Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting, Kathy Riechs, and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.

Chapter 6

They drove in silence for a long time. Dr. Brennan sat staring out the passenger side window, not really seeing the scenery as it flashed by. She was fairly sure the Deputy Director of the FBI did not like her. Their professional relationship had improved, somewhat, after she had helped in a case involving his daughter. She knew at least that he respected her in her field; but he believed- somewhat strongly, she thought- that "squints" belonged in the lab, not in the field. Was he right? she mused. It was her fault one of his best agents was being held hostage by a murderous drug lord. Does he blame me? She blamed herself. She had not been "in the field" when she was abducted, she was going to karate class. She was sure that McGregor didn't know that she and Booth were even partners, but the fact remained that he had taken her place.

"You feel guilty."

She was broken out of her silent reverie when he spoke. It was not a question. She turned from the window to look at him, with a cool calculating expression on her face. What is it with FBI guys and psychology? she wondered. It's like they are all mind readers.

She made no response, so the Deputy Director continued, "He didn't do it just because you're his partner; he would have tried to help whoever they had. That is just the kind of person he is."

"He's a good man," she replied.

Director Cullen was a man of few words and she knew he was trying to make her feel better. She appreciated the gesture, but she did not want to have this conversation again.

She turned back towards the window, not seeing the road fly by. He was somewhere, probably being tortured right now, because of her and nothing anyone could say would change that.

"He's a good man, a good agent, and he is a lucky man." Cullen stated, not looking at her but focusing on the road.

She turned again towards him, a little confused by what he had just said.

"If anyone has a chance of finding him, Dr. Brennan, it is you and your team" he stated, glancing her way.

She gave him a small smile, and looked down at her hands. "You have a lot of confidence in us," she said, turning to stare out the window again.

"I have seen what you are capable of," he replied. "Booth has absolute faith in you. He believes there's nothing you can't do."

"Did he tell you that?" she asked, looking up at him again.

He just smiled at her. "He's a good man," he repeated, turning back to the road.

--

Brennan was hot, cramped and somewhat stiff from sitting all day. Across from her, behind the wheel sat Deputy Director Cullen, a radio in his lap and his cell phone to his ear. They were sitting in a sporty-looking SUV with dark tinting, parked at a busy dock near Cleveland. Across her lap were several maps of the lake and surrounding areas with lines and writing strewn across them.

She and Cullen made up the Incident Command or IC, as the Agents addressed them over the radio. There were thirty or so Agents working in groups of twos and threes, dressed as happy lake goers on ski boats, houseboats, fishing boats, and even a few on Jet Skis, as well as a couple on the Lake Patrol boats, slowly making their rounds. All of these Agents were inconspicuously calling in boat registrations, looking for a boat that could be connected to any of the suspects in this case.

They had arrived just after noon and had spent a frustrating afternoon waiting. She had never been very good at the whole stakeout thing, and this one had been very long. Cullen had informed her that because McGregor or his accomplices might recognize her, she would not be allowed to help in the search. While his reasoning was valid, she suspected he didn't plan on letting her out of his sight. She hated sitting around and doing nothing.

"Okay, thanks," he said, snapping his phone shut. "You were right," he remarked, turning towards her, "Augustine Duarte was married to Jonathan Creavor. Both died in a car accident in 1970, leaving their three year old son to her sister, Marissa, who was married to Hector McGregor."

"They had a son, Alex McGregor," Brennan finished for him. "So they are cousins, McGregor and Creavor, raised as brothers. That explains why McGregor is trying so hard to get him back. It's a family business."

"Team Leader 6 to IC," the radio chirped.

"IC, go ahead," replied Cullen, raising the radio to his mouth.

"F-11 cleared, moving to F-12."

"Copy that, Team Leader 6," said Cullen, lowering the radio back to his lap.

The frequency they were using had a scrambler, so if anyone else was listening, they would not be able to understand them.

Brennan picked up her pencil and marked off another quadrant on the map. The teams were tediously making their way through the lake, targeting any boat with sleeping quarters. They had been at this for six hours and the waiting was making her agitated. She understood the logical reasoning and methodical approach to searching such a large area for a boat, which they didn't even know what looked like, but she was frustrated by her own uselessness.

"Team Leader 10, IC," the radio sounded again.

"IC, go ahead," Cullen replied, reaching for his pen.

"Sir, we found it-- a 24-foot houseboat, registered to Michael Creavor, out of Detroit, near the Sheldon Marsh Nature Preserve."

"Copy that, Team Leader 10, IC is moving toward your location," he said, dropping the radio and starting the vehicle. He turned to Brennan.

"They are in Quadrant J-23," she said, folding one map and reaching for another. "It is near the east side of the Sandusky Bay area."

Finally, they found it, she thought, but the hardest part of the day isn't over yet.

--

Booth slowly opened his eyes, returning to consciousness. Closing them again, he lay perfectly still, trying to recall the last torture session, which had rendered him unconscious. His mind was fuzzy on details at the moment, so he concentrated instead on his body, trying to separate new pains from earlier injuries. A sharp kick to his stomach interrupted his thoughts, knocking the air out of him. He could hear the footsteps of his assailant and captor, reverberating in the floorboard next to his ear, as the man walked towards the back of the room.

Waiting for his breath to return and the pain to ease, he tried to remain still. Suddenly, he was grabbed by a strong pair of hands and hauled upright, then slammed back into the chair he had been tied to earlier. Pain shot across his back from the gashes left there by the split bamboo cane they had beaten him with. He let out an audible gasp and the man securing his hand behind the chair laughed.

"This is a tough one," Harold said, finishing with the ropes. "No screaming like most of 'em do."

