Title: Shall We Play A Game?

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: remains in effect

My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.

A/N: The geography of L.A. is a mixture of truth and fantasy.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine: Tightening the Net

Richie Santos grunted under his breath. "Huh," he pondered. "This never came up at the academy – how do we pull over someone who is behind us?"

Reese hit the turn signal, preparing to pull into the Westlake/MacArthur Park Metro station. "We don't," he informed his enthusiastic rookie.

Santos' disappointment was palpable, so all-consuming that he did not even edit his conversation. "You're scared, again," he accused. He heard the words come out of his mouth and winced, waiting to be shot.

Reese had nosed into a vacant space in the lot and was throwing the vehicle into 'reverse', intending to back out again and re-enter street traffic. He shot a dark scowl at Santos and growled indiscriminately. "That's a pretty mouth ya got on ya there, boy." Santos swallowed and wished that he could look away, but his partner's resonating anger was akin to a nasty automobile accident – he found that he just had to look. Reese rolled his shoulders and kept scowling. "We got probable for a traffic stop anytime. I just want to get behind him and observe for a while." His lips parted to reveal either an evil grin – or a grimace – as he eased back onto the road. "Observation, Rook – brand-spankin' new police technique."

Santos wisely kept his mouth shut and finally tore his eyes away from Reese. He looked out the front windshield just in time to see the van signal and pull over to the curb, almost a block past the Metro station. Santos groaned. "Do ya think he made us?"

Reese let loose an aggrieved sigh. "Gee, I don't know, kid. I mean, what are the odds he made us for cops? Two uniformed officers in a patrol car should be fairly difficult to spot."

Santos was starting to wish Reese had just continued to coast until his retirement. "So what are we gonna do?"

The T.O.'s eyes darted to the van as they passed. When it had been in the rear-view mirror, there was only a driver to spot. Now that it was stopped, he caught a glimpse of a woman crawling into the passenger seat from the open cargo area. He quickly redirected his eyes to the road, and spoke tersely. "Langer's deli is coming up. I'll double-park and let you out. Run inside and get us a couple of coffees – maybe some Pastrami on rye. If they're watching us, they'll think we're 10-7 and can't find a parking space. I'll circle around again and pick you up."

Richie was pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. He felt the heat of embarrassment flush his face and turned his head toward the passenger-side window. "Uh…" he stammered, "um…I'm a little strapped until pay day…"

"Oh, for the love of…" Reese started to slow down, and engaged the emergency blinkers. "Glove compartment. Wallet. Take it and go. And I want a receipt!"

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The daycare center director was long-gone, as were all the children. When they had talked to parents the night before, the team had decided not to let anyone in after 11 a.m. Even if Planet Green was watching, the lack of activity shouldn't send up any alarms. Daycare centers had state-enforced limits as to how many children they could serve at any one time. With any luck, PG operatives would just assume the center was full for the day.

Don stood in the tiny kitchenette and grinned, looking out the window at the front playground. Some poor schmuck from LAPD had spent the entire morning digging a gigantic hole as near the entrance as they dared, ferrying the dirt in his backhoe shovel to the other side of the playground, where he was building a mountain. Don supposed, if things went well today, the Y would actually come out of this a winner – the feds and the city would both pitch in to repair the playground, and the center would probably end up with some sweet, state-of-the-art equipment.

He checked his watch again as he exited the kitchenette and headed for the back classrooms, to make sure the troops back there were still awake. As he passed through the playroom, though, he ran into Colby coming from the other direction. "Did you check on our army? They need anything?"

Colby nodded. "Yeah – a few chess lessons from Charlie." He grinned. "Honest-to-God, Eppes, even I could wipe the floor with those guys."

Don felt the sting of remorse and frowned slightly. "He tried to call me this morning, but we were busy with all the kids arriving and I couldn't take the call. I called him back about an hour ago, and they said he was having some kind of respiratory therapy session. I wish I could have talked to him."

Colby tried to reassure his Team Leader. "You can talk to him this afternoon, when it's all over but the paperwork – which is never over." He indicated the bandage on Don's forearm. "There's less red creeping out from under the edges, today. Maybe they'll even let you see him."

Don looked at him hopefully. "Yeah, maybe. If I could see him, I could tell whether or not he's been holding out on me about this baby."

