A/N: Please note that this chapter is rated M, for scenes with strong adult themes. The scenes are tasteful but sexually descriptive. If you are under the age of 16 or if you are offended by such subject matter, please do not read.

Chapter Five (M - sexually explicit content, strong language)

Nightmares

A shrill ringing woke Xavier Nex from a sound sleep. Blearily, he reached for his alarm clock before his brain processed that the incessant noise was coming from another source. Not recognizing the phone number on his caller id, he sat up and answered in a gruff voice, "Nex."

The caller on the end of the line was silent for a minute. Nex could hear some kind of commotion occurring in the background and the unmistakable sounds of emergency vehicle sirens. "Um, Xavier Nex?" a voice finally asked.

"Yes, this is FBI Assistant Director, Xavier Nex," he replied formally, still trying to gauge why he was being awoken in the pre-dawn by someone who apparently didn't know who he was.

"Yes sir. This is Detective Lorenz with the Burbank PD."

Nex's confusion jump shifted into anxiety. A call from law enforcement outside of his jurisdiction was never a good thing. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and sat fully upright.

"Sir, the reason I'm calling is because you were listed as the emergency contact for an Ashleigh Francisco."

"Yes, Special Agent, Francisco, is under my command," Nex interrupted. He suddenly felt the need to make sure that the officer on the other line was aware of whom he was speaking.

"Sir, there has been an accident."

"Accident or incident?" Nex was already on the move heading to the closet to pull on some clothes.

"Incident, sir," Detective Lorenz clarified.

"What happened?"

"We responded to a car fire this morning. The car was registered to your agent. Sir, there's a body inside the car."

Nex rubbed his face as he tried unsuccessfully not to conjure the images of the scene the detective was describing. "You're sure that it is Agent Francisco?"

"It is her vehicle, sir, VIN and license plates match. We have a forensic anthropologist on the way to verify the deceased's identity."

I'm in Long Beach, Detective. Give me location, and I'll be there shortly."

"Sir, I don't think that is such a good idea."

"It may not be, but that is what is going to happen."

Nex jotted down the location and hung up the phone. Within seconds, he was dialing another number. The call immediately went into voicemail.

"Fulton, it's Nex. I need to talk to you, asap." Punching the disconnect, Nex grabbed the keys to his car and headed out the door.

Rachelle cracked her eyes open to look at her clock. She officially had fifteen minutes before she needed to be awake, but her body did not seem to give that fact much weight. Careful to not jar her head anymore than was necessary or to wake her bedmate, she switched her alarm off and shrugged out from under Mike's arm that was wrapped snuggly around her waist. She stilled as the exhausted man grumbled unhappily and then rolled onto his other side. Releasing the breath she hadn't realized that she had been holding, Rachelle slid the rest of the way off of the bed. She walked quietly to the bathroom adjoining her room and pulled the door closed behind her.

Blinking in the sudden, bright light bathing the room from the vanity fixtures, Rachelle turned on the faucet and gently dabbed cool water onto her face. She wasn't quite willing to look at the damage from last night, so she kept her eyes averted as she squeezed a bit of toothpaste on her brush and commenced the daily routine. Finding courage in the mint tang of the abrasive, Rachelle finally met her blue gaze in the mirror. As she anticipated, she wasn't the prettiest of sights.

Last night, after liberally dousing the wound with antiseptic, Mike had helped her place a couple of butterfly bandages over the cut to help the skin mend more quickly. The gash had ended up being only about an inch long and had been superficial in its depth. Mike hadn't thought it would scar, and she hadn't cared too much since the laceration was almost in her hairline anyway.

Taking a washcloth from the towel bar, Rachelle wet it and carefully swiped it against her forehead to remove the slight orange tint remaining from the antibacterial ointment. The final result was a linear cut surrounded by slightly bruised skin. Rachelle compared her brow with her healing arm and grimaced. She would bet that in a day or so the two bruises would be identical in their shades of psychedelic purple-blue, brownish green and yellow. They would, no doubt, be colorful badges to remind her brothers and Mike of the trouble she had been having of late.

Pushing away from the sink, Rachelle turned on the shower. While she waited for the water to hit a desirable temperature, she pulled open the medicine cabinet and dumped a couple of acetaminophen in her palm. She swallowed them, disrobed, and slid under the warm, inviting spray. As she lathered her hair, being ever vigilant of her injury, she couldn't help but revisit the recent events.

Could the incident in the living room be related to last night? Was someone trying to send a warning, get even? String mentioned Maxwell, but that doesn't make any sense. He cooperated, got off scot-free with…

Rachelle squeezed her eyes closed and began breathing through her mouth as her memories turned ugly and her emotions began a visceral rollercoaster that if she didn't quickly reign in, would spiral completely out of control.

Knowing that he was dead, relying on that fact, had always been a way to settle her anxiety whenever her memories decided to wage their own unabridged, private screening of her life. Having that coping strategy stripped from her repertoire left her defenseless. Desperate to do anything to keep from reliving the events of her life, Rachelle flipped the temperature controls to cold. The icy stream slammed into her heated neck and rolled down her spine. Her body spasmed with the painful stimuli, but rather than move away from the discomfort, Rachelle pushed more of herself into it, allowing the frigid water to take her breath along with her thoughts.

The buzz of an alarm brought Mike's left hand crashing down on the offending object blaring from his side of the bed. Hitting the snooze button, he rolled back over and reached for Rachelle. His arm hit the flatness of the sheets rather than the yielding form of a body. Alarmed, Mike lifted himself to his elbows and searched the room. A line of light shining from the bottom of the bathroom door and the sound of running water salved his apprehension, and he flopped back against the mattress.

