ATF Windbreaker fluttering with appropriate menace, Chris wished the main foyer of the Denver FBI headquarters had doors that he could slam open for adequate gravitas (there was something about making the panes of glass rattle in their frames), but had to be satisfied with the 'whoosh' of the electronic sliding doors parting way before him.

The immediate three-foot radius surrounding him dropped a solid 10 degrees as he stalked toward the leftmost corridor, and Chris would have been hard-pressed to stifle his amusement if it weren't for the anger and concern that fought for dominance beneath his skin.

Although, the intern stepping out of one of the nearby offices stumbling backward and overturning a trash bin, and the young woman to their right upending the cup of coffee she was carrying in her haste to get out of his way did wonders to soothe his ire.

All idle chatter and movement slowed as people backed out of the way of the oncoming storm that was the ATF Leader on the warpath.

He still had it.

Catching sight of their reflection in a tinted glass wall of an office as they passed, Chris suddenly didn't find all the tripping and stumbling to get out of their way to be that much of an over-reaction. With Josiah and JD slightly behind him, positioned at each shoulder, they made for very odd bookends, but the steely darkness on both faces leached any humor from the sight as they matched Chris's pace.

Chris could feel the same thunder rumbling beneath his own stormy exterior, and didn't blame the underlings and government minions for side-stepping something that was obviously well above their pay-packet.

A quick flash of his badge subdued the uncomfortable security guards and he lead the way into the interior FBI lobby, storming passed the frazzled looking receptionist without so much as a glance, ignoring the click of her heels on tile, and the high pitched demands for them to stop.

The firstmost door had the word 'DIRECTOR' emblazoned in a bold golden script and Chris didn't bother to knock, shoving the door open, allowing it to ricochet off the wall behind.

The portly gentleman in his off-the-rack suit shot to his feet behind his desk, bluster already visible as his walrus mustache bristled beneath his affronted snort, "What is the meaning of-"

Chris cut him off, pulling his voice down to a quiet steady rumble, despite the underlying steel, "Larabee, ATF. I want my men behind be within one minute, and the puffed-up shirt who's responsible for this mess front and center in two."

The Feeb, seemingly the FBI's version of Orrin Travis, for lack of a better comparison (wanting though it was), coughed awkwardly and made a weak attempt at charming Chris into a more agreeable frame of mind, "Oh, absolutely, Agent Larabee. Director John Grift, it's a pleasure- Your men are just fine. I've yet to debrief our agents, but I assure you-"

Chris, adept (sort-of) at handling Ezra Standish at his most placating and effusively charming, immediately dismissed the weak attempt at misdirection, interrupting, "Grift, I don't want your assurances, I want my men. Then I want some damn sensibility to explain what the hell happened today-"

"I'll tell you what happened today, you assholes cost us the collar of half the biggest damn crime family in Denver!- " The disembodied voice echoed in from the hall and Chris smiled, all shark-teeth and drawn back lips.

Just the person he was looking for.

Tipping his imaginary hat to the rather flummoxed looking Director, Chris left the office, watching as JD politely pulled the door closed behind himself.

Josiah and JD a bare step behind, Chris turned to find the mouth that owned the snarling voice.

It wasn't difficult; a tall rangy man who face, blotchy with rage, clashed horribly with his shock of carrot orange hair, was storming up the hall towards them. Furious spittle flew as he lit into Chris, coming to stand toe to toe with the ATF agent.

Josiah winced and JD took a subtle step backward.

Chris raised an eyebrow and looked down his nose, despite looking upward across a height difference of several feet, voice quiet and deadly polite as he asked "...And you are?"

He saw no need to introduce himself. If this pretentious jackass didn't know who's face his spittle was flying at, more fool him. And if he did know... well.

Fool.

"...Agent Michaelson." the man answered haltingly, clearly a little thrown by Chris's non-aggressive, yet steady reply, obviously used to people immediately folding beneath the wave of his considerable vitriol.