He slapped Booth across the back of the head. "You're brave, G-man, but I bet we can make you scream before it's over, even beg. Or are you too proud for that?" He laughed again, "We'll see…"

Booth made no reply to the taunting. He just looked straight ahead, not making eye contact.

"I'm gonna get some dinner. Ron, you want me to bring ya anything?" he asked, turning away from Booth.

"No, I'm fine," came the reply from the man at the back of the room.

"Come on then, when is the last time you ate something, Ronny?" the man inquired, walking towards the door.

"I've already told you I'm fine," the man retorted, anger coloring his voice, "Go eat your supper, and leave me be."

"You're doing it again, aren't you," the man questioned, stopping near the door.

"Mind your own business," Ron snapped back.

"But you know the boss doesn't like us using, not while we're on guard duty," continued the man, mild warning in his tone.

"Get out!" snarled Ron, taking a step towards the man in the door way. "Or I'll do to you what I did to him," he hissed, gesturing towards Booth. "And don't come back to bother me until it's your turn to take over."

Booth heard the cabin door shut abruptly. Gaining control of his breathing somewhat, he tried to concentrate, listening to what the man at the back of the room was doing. It sounded like he was assembling something at the counter along the far wall. He heard the strike of a match and then smelled the smoke after it was blown out. The man had lit a candle? Booth wondered idly. Then Booth noticed that the rope securing his hands was looser than normal. Slowly, he started moving his hands, trying to free them. He didn't want to gain the attention of the man behind him.

While he silently worked on the rope, Booth let his eyes wander around the cabin, taking stock of where he was. He sat in a chair in the middle of the room. It seemed to be used mostly for storage and supplies, when they didn't have someone to torture. There were gas cans and ropes, boat wax, unmarked cardboard boxes, what looked like a tackle box, and a propane bottle for a small grill. To his left he could see fishing poles, more rope, a bucket of various cleaning supplies and several bottles of two-stroke oil. To his right there was a window looking out over the water. It was slowly turning to evening, but in Ohio in the summer he knew the sun would not set until almost nine. Judging by the angle of the light outside, he guessed it was close to six or seven, giving them only two or three hours until dark. Guard change would not be until midnight and, given the conversation between the two men that just took place, it was likely no one else would come to disturb them until then. That might just give him his chance to escape, if he could just get the ropes off his hands.

--

Cullen stopped the vehicle as they approached the edge of the lake, staying out of direct sight of the water. Through the trees he could see a large houseboat anchored off the shore.

"This is it," he said, as he opened his door and stepped out. Brennan followed suit, stretching. It felt good to finally be out of the car. Another vehicle pulled up behind them and five Agents, belonging to the tactical dive team, filed out, coming to join them. Brennan handed Cullen the map and he spread it on the hood of the car.

"Team Leader 10 and six agents are in position here," he said, pointing to the map. "Team Leader 6 and the two agents with him are on a patrol boat, making its way up along here," he said, gesturing again. "The sun won't set for an hour or so. That gives you plenty of time to get suited up and in position. We are waiting until dusk, then you go in."

The agents nodded and returned to their vehicle, pulling out bags and diving gear.

"I want to go with them," said Brennan.

"Not a chance," replied Cullen, without even looking at her.

"Sir, I can-" she began.

"NO," he said, still not looking up from the map.

"Director Cullen," she began again.

"Dr. Brennan," he interrupted, finally looking at her, "you are not a certified diver, you are not trained in hostage negotiations, or tactical entry and you are not going anywhere until that boat is secured. Any questions?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Giving him a hard look, she turned, without a word, to look at the lake visible through the trees. The planning continued behind her, agents suiting up and going over positioning and entry strategy. Brennan stepped closer to the trees getting a better view of the lake. Maybe half a mile from where she stood was a large two-storey houseboat. It was anchored kind of diagonally from where she stood, giving her a very good view of the bow and starboard side of the boat. Off the port side, maybe 400 yards back, was a small outcropping of land, which gave the boat some degree of seclusion from the rest of the lake. A movement caught her eye, someone came out onto the deck and walked towards the bow looking down at the water then turned and headed down the port side of the boat, still staring at the water as he went.

"That's him," she said quietly turning back to the others. "That's McGregor."

Cullen came quickly to her side, binoculars in hand. "How can you tell at this distance?" he asked, raising the binoculars to his eyes.

"I can tell by the way he walks," she replied, "he has a slight limp on his left side, probably due to a knee injury.

Cullen slowly lowered the glasses, giving her an odd look before raising them back to his eyes once more.

"I would guess high school football," she added, still watching as the small figure moved out of sight.

"We have our target," Cullen announced, looking at the assembled diving team standing around them. "Agent Nicolls," he added, addressing the Dive Team leader, "you'll take your team--"

KABOOM!

For the length of two heartbeats everyone froze, all eyes were fixed on the boat as a large ball of fire shot out the back of the cabin, engulfing the rear of the boat in flames and leaving the it rocking in the water.

"Team Leader 10, Team Leader 6 we have an explosion near the rear of the boat. Go! Go!"

Brennan could hear Cullen giving orders into his radio behind her, but his words were garbled to her. Her mind switched to autopilot, reasoning, trying to determine the most likely place to keep a hostage on a boat like this, the size of the explosion, the survival odds for someone next to it, in the same room, on that half of the boat…

"And Dr. Brennan, where do you think you're going?"

His voice pulled her out of her mental calculations. She was unaware that she had moved several paces towards the shore. She turned back towards him a glazed, stunned look in her eyes, but when she spoke her voice was firm, businesslike. "There'll be bodies to be identified," she said, "I'll need my bag."

He appraised her for a moment. Was it relief she saw flit across his face?

"Team Leader 7 will be at the shore in ten minutes to pick us up," he said, as she retrieved her bag from the car. "Let's go."

To Be Continued...