Colby shrugged and grinned. "I don't think he knows. I talked to Dave earlier, and he went up to see Charlie while Ian was having tests. Charlie was all concerned because Amita was 'still sick'. Apparently Dad even hung up on Charlie to go and help her; Alan's had his hands full of morning sickness."

Don grimaced. "Nice picture, Granger."

Colby snorted and then tilted his head. He looked thoughtfully at Don. "David said Charlie was really good with him – he didn't even know the details, but he seemed to know just what to say to make him feel better."

Don smiled. "Good for him. David's okay, then?"

"I think so," Colby mused, still thoughtful. "I mean, it's making him crazy to be on the bench while this is going down…"

Don suddenly interrupted. "Where's Warner?"

Colby flushed a deep red and let his gaze drop to his feet. "Dunno," he lied. "Maybe in the ladies' room."

Don suppressed a grin and spoke seriously to Granger. "Look, whatever you two got going is cool with me – but it's after 1 o' clock now, and we've all got to step it up a notch. Everybody's got to be on the alert – no distractions. Should I be sorry I requested her help?"

Colby looked up and met his gaze, all seriousness himself, now. "No, sir," he promised. "We're ready. I'm ready."

Don allowed a small smile as he reached out to clasp Colby's shoulder. "Countin' on that, Granger. Countin' on that."

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Charlie was back in bed by the time Assistant Director Wright stopped by the room to collect Sinclair and wish Charlie well. "Edgarton should be up here soon," he informed them. "The doctors have decided against an emergency laparotomy."

"That's good," breathed Charlie. He searched Wright's face. "Isn't it?"

A.D. Wright nodded briefly. "There are several lacerations to the soft tissue of the abdomen, but apparently she managed to hit something vital only once. There is mild penetrating renal trauma."

Charlie paled and glanced at David. "His kidney?"

Again Wright nodded his affirmation. "The doctors assure me that it sounds worse than it is. Over 85 percent of such injuries are treated successfully without surgical intervention." He actually cracked a smile – albeit a brief one. "There were some seven-syllable words involved, but the gist of it is that something intrinsic to the kidney actually promotes tamponade, or clotting. The hope is that the laceration will cease bleeding on its own."

Charlie sagged a little on his pillow and closed his eyes tiredly. "I hate that word," he pouted. "I never want to hear 'tamponade' again."

Sinclair chuckled. "In this case, it sounds like a good thing, Charlie. Although after the few days you've had, I can't say that I blame you."

Wright checked his watch and addressed Charlie again. "Agent Sinclair and I need to return to headquarters to keep an eye on this afternoon's events," he apologized, "but first – I understand that congratulations are in order!"

David had a sudden coughing fit that forced him to grab the A.D.'s forearm – tightly – and Charlie squinted, confused, in their direction. "Congratulations?" he repeated.

Wright was beginning to fear that the circulation was being cut off to his hand; and it was his gun-hand. He had not risen to his position in life by being a fool, however, and he covered himself gracefully. "I hear the new antibiotic cocktail has worked wonders in your condition."

Charlie's eyes drooped again, despite his desire to stay awake until Ian arrived. He yawned. "I'm glad. No-one can come to see me, so I'm going to have to be released and go home to see them." The speech exhausted him, and even as his audience laughed politely, Charlie drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke some time later, David and Wright were gone – and Ian was lying in a bed on the other side of the room. A unit of blood was dripping into one arm, and an IV was connected to the other. The sniper appeared to be awake, blinking at the ceiling. Charlie called to him softly. "Ian?"

Edgarton turned an angry face toward him. "It's about damn time, Eppes. I want a nurse, or one of those volunteers, or something."

Concerned, Charlie tried to rise even further from his 30-degree angle. "Are you all-right?"

Ian nodded once. "Of course. Stupid doctors won't let me get up, or I'd just go down and find one myself."

Charlie felt like he'd woken up in the middle of a conversation. "Get what?" he asked, somewhat tentatively.

Ian raised one hand and regarded the IV line leading into the back. "A damn chess set," he huffed. "I haven't had a good game of chess in months." He looked at Charlie's startled face and grinned. "I was pretty good in college."

Charlie fumbled for the call light and pushed the button for the nurse. "I'll have her get me up again, and sit over there," he proposed. "That way you won't have to move while I wipe the floor with you."

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As Officer Reese turned the corner onto the street that would lead him by the van again, he saw the passenger door open. The woman – followed by a man who was not the driver – climbed out. The man was tugging at his hair – which, Reese noticed as he drove by the van, was moving.

He stopped for Santos and cruised around the block yet again, this time entering the parking lot of the Westlake/MacArthur Park Metro station from the other side. He parked so that he could just barely see the van; Santos could see only the corner of the building. Reese accepted a cup of coffee and idly fingered the receipt that Richie had shoved at him first. "Why would a man's hair move?" he asked his rookie.

Santos had long-ago decided that Reese should have retired a long time ago, but played along anyway. "Windy," he guessed.

Reese shook his head. "Not that kind of movement. The entire head of hair…shifted…" He glanced at Santos and smiled over his coffee cup. "Ex-wife Number Three," he announced.

Richie sipped at his own coffee, waiting.

The T.O. enlightened his young partner. "She had that female baldness thing…Al…Ally…Alopecia! Yeah, Alopecia. She wore a wig for years."

Santos ventured an opinion. "That must have been difficult for both of you."

"Don't be an idiot!" Reese responded, thrusting his coffee cup back towards Santos and rotating the cruiser's dash-mounted computer to more-fully face him. "Why would a man wear a wig? It's all the rage to be a bald man, these days." He started calling up the day's BOLO reports.

Santos carefully set both cups on the floorboard, then straightened to look at Reese with barely-concealed excitement. "He's wearing a wig, and he and the woman rode in the back like so much cargo, where they wouldn't be spotted!"

Reese found what he was looking for and leaned toward his window to check out the van again. After a few seconds, he leaned back. "They've got the back doors open now. All three of them are sitting on the ledge, like they're waiting for something."

"Or someone," Santos supplied.

Reese lowered the driver's window and stuck his head out. Santos had counted to a slow '10' before his T.O. pulled himself back into the unit. Reese looked again at the computer screen. "I'm not sure about the driver," he said, "but the other two…I think we should call for back-up. Plain clothes."

Richie's mouth dropped open in surprise. "What? Why? It's a 503! Since when do we need back-up on a Grand Theft Auto?"

Reese waited for Santos to run down and then rotated the computer so that his rookie could see the screen. "Since the perps are most likely Planet Green," he answered mildly. Santos gaped at the photos until Reese nudged him with an elbow. "Shut your mouth, boy. And give me my coffee."

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It had taken several hours, but Amita was feeling much better. Alan, bless his heart, was making her crazy with his hovering, and offers of tea and crackers. Charlie was always complaining that he couldn't even enjoy a decent cold if his father was anywhere in the state, and Amita had always found that funny, before. Now, she was starting to think that it could be a very, very, very long pregnancy.

She began to insist that she at least go to CalSci for her afternoon classes, but Alan was ready for her. Millie and Larry were handling things for a few days, he pointed out. Amita got a little testy. "Alan, I appreciate your concern – but I cannot just not work until the baby is born."

The eldest Eppes had looked slightly guilty as he said, "Of course not!" – which led Amita to believe that he was hoping for exactly that. As her face darkened, Alan searched for the holy grail. "I just think you should take it easy when you can! Millie and Larry have already made arrangements for today's classes."

"I could work in my office," she countered.

Alan dangled a bit of bait. "I'm going to the doctor this afternoon for another blood draw, to check my white blood cell count. You could go with me, and while we're downtown, we could hit some of those eclectic little shops. You might find something perfect to give Charlie with his Father's Day Card!"

Amita felt herself wavering, and hated herself for it. "You are not playing fairly," she accused.

Alan smiled. "Whoever told you that I did?" he teased.

Little more than an hour later, she was the one trying to cheer him up; the blood test had shown that his WBC count was still too high to allow Alan to visit Charlie. Amita convinced him that exercise was good for a pregnant woman, and would strengthen his own immune system as well – so they left the car in a parking garage and walked from store to store. Alan carried a small bag containing two pair of baby booties – one pink, and one blue – when he remembered one more children's store in the downtown area that he would like to show Amita.

She agreed readily, thoroughly enjoying herself by now. Her only regret, as she smiled at the young couple heading into the downtown Y's daycare center, was that Charlie wasn't with her.

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A/N: Oh, no! Cracker and Dawn are on their way to blow up not only Don, Colby and Liz; but now Amita and Alan as well! Charlie is at the mercy of Sniper Chess, and Santos may get a promotion! As for those of you who want this story to end – trust me, so does Serialgal, who patiently awaits my return to the Rabid Raccoons production currently de-railed because of this unending monster.