Chris sighed, allowing just a fraction of the bridled disgust and antipathy for this particular asshole to seep into his voice as he answered, "Well, Agent Michaelson. We gave intercompany notice months ago, as a courtesy, and requested any relating cases either be made known for collaboration of resources, or at least general awareness. What, exactly prompted your 'bust' this afternoon? Because we haven't been made aware of anything even remotely close to evidence enough to warrant an arrest. "

Michaelson started to turn a rather fetching shade of puce as the questions began to flow, and immediately tried to deflect, firing back, "Well, by the same note, what the hell prompted yours! Three years! Three years we've been sitting on Trask, and I'll be dead and buried if you hotshots are going to swoop in and claim credit for three years of undercover work!"

Chris blinked.

He was only vaguely aware of JD wincing loudly, almost comically cartoon-like, as the younger sidled to the left to be concealed partly behind Josiah's ample frame. He could practically see the older suppressing the urge to pray for man's own folly.

Chris fumed; the seething quiet heat of the dormant volcano exploding into an almost speechless fury as he took a half step closer, voice dropping below scathing as he hissed, "This-This was about credit? About who got to wave the flag of glorious victory?! What the hell kind of-"

Michaelson scrambled desperately to regain control of a situation that he didn't seem to realize he'd never possessed in the first place, screeching "It's our bust. I'll damn w-! "

"There was no bust, you idiotic asshole! We had them done to rights on gun traffic-" Chris shouted right back, closing the distance between them as he clenched his fists in a rather reluctant grasp for control, wanting nothing more than to start tearing strips-

But he needed to find out what had actually happened first. And find out where his men were being kept.

Then strip tearing could commence.

Michaelson cut him off, jumping onto that tidbit of information like a gleeful over bloated toad on a rotting insect carcass, practically guffawing with mockery, "Gun trafficking! You were going to take them in on trafficking charges! Damn amateurs! They'd walk this time tomorrow. I don't know what sort of idiots you've got on your team, but we've been working three years and haven't even got enough- "

JD stared at the ceiling, an almost helpless giggle of incredulous humor escaping as Chris felt Josiah tense, and wondered whether he should be concerned that Josiah thought he might be going to have to intervene. Or more worried than Josiah might actually have to intervene.

The nerve. The sheer nerve.

Chris said as much. "Shut. Up. What we had gone far enough up the line to put Damon Trask himself away." He managed to force himself back into that quiet bubbling rage of a definitely not-dormant monster, simply waiting for one more excuse as he explained, "Those idiots? Those idiots put away The Charlton Mob. Brought the whole syndicated brotherhood down. Those idiots achieved more in three weeks than your entire taskforce over three years! Open your mouth about my men again…." Chris left the threat hanging.

Michaelson gave Chris a once over, eyes raking the ATF emblazoned coat, the head-to-toe black ensemble, the close-cut blond hair, the shards of fiery green that glared at him and the gears in his head were damn near visible as he took the puzzle pieces he'd been given and finally bothered to put them together.

And realized he'd well and truly put his foot in it.

Michaelson's awkward cough was music to soothe the beast, as he tried his best to change the subject and move on subtly, "Uh. Well- Regardless, The Trask Family is hip deep in people smuggling, child pornography, black market organ trade-"

Chris, calming almost immediately at the prospect of finally getting somewhere, rather than just locking horns, (also a skill likely attributed to their southern agent) explained somewhat patiently, "What does it matter if it's a paper cut or decapitation, so long as it kills him just as dead! I'm not out for your blood, just Trask's, so stop trying to cover your ass and work with us!"

Michaelson's face slowly regained a little of his previous redness, color returning after his near heart-attack from realizing just who he was attempting to verbally flambe, spoke somewhat hesitantly, "…I'll concede to being a little….hasty. But your men-"

And that there was the point, wasn't it? Exactly what Chris wanted to know. "Good, glad you brought them up. Great. Where the hell are they?" he demanded and made it crystal clear that he'd discuss nothing further until his demand for his team had been answered.

