The first thing Michael noticed when he came to was the pounding headache he had above his good eye. His hand went automatically to his head without thought which he figured was a good thing because actual thought would have made the headache worse. He groaned and rolled over into a sitting position. His glasses were missing and he worriedly checked to ensure the eye-patch was in place and gave a sigh of relief to find it intact. He began to do an inventory; himself first. Apparently, they'd removed his glasses, the car key that had been in his pocket and his watch. He smiled ruefully. Locke was no doubt aware that the watch was the most likely location for the tracer. Physically, apart from the headache, he seemed no worse for wear. He eased his shoes off and levered off the heels revealing the two syringes and serum vials he had secreted there. He took them out and hid them in his pillow within easy reach. He replaced the heels and put his shoes back on before sitting back.

So where was he? The room was small, little more than a cell. The only window to his left had metal bars that criss-crossed it. There was a sturdy lock on the door. He was sitting on a metal cot with a thin mattress; there was a second cot across the room. Both had a blanket neatly folded at one end, a thin pillow at the other. There was a sink on the opposite wall by the window; a bucket beneath it; obviously his captors had no intention of letting him out for toilet breaks. They were the only objects in the room and he was the only person; no Saint John. He didn't know if that was good news or bad news.

'Bad news.'

Michael's head jerked up. The late Dominic Santini sat on the cot opposite him. He looked very much like he had done in life; same blue shiny jacket, same plain shirt and brown pants, same gap-toothed smile and wispy grey hair. He looked remarkably relaxed; he was sat so his back was flush with the wall, legs crossed at the ankle dangling a foot off the floor, hands folded over his substantial belly. It wasn't the first time Dom's ghost had appeared to him. The first time Michael had thought he was hallucinating, had almost convinced himself when it had happened a second time. A large part of Michael hoped Dom would stop haunting him one day; a larger part of him that he would never admit to hoped Dom never would.

'Well, if you're here, I must be in trouble.' Michael commented dryly.

Dom nodded. ''Fraid so.' He said cheerfully.

'You don't need to sound so pleased about it.' Michael said.

'You've done a brave thing.' Dom said sobering. His dark eyes caught Michael. 'I appreciate you trying to help Saint John like this.'

'I'd agree with you except the plan seems to have back-fired.' Michael said. 'I seem to be alone.' He waved at Dom. 'Apart from you.'

'He's here.' Dom confirmed.

Michael raised an eyebrow. 'That's a fairly direct answer from you.'

Dom shrugged. 'You'll find out soon enough.'

'I don't suppose you want to tell me whether Locke's really brainwashed or not.' Michael sighed.

'You planning to use that serum stuff on him?' Dom asked. 'The same stuff Cait used on String that time?'

Michael nodded.

'Isn't that just as likely to kill him?' Dom queried seeming surprised.

'We've refined it a great deal since Caitlin had to use it on Hawke.' Michael said. 'It'll only kill Locke if he's not brainwashed when he's injected with it.'

'Ah.' Dom said sagely.

'So is he or isn't he?' Michael asked.

'Is he or isn't he what?' Dom said innocently.

'You can't tell me?' Michael pressed. He caught the flicker of something across Dom's face. 'You don't know!' He said accusingly.

'OK, OK, keep your hair on.' Dom muttered. He sighed heavily. 'Yes, I don't know.'

'That's why you're vague at times isn't it?' Michael shook his head and winced at the jab of pain which reminded him he had a headache. 'It has nothing to do with blurring lines and not being able to tell me; you just don't know.'

'Sometimes that is true.' Dom allowed.

Michael rubbed his head trying to ease the ache there. 'Well, some use you are.'

'How can you not know if Locke is brainwashed?' Dom pointed out. 'I would have thought that was obvious.'

'Not as obvious as you'd think.' Michael muttered.

'Take me through it.' Dom insisted.

'I think there's a good chance Locke thinks he's doing the right thing.' Michael sighed.

'Why would he think that?' Dom asked perplexed.

Michael sat forward and clasped his hands together resting his elbows on his knees. 'We think a man called Matt Sterling is behind the attempts to get Airwolf; is behind this.' He waved a hand vaguely to suggest the situation. 'Locke has a photo of me with Sterling in Washington.'