After he had helped Rachelle dress her wound and get to bed last night, he had, as promised, started checking on her every couple of hours or so. Somewhere between the second and third trip from his room to hers, he had decided that it would be more efficient for him to simply stay the night with her. But, even with the much-shortened trip, the medical vigil had broken his sleep enough to keep it from being less than rejuvenating. He scrubbed his hands over his face and stumbled from the bed with one thought on his mind, hot shower.

Mike opened the door to the bathroom and was pleased to see the steam fogged mirror creating a frosted, distorted picture of the room. As he looked to the shower, he caught a glimpse of Rachelle's body through the parting of the shower curtain where it didn't quite meet the wall. His eyes danced over her, taking in every inch of her: her creamy-white skin, the way her legs curved, one slightly bent in front of the other, the subtle swell of her bottom and hips as they narrowed upward to the hourglass shape of her waist. She was a sight he could watch all day and never tire.

Surreptitiously, Mike moved the curtain further away to give him full view of the woman in the shower. Rachelle was leaning against the wall that housed the water controls. Her head was down, water racing down the valley of her back to her bottom and splitting at her hips. The water that didn't follow the main path detoured across her neck and eventually poured down her breasts, which were gently swaying with the motion of her fingers combing through her long hair, separating into it thick coils that spilled over her left shoulder. Mike had to physically bite back his groan of appreciation and quickly kicked off his sweats. Sliding the curtain back, he stepped in to join her.

Rachelle glanced back at the sound of intrusion, but her position under the spray of the shower remained unchanged. Mike stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Jesus!" he swore, as the cold water splashed painfully against his abdomen. Without thought, he reached around her and adjusted the temperature. Not waiting for the thermostat to adjust, Mike pulled Rachelle against him, her back fitting snuggly to his front. He could feel the gooseflesh peppering her body as she trembled violently against him, her arms crossing her exposed breasts in a defensive hug. Instinctively, he tightened his hold on her.

As the water warmed them both, Rachelle turned into Mike's embrace and laid her head in the crook of his neck. Slowly, her body stopped trembling from the cold, and Mike attempted to gently push her back. But, Rachelle only tightened her grip around his neck and pressed her body more securely against his. Not speaking, they stood under the jets. Even the water cascading over them could not penetrate the fit of their bodies.

After some time, Rachelle stepped away and turned to leave. Mike stopped her, his hand catching her wrist. She stared at his fingers wrapped around her arm and finally raised her gaze to meet his. Her blue eyes silently begged for him to let her go, but Mike didn't comply.

"What's wrong?"

Saying nothing, Rachelle twisted her arm to catch his wrist and pulled him toward her, kissing him. As she flicked her tongue tantalizingly against his lips, he responded by deepening the kiss and grabbing her hips effectively trapping her body against his. With the taste of her, feel of her, Mike quickly forgot his question.

Rachelle felt his arousal and slid her leg upwards, trying to find the ledge of the tub. Catching the edge with her toe and using Mike for balance, she lifted herself up until she was a head higher than he. With one arm secured around his neck to steady her, she settled against him.

Mike groaned and kissed her passionately as she fitted herself fully to him. He wrapped his arms around her hips; his hands grabbed her bottom. Rachelle responded by sliding her other leg around his waist and locking her ankles together. Supporting all of her weight, Mike turned toward the shower wall and pinned Rachelle against the cold surface. She arched her back in resistance, pushing him even further. With her fingernails digging into his shoulder, urging him, Mike couldn't hold back any longer.

Physically spent, he used his last ounce of energy to turn them so that his back was now resting against the tile, and finally, he lowered Rachelle until her feet were once again resting on the floor. One of his hands trailed lazily down the slick curve of her spine and came to a rest against the juncture above her hip.

Rachelle watched Mike's expression change from raw passion to complete fatigue. Her lips quirked in an emotionless smile, and she stepped out of the tub. "I'll get you a towel," she promised and closed the curtain. Mike stood in the hot steam and caught his breath.

After some time, Mike turned off the water and pulled back the curtain. True to her word, Rachelle had hung a fresh towel on the hook. Mike took the cloth and began to dry off. As he was wiping his face, he stopped mid-motion. Fuck! he closed his eyes in exasperation, literally.

This wasn't the first time that Rachelle had evaded answering questions. Whenever things got too intense, when he was on the edge of breaking through, Rae would turn up the heat, and he would obligingly follow. Hell, the sex was fantastic. But that was all it was, sex. If they were going to ever become anything more, and he suddenly realized that he did want more, then this had to stop. She had to stop using her body to hold him at arm's length, and he had to stop letting her.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Mike opened the door; he was not going to let Rachelle get away, not this time. She, however, was nowhere to be seen. Angry, both with himself and her, he finger-combed his hair and headed to his room to get dressed. He didn't bother to hurry. He knew that by the time he got downstairs, she would be long gone. It was a pattern with which he was very familiar.

Cold followed by pain were the first sensations Ashleigh felt as she fought her way back to consciousness. Blinking her eyes rapidly to help dislodge the fuzziness of her brain, she attempted to rub at her pounding head but was unable to complete the move. She blinked again, harder, trying to clear her eyes, catch her bearings, and determine why her hands wouldn't cooperate.

Where the hell am I, and why can't I move my arms? Her vision swam, and her stomach roiled as she caught the chemical aftertaste of chloroform. Memory sparked