thought tiredly, if he had to die, he was content; Angelina and Marella would be safe. Hawke wouldn't fail him; he could always count on the pilot.

'You see that's the problem with you spies. You give up too easy.'

Michael's eye snapped open at the gruff voice and his head turned sharply to stare at the far corner of the room.

Dominic Santini grinned back at him. 'Hello Michael.'