A/N: Um, Happy New Year? It is still the first half of 2008; isn't it? Seriously, thank you for your patience with this story. I had placed it on temporary hiatus while I finished a few other fandom fiction demands. Now that those obligations are out of the way and real life is settling back into some kind of pattern, I can devote the time to getting this story out of my head and into the public eye. So, without further ado…

Chapter Four (T - mild language)

Striking Distance

String entered the darkened kitchen to the Hawke family home and stood quietly in the room. He was facing an uncharacteristic indecision as how to handle the latest turn of events.

As if controlled by a mind of its own or simply a way to fill the void of making a decision, his arm reached for and opened the refrigerator door. His eyes fell on the cut tiramisu cake that was featured prominently in front. Even though he hadn't had more than a bite of his meal with Ashleigh, his stomach turned at the sight of the Italian dessert. He closed the door with more force than necessary.

Trouble. That one word had been flitting through his mind throughout the silent hour car ride back to St. John's. Actually, if he were to evaluate it, that word had been running around his head ever since making the acquaintance of one Ashleigh Francisco. String's fingers curled through his hair in frustration, and he slid into a kitchen chair more tired than he should be.

At times like these, he regretted leaving the hermit lifestyle he had shared with Tet as his only companion. If he had had a choice, he might still be drifting off into the sunsets of Eagle Lake, cello playing to the muses and to the pair of eagles claiming the lake as their own, but the circumstances of his life had never allowed for tranquility. His retirement had ended with the resurrection of his sister.

During String's three-year absence from society, St. John had taken up the mantel as Airwolf's heir. The irony that it was his older brother who became his successor had not escaped String, but his injuries had been so severe that he could never have retained the title. And, he had completed his obligation. St. John, on the other hand, had his own agenda to complete.

The time away had been a blessing. It had given String's body time to heal. He could walk without the assistance of a cane although when he was tired there was a pronounced limp. His range of motion on his left arm held at a steady ninety percent. He was never supposed to be mobile, and he was only expected to regain limited control over his arm, but the doctors knew very little about the man who was Hawke.

As for his psyche, well, he had given up long ago looking for a chance to settle his inner demons. His dreams used to center around St. John and later Gabrielle, but ever since Dom had been murdered, his old mentor had become the one to haunt his nights. And if not Dom, then Caitlin would hold court.

Bringing his attention to the present, String sighed softly and pulled out his cell phone from the front pocket of his Dockers. He didn't even look at the buttons as he rapidly punched a number entrenched in memory. A voice answered on the second ring.

"I need some information," String growled into the phone, needing no pleasantries to preempt the business at hand.

He was quiet as he listened to the reply; a sarcastic smile lit his face. "Yes, I do know what time it is, and I'm good for it. I need everything you've got on a man named Maxwell Pierreponte. Dig deep, at least ten years, maybe further back and find out his connections to Ashleigh Francisco and Rachel Karrison, both with the FBI, Los Angeles Field Office, White Collar."

String jabbed the end button, terminating the connection. Glancing at the screen, he thumbed the controls to enter his phone records and carefully set about destroying any traces of the call he had just made, overwriting with bogus information and deleting that information as well.

The plan of action didn't make him feel any better. He knew he should probably bite the bullet and simply ask his sister, but there was a blurry block of evasiveness on Rachelle's part any time interest shifted to her life prior to being reunited with her family. He didn't think an inquiry from him would come close to penetrating the cloak and dagger mythos that seemed to surround her, and without her assistance, there was little probability that he could help with whatever was brewing. Given her and Ashleigh's, for that matter, reactions to the mere mention of the man's name, String was sure that this storm was one of deadly magnitude.

Knowing that sitting in the kitchen would not aid in the prediction of future events, String got up from his chair and returned to the refrigerator. While the tiramisu still caused his stomach to clench involuntarily, the leftover pasta set in individual covered dishes, presumably for future lunches, did not have such an effect. String warmed a small dish in the microwave and twisted a top off a bottle of beer. Collecting his spoils, he headed into the den where a baseball game was playing on the television.

Jo glanced up as she heard footsteps on the wood floor. Seeing String with food in hand caused a smile to play across her face. "Hungry again?"

String grunted noncommittally and settled into a recliner positioned for optimum television viewing. "What's the score?"

"Two to Four, Dodgers. Kent just hit a homer and ran in Young. Two out; bottom of the seventh," St. John summed up the current game. "We had a bad time in the third. Botched a double play and let the second run score. The Diamondbacks tied up the game, but it looks like things are turning around." String's second grunt caused St. John to give his brother his full attention.