'You know the guy?' Dom's eyebrows shot up.

'It was one of those social events I was forced into attending.' Michael shot back defensively. ' Sterling's legitimate face is as a man who has lived the American dream; he pulled himself out of the depths of Hell's Kitchen and built himself a business empire. He's well known for his philanthropy and charitable works. What the Washington socialites don't know is that his whole business is built off the back of drug money care of the New York Mafia.'

'So you were pictured with him at some fancy do?' Dom clarified.

'Yes. There must have been a photographer making the rounds.' Michael rubbed his moustache. 'I vaguely remember being introduced to him, making small talk about the charity for a couple of minutes and then we both moved on.'

Dom frowned. 'OK, so why is Locke so worked up about this picture if it was that innocent?'

'Someone's told him I made a deal with Sterling.' Michael said.

'Did you?'

'No!' Michael retorted immediately.

Dom held his hands up in supplication. 'I was only asking. It wouldn't be the first time you've made a deal with the devil for the greater good, Michael.'

'That's true but not on this occasion.' Michael said.

'But Locke might think it is.' Dom said sadly.

Michael spread his hands wide. 'Look at it from his perspective; he's presented with a picture of me talking with Sterling; he knows I wanted control of Airwolf. Why wouldn't I make a deal to undermine his Airwolf team and make my team look good?'

'You would never have agreed to those attacks though.' Dom said firmly. 'You would never have risked revealing the Lair in the first one, or putting Marella and Angelina, not to mention yourself, in danger in the second.'

'Thank you.' Michael said wryly. 'I think.'

Dom harrumphed. 'I guess I could see how someone who doesn't know you as well as I do might think otherwise.'

'Locke might have trapped me for no other reason than to try to get me to confess so he can regain control of Airwolf himself.' Michael said rising to his feet and pacing to the window. He peered through trying to see what was outside. The sight of the ocean stilled him. Wherever they were, they were on the coast.

'Think about this, Michael.' Dom said passionately. 'If it were just you then that might make a lot of sense, but Saint John? Why would Locke grab Saint John if he wasn't brainwashed?'

'I don't know.' Michael admitted as he turned around. He found himself talking to an empty room. Dom had disappeared. 'That's really annoying you know.' He muttered under his breath.

The key grated in the lock and Michael stayed back as the door burst open and two men hauled in an unconscious Saint John. He tried to move to help them lower the pilot gently onto the cot but was pushed back by one of the men. Warned, he didn't make any attempt to approach again until the two men had gone and the door was locked behind them, even then he approached cautiously.

The pilot had been worked over with a ruthless efficiency that had Michael wincing and wondering if the same would happen to him. He took out a linen handkerchief from his jeans pocket and hurriedly wet it under the cold water tap. He dabbed at the blood on Saint John's face before he rinsed the blood-stained cloth out; the water ran red. He lost count of how many times he repeated the exercise before Saint John's face was clean. He placed the wet handkerchief over the most livid of bruises and stepped back. He had done what he could to make the other man comfortable; rolling him into a recovery position, covering him with a blanket. He was certain Saint John had a couple of broken ribs; his left arm looked like a suspected fracture. Michael had made a makeshift sling from a pillow-case to immobilise the arm; there was nothing he could do for the ribs. Worse, there were fresh needle marks on the inside of the unbroken arm; Saint John had been injected with something. Michael briefly speculated on what before he gave up that thread of thought. Hawke's brother hadn't stirred during any of Michael's first aid.

Michael sat back down on his own cot and rubbed his eyes with a hand he was surprised to see was trembling.

'He's not looking so good, is he?' Dom said quietly, appearing by Michael's side.

'No.' Michael answered keeping his voice low. 'No, he's not looking so good.' He was beginning to question whether his original assumption that they would keep them alive to bait a trap for Hawke and Airwolf was right.

'You'll get the two of you out of this, Michael.' Dom assured him seeing the doubt race across Michael's pale features.

The spy turned to his former sparring partner. 'Is that a guarantee, Dom, or something else you don't know for certain?'

Dom remained silent and Michael sighed.

'Yeah,' he said, 'that's what I figured.'