Michealson, seemingly cowed, any previous back-bone disintegrated, nodded as he replied placatingly "They're fine. Real quiet bunch though. If you'll wait in here-" he gestured towards an empty office to his left, continuing, "I'll just go get them-"

"You do that." Chris interrupted the pointless drivel, and Josiah sighed heavenward at his bosses obvious taunting of the other agent. Chris couldn't care less.

Especially not when Michaelson all but pouted, turning away to skulk back down the corridor, disappearing around the corner. Ostensibly to retrieve Chris's missing men.

Besides, JD had snorted in amusement from his other side.

Lounging against the cleared desk in the middle off the otherwise empty, obviously unused office space, Chris glanced at his watch, sighing at the 5:23 am time-stamp.

The paperwork on this one was going to be a bitch. He'd hoped they'd have time to scatter to for showers and a few hours to recharge before meeting back at the office at 8 am. A hope that was looking less and less like it had any chance of being realized. By the time they sorted out this whole snafu with the FBI... god, they hadn't actually arrested his men, had they? That paperwork always sucked.

Chris didn't even know if the bust had been in any way successful. Although just going by Michaelson's piss-poor attitude it seemed highly unlikely. The big fish had probably escaped the sure-hook, yet again.

Chris didn't have the energy to join in JD and Josiah's breakfast oriented conversation. He just wanted sleep.

His men. Then sleep.

Thankfully, the door opening seemed to herald the arrival of the first, Chris standing straight and pulling his 'bad element' mask back into play. For a few more minutes, anyway.

"Report!" he barked, almost before Ezra had stepped into the room, and Chris took a moment to revel in the startled eyes that swept up to meet his. It was a rare day indeed when his acting fooled even Agent Standish-

He didn't want any rumors surfacing of a gentled demeanor, even towards his own men. Protective? Hell yes. Soft? Not in this lifetime. He had a reputation to maintain.

The 'Fussin' and bother'n' could come later. Damn Texan.

Nathan stepped into the room behind the undercover-operative, and Chris blinked, somewhat perplexed. Why was the medic maintaining his cover? The deep-set eyes dim with little spark of life or passion, intelligence barely registering-

He'd have his reasons, Chris was sure- and he wasn't about to call on them in front of the very people Nathan was holding cover before.

And then he saw Buck.

And just Buck.

Bucklin, whom Chris had known for what felt like longer than forever. Knew better than he knew himself in some ways.

Buck, who looked a raw word away from crumbling where he stood. Sickly grey pallor to his skin, eyes red-rimmed and sunken. The hand he brought up to cover his mouth as he met Chris's eyes, trembled.

And suddenly Nathan's hooded eyes were Nathans own, but not as Chris had ever seen them; darkened with grief and heartache.

And Ezra's startled glance grew to be a look dragged from blankness, inner turmoil and guilt shattered momentarily by a familiar unexpected voice.

They all looked wrecked.

And no one else was coming through the door.

At least, no one who mattered.

Just Michaelson.

Nathan stumbled, JD and Josiah moving before Chris registered himself rounding on Michealson, all semblance of reason and calm lost as he deliberately ignored what three faces are telling him. What the suspicious fourth absence must mean.

"Wh…where is he?! Where- " Chris couldn't stop himself shoving passed Michaelson to step into the hallway as if expecting to find Vin camped out in the corridor, long legs crossed at the ankle, hat drawn down over his eyes. He'd lift the damn thing, eye Chris innocently and mutter, "Howdy, Cowboy. All this damn beurocratin's givin' me a headache- "

"W-who?" Michaelson questioned, stepping into the empty hallway in Chris's wake, voice thoroughly bamboozled.

Chris couldn't say it.

From behind them, Ezra tried to say something but his usually perfect eloquence was beyond unintelligible, so choked with raw bleeding emotion as to be physically painful.

"Vin... Vin. " And that was Buck, just that one word, choked and forced by the sheer power of having experienced such grief before.