Jo watched the silent interaction between the two siblings. A long time ago, she would have been part of that nonverbal communication. She and the Hawke brothers had once been the three musketeers, but the march of time had ostracized her from that inner sanctum. Still, even with all of the time that had passed, St. John and String still had the uncanny ability to hold conversations with their eyes.

Jo was just about to barge into their exchange, when a roar of an engine and what sounded like multiple gunfire shots pierced the moment. The glass from the front window cracked and shredded into shards as projectiles pummeled the front of the house. Jo dove for cover and shielded her head with her hands to offer some protection from the flying glass.

Then, as soon as it had started, the explosions stopped. Only the sound of a vehicle screeching away from the house and a crowd cheering wildly on television broke the now deafening quiet.

St. John lifted his head cautiously and looked for Jo who was curled tightly into a ball on the floor a few feet away. His fingers gently stroked her shoulder, and his relief was immediate when she uncoiled to look at him. "You okay?"

"I think so," Jo replied, carefully scrambling out from the shelter of the loveseat. "What about you?"

"Fine," answered St. John, looking around at the mess of the den. He caught sight of String pushing his way clear of the overturned recliner. The entire den was littered with debris. First the formal living room and now this, somebody was going to catch hell.

"Shit," String exclaimed, rubbing his left arm noticeably.

When St. John's eyes met String's, he knew that his brother's comment was not in regard to injury.

"Mike and Rae were on the front porch." In less than three strides, String cleared the den wreckage and headed to the front door. St. John and Jo were right behind him.

--

As soon as Mike's shoulder hit the lawn, he rolled across Rachelle to use his body as a shield. Cocooning himself around Rachelle, he balanced on his forearms to keep his full weight from crushing her. Shots grazed the house siding near the exposed foundation, but the angle to the two forms huddled low on the grass was an impossible target to make within the confines of the vehicle. A squeal of tires on warm pavement shattered the odd quiet that occurs as gunfire ceases, and the vehicle and occupants that had shot at them tore off toward the highway.

In the wake of the car's departure, Mike rolled away from Rachelle and crouched down low to run into the street. He was only able to make out the faint red of taillights as the car slowed for a violent left turn onto the street operating perpendicular to the one on which St. John's house faced. His best guess was the car was black or dark blue, possibly green, and that it was more likely an SUV given the height of the hood to the bumper. He had no clue as to the license plate since the lights that illuminate the plate were not working.

With shoulders slumped in dejected frustration, Mike turned to survey the damage inflicted onto St. John's house, but it was what he didn't see that sparked his heart back into an adrenaline-spiked frenzy. The unmoving form of Rachelle remained in the same position on the lawn as when they had first swan dived to the ground.

Mike sprinted the short distance to Rachelle and crashed to his knees beside her. "Rae? Rae, honey," Mike murmured, and ignoring the vise clenching his gut from her unresponsive reply, he gently rolled her from her prone position to her back. Shakily, his hands ran down her body in search of wounds. His breath hitched in relief as they came away free of moisture.

Mike swiped Rachelle's hair away from her face, and his relief was immediately replaced by panic as his fingers came away with moisture that was the wrong color and too sticky to be mistaken for the dew saturating the cooling grass. "Oh, God," Mike whispered, and his hand immediately went to the pulse point on Rachelle's throat. As his fingers pushed against her warm skin, he was rewarded with a steady thrumming beat and a soft moan.

Rachelle's blue eyes fluttered opened to find Mike's terrified gaze probing hers. "Ow," she groaned again and attempted to put a hand to her throbbing head.

Mike's hand caught Rachelle's before it made its way to her temple. "Easy," he warned, trapping her hand in a gentle but firm grasp. "Lie still."

Rachelle's eyes clouded with confusion. "What happened?"

"We were shot at. I think you got caught in the crossfire." A frown of concentration lit Rachelle's features as she closed her eyes. In a move barely suppressing desperation, Mike stroked her cheek. "Stay with me, Rae. Open those baby blues."

Rachelle complied opening her eyes and returned a gentle squeeze of reassurance to Mike's hand that was still holding hers. A commotion of three people flying onto the front porch broke the spell.

"Mike! Rachelle!" St. John yelled and leapt the porch steps to land near the two figures on the lawn. He pulled up short when he saw his sister's face streaked with blood still flowing amply from some area on her forehead. "Shit," St. John echoed his brother's earlier sentiment and turned to Jo, who had elected to stay behind on the porch with String. "Call for an ambulance."

"No," Rachelle protested, and against Mike's previous warning, she pushed herself to sitting. The change in position caused her head wound to bleed even more profusely.

"You've been shot," Mike growled and tried to persuade her lie back down. He hadn't liked the gray cast that had taken over her pale complexion.

Rachelle shook her head at Mike's ministrations and closed her eyes for a moment. She was both trying to stifle the blinding pain that her sudden change altitude had initiated as well as to remember exactly what had transpired. "No, I wasn't."

"Rachelle," Mike's tone of voice was a warning, laced with heavy concern.

"I've been shot before, Mike," Rachelle argued, opening her eyes to glare at him. "I know what it feels like. No, I think I hit my head on something when you threw me off the porch." She threaded her fingers through the blades of grass until she came in contact with the raised concrete ring protecting one of the lawn irrigation sprinklers from being damaged by a lawnmower. "I hit the only hard thing in this whole area," she complained and moved her hand so that her overly concerned brother and Mike could see the object nestled in the lawn.

"It doesn't matter how you were injured," Mike continued, a mixed feeling of relief for her not being shot and guilt at throwing her into the sprinkler in his haste to keep them from being targets coursed through his system. "You have a nasty cut on your forehead, and you lost consciousness."

String moved to his sister's side and handed her a clean towel that Jo had brought from the kitchen when she had gone to retrieve the phone. "Head wounds are notorious for bleeding," he said quietly and gave Rachelle a meaningful stare when she inhaled sharply as he applied pressure to the laceration. "At the very least, you may need stitches, and we should make sure you don't have a concussion."

"No," Rachelle objected, taking ownership of the towel. "No doctors. No hospital. That is final!"

Rachelle turned her glare on Jo who had a look of indecision on her face as she glanced from Rachelle to Mike to the Hawke brothers. "I'll refuse treatment, and I'll refuse transport, so don't waste their time."

Jo looked at St. John and raised one eyebrow in question.

St. John shook his head almost imperceptibly in reply. He wasn't happy about Rachelle's decision, but he knew he couldn't force her. As long as she was conscious, she had the right to decline medical intervention. "Jo, call Locke's assistant and see if you can get somebody from the Company out here. I can blame one act of home vandalism on the Maguires. Two is too much of a coincidence for my taste."

"You think this is related?" Mike asked, still casting furtive glances at Rachelle to assess her condition.

"Wade said when he talked to the Maguires that they had an alibi worth checking out although it sounded shaky. This," St. John pointed to the damage inflicted by the recent gunfire, "is definitely not paintball gun related. That ammo was real and given the spread in the brief interval of time, I'd be willing to be it was an MP5 or similar model. The Maguires wouldn't have a clue as to how to get that kind of thing."

"So, who?" Jo asked, pushing the button on the phone to close the call she had completed.

All eyes turned to Rachelle.

"What?" Rachelle glowered back at them. "I'm not the only common denominator here. Both incidents took place at your house, St. John. Mike, you could just as easily have been a target. You've been in the same places I have."

"Yes," Mike agreed. "But, I'm not the one involved in Company deliberations on Airwolf."

"Trust me; that fact has nothing to do with this."

"What about Pierreponte?" String asked as innocuously as he could. If Rachelle's eyes could have flashed fire, they would have. String mentally filed that piece of information away and waited for her response.

"I don't know what you think you know, Stringfellow," Rachelle's voice was barely above a whisper, but her rage bled through loudly, "But Maxwell isn't part of the equation. Now, I'm tired. I'm going to get cleaned up and go to bed. If Amara or her people want a statement from me, they can get it in the morning."

Mike caught Rachelle's arm as she stormed past. "I'm going with you."

"I'm a big girl, Mike; I can take care of myself."

"A big hard-ass with a possible concussion," Mike countered. "You can refuse medical treatment, but you will not refuse me. I'll be waking you up every few hours. If you don't respond, I'll have an ambulance here so fast it will make your pretty, albeit very hard, head spin."

As they watched Rachelle relent, and Mike follow her into the house, St. John queried his brother, "You hit a nerve. Want to tell me what that was about?"

"A hunch right now. I'll let you know when I have something more," String replied. "In the meantime, let's get some plywood over that shattered window. I'm sure Amara's team will be here for forensics shortly, but we might as well be prepared to seal the place up when they're done."

St. John glanced at his neighbor's house. The Appletons were on vacation, and it didn't appear that the gunfire melee had spread past his property. The lot next door was vacant and further down the street no lights illuminated the Maguire house. Apparently, those in the Hawke household were the only witnesses and victims of the recent event. "It's going to be a long night," St. John muttered to no one in particular.

Jo stood on the porch watching St. John. Hearing his comment, she responded, "I'll put on the coffee," and headed into the kitchen.

--

Ashleigh slid her iPhone back into her shoulder bag and snagged another chip from the almost decimated plate of nachos in front of her. It was going to get worse long before it got better. She had just received a summons from her boss putting her on a multijurisdictional taskforce being organized, by of all agencies, the Department of the Interior. The summons would place her with members of Homeland Security and the Department of Defense as well as the DOI. She didn't need to be a gambler to infer that with their ties to two of the named agencies, a member or members of the Airwolf team would probably be included in the taskforce.

Asheligh had mixed feelings about working with the Airwolf team members. She and Rachelle had been partnered for years, but their current relationship was strained with the information about Pierreponte's apparent Lazarus act to maneuver back into the land of the living. While he may have cut a deal to avoid lethal injection, Ashleigh wasn't sure that he would avoid Rachelle's fatal intent if they were to ever find themselves in the same room. Ashleigh shrugged off that ugly scenario. No one would be stupid enough to contrive that situation.

As for the other members of the Airwolf team, Ashleigh's ambivalence only heightened. She and String were oil and water. Throw the spark of sexual tension on their volatile mix and one would burn the other to the core; that much was certain. After their latest confrontation over the aforementioned Pierreponte, Ashleigh was pretty sure that they wouldn't be able to work together without one or the other causing some kind of harm. She just wasn't sure what kind of harm, physical or emotional, not that either was a good thing.

That left Jason, St. John, Mike, and Jo. Ashleigh immediately crossed Locke off as a potential partner. While he was indeed a member of the team, his role had shifted more to the administrative security side of things. She didn't think he was suited to the fieldwork that this taskforce was sure to entail.

Ashleigh tipped her bottle and swallowed the last gulp as she pondered the oldest Hawke sibling. For whatever reason, she had never really bonded with St. John. They were polite to each other, and each knew that the other was more than competent in his or her regard, but that was simply as far as their interaction had ever gone. However, if she were to compare their lack of relationship to a partnership with either of the other two Hawke siblings, Ashleigh would have to admit that currently working with St. John was the only viable scenario involving a member with the Hawke surname.

There was always Mike, but a partnership with him was fraught with potential problems. Ashleigh liked him. She knew he was good for Rachelle too. The root problem of Ashleigh and Mike working together though was Rachelle. Ashleigh had already inadvertently but still knowingly burned her current friendship with Rachelle. She certainly didn't think working closely with Rae's current love interest would be good for any of them.

Lastly, there was Jo. Ashleigh smiled. Now, that pairing could be a good thing. She and Jo got along like close sisters. They seemed to know how each other operated and played off one another's strengths as if they had been previously partnered. They also had a uniting bond, neither one was a Hawke.

"Hey, mind if I join you?" a gruff voice that sounded like it had smoked one too many cigarettes asked. Not waiting for an official reply, the body attached to the voice took the seat opposite of Ashleigh and scooped up a nacho, taking the last jalapeño with the bite.

"Help yourself," Ashleigh replied sarcastically and reached for the uninvited guest's bottle of beer to take a swig. "That was quick. I just got the intel a few minutes ago. How'd you know where to find me?"

"You're a creature of habit."

Ashleigh snorted derisively. "Really, Fulton, have you been following me?"

"Paranoid, much?" replied Fulton, moving the remnants of the nachos to his side of the table and quickly finishing them.

"It's not paranoia when they really are out to get you."

Fulton cracked a smile and leaned against the back of the bar height stool. "I like Top Gun as much as the next guy. That Kelley McGillis is hot."

Ashleigh rolled her eyes, and her partner took that as encouragement. "Hey, where else would I rather be on a Friday night?"

"Give," Ashleigh commanded, waving her fingers to her palm with the request.

"Party pooper," Fulton complained.

"Fulton," the word was issued as a warning.

"Nex thought it might be a good idea if you were shadowed for a little while especially with the upcoming taskforce operation and the star witness."

"C'mon, Fulton," Ashleigh growled with irritation. Even if it were in her best interest, she did not take kindly to anyone, her superiors included, going over her head. "It's a non-issue."

"It is a credible threat." All traces of good-humor vanished from Fulton's eyes with his assertion.

"He is not going to make any moves that would jeopardize his relationship with the AG's office."

"Ashleigh, you and Rachelle are the sole complainants against him. You don't think that if he had a chance he'd have you two loose ends tied up?"

"It does him no good to eliminate us," Ashleigh countered. "He's in protective custody for what and who he knows. The crimes he committed before and during might as well be a wash."

"He's still responsible for his crimes."

"Yeah, tell that to Rachelle."

"She knows?"

"She came to me. I didn't have a choice. Besides she was going to find out soon enough."

"Is his cover blown?"

"I don't see how. I don't know his name, location, or anything. If I did, I certainly wouldn't pass that information along, and the Marshals would have relocated him long before I could do anything about it even if I were so inclined." Ashleigh moved her hands to her temples to massage away the headache that always seemed to intensify whenever Maxwell Pierreponte was part of the conversation.

"Yeah, I could use a cigarette," grumbled Fulton, his hand reaching for his breast pocket of its own accord. "Damned California statute; stupid voters."

"Walk me out," Ashleigh preempted, in attempt to dissuade him from a well-rehearsed rant.

Sliding from his chair, Fulton quirked his trademark grin at her as Ashleigh left a generous tip on the table. "Ashlyn says hello, by the way."

Ashleigh turned to face her partner. "Don't start, okay. I've been really busy."

"Too busy to make her four year birthday party next month?"

"God, is she four already? Didn't Marie just give birth to her?"

"See, it has been too long," Fulton grinned and tapped a cigarette from a pack that was already half gone.

"Isn't that the pack that you bought at lunch today?" Ashleigh asked and watched Fulton flick a lighter to catch the tip of the item in question before they had cleared the door to the bar.

"Maybe," he mumbled through clenched teeth and slid the lighter back into his pant pocket. A white cloud billowed through his nose as he exhaled the nicotine vice.

They turned the corner and reached a small alleyway where Ashleigh had managed to find a parking spot during the happy hour rush several hours ago. The late hour, or early depending on one's perspective, had made the stretch of cars seem lonely and isolated. A sense of unease crept along Ashleigh's spine, and suddenly, she was glad that Fulton had steamrolled past her nonchalance. "Those things are going to kill you," she harped, making a half-hearted grab for the cigarette that he held in his hand.

"Yeah, so you and Marie keep telling me." Fulton easily avoided her reach and headed to her car as a truck further down the block pulled away from the curb.

Ashleigh clicked the key fob to unlock the doors and light the interior of her vehicle. Fulton gave the car a cursory once over and opened the driver's side door for her. As Ashleigh got settled behind the wheel, Fulton leaned against the open door frame and rested his palms against the hood. "Do me a favor, and call when you get back home."

"You're making too much of this," Ashleigh sighed, but at the look on his face, she relented. "I'll call, but if your wife gets mad, you take the heat."

Fulton's eyes smiled before his mouth curved around the cigarette that had found its way back to his lips. "Deal."

A sharp crack took the light from Fulton's eyes. His jaw dropped open in surprise, and his cigarette freefell into Ashleigh's car.

"Ful…" Ashleigh was unable to complete the word as her brain processed the events that were speeding by her eyes. Fulton's hands moved inexplicably to his chest; a dark crimson stain started spreading across his purple shirt. His eyes rolled close, and he toppled across Ashleigh's lap.

"Fulton!" Ashleigh yelled, as her partner's dead weight fell against her. "Fulton, damn it; answer me!" Ashleigh maneuvered him down to the ground as best as she could and reached for her purse to grab her phone and gun. Her fingers groped for a pulse at Fulton's carotid as her other hand simultaneously grazed the barrel of her gun, but neither act was completed as she was forcibly pulled from her car.

A cloth soaked with a sweet smelling substance muffled Ashleigh's scream. She was unable to stop herself from struggling even through her brain, now foggy from several inhalations, had categorized the substance as chloroform. She tried to elbow the attacker that held the cloth against her face, but she only succeeded in landing a weak blow. Her efforts only intensified the grip of her assailant, and Ashleigh was helpless as the effects of the chemical took effect.

--

MP5 or formally HK54 - 9 mm submachine gun of German design, developed in the 1960s by a group of engineers from the West German arms manufacturer Heckler & Koch GmbH (HK). en./wiki/MP5