It was all in that one word, the loss, the fury, the grief, and disbelief. The agony.

Vin was gone.

And for the second time in his life, Chris felt his world drop away beneath him, reason and rationality crumbling to dust around him-

Then he forcefully shoved it back. Past the best friend. Beneath the younger brother. Beyond the soul that mirrored his own.

Vin Tanner wasn't a terrified mother. Or a helpless child.

Vin Tanner was a highly trained, incredibly resourceful and extremely lucky ATF agent.

Vin wasn't gone.
Wasn't dead.

Chris knew. Would know.

****************************************
The drive back to the warehouse was a hazy fogged mess that Chris would never remember in its entirety, just vague recollections.

Of confirming that the area was an active crime scene under the FBI's jurisdiction. That there had been three FBI agents injured in the firefight, but no fatalities so far. Chris had confirmed their identities. Only two of the mob underlings had been secured in the ensuing chaos. Chris had confirmed their identities. Onsk and his remaining men had fled, and they'd carried out most of their injured and dead, leaving only one downed mob member in the warehouse. Chris had confirmed his identity.

None of them had been Vin.

He'd recall JD refusing to allow anyone else behind the wheel- stating with such confidence that he was fine, that Vin was fine, that they'd all be fine that Chris let him. His own hands too clammy to hold the wheel steady anyway.

Ezra growing steadily paler each mile closer to the site, of finally accepting the paper bag that Nathan dragged from the box beneath the seat, violently expelling the contents of his stomach. It didn't help his pallor any.

Nathan, it seemed, allowing his ability to assist the others to consume his every other emotion, finding solace in thinking only of what he could do to help, instead of his actual helplessness.

Josiah praying. Eyes closed, fervent murmuring interspersed with apologies and promises and pleading. Chris desperately lent his own non-believing heart to the hope that someone was listening.

And coaxing, forcing, begging Buck to walk him through those last few unknown moments from within the warehouse.

"Tell Me" -

"We were all in place- Vin was smarting off about his harness, so I know he had it on…Ez was just starting his spiel and then the feebs showed up and it all went to hell. Vin was covering us. If he hadn't been up there..."

"Buck."

"-We made it out the side door. He was headed towards the attic window. An exit point, I think. I thought we were home and hosed. I looked back..…"

"Buck."

"They shot him down."

"…."

"He fell…"

"…Was he alive?"

"…"

"Buck. Was. He. Alive?"

"I – I really don't know."

Chris was grasping that 'I don't know' with every ounce of his strength.
'I don't know' meant it wasn't no.

They'd stood silently outside the alley entrance of the warehouse for much longer than was explainable as anything other than cowardice; the unknown more comforting than the fear of what they might find inside.

Eventually though, as sunlight began to peak over the warehouse roof, Chris had shoved aside the crime-scene tape and pushed the door open, the rusted hinges creaking and groaning in protest. One by one, they filed in.

The cavernous interior space was poorly lit during the daylight hours, the filthy skylights overhead letting in only the most persistent reaches of the sun, but didn't require the night vision equipment of the evening before.

Gloomy light setting the scene, Chris forced himself to look around, to take in the space with an investigators eye.

Interspersed with the yellow and black boldness of the crime scene markers and tape lines, overturned boxes and broken pallets dotted the floor space, and thin beams of light drilled in through eastward facing holes-

Bullet holes. Bullet holes shredded everything; the walls, remnants of towering piles of decrepit cardboard boxes and even (worryingly) the roof and skylights above.

The floor was pockmarked by gunpowder residue, more bullet furrows, and scuff marks.

Most alarmingly though, were the glossy pools of maroon wetness, staining the floors and spraying the walls, all helpfully marked by the FBI investigators numbered markers.

And lit by the wide beam of warm golden light shining strongly through the only missing skylight was the length of triple-coil nylon freefall cording, with its black harness still attached by blackened carabiners.

Swaying gently a few feet over a horrifyingly large pool of ruby-red blood.

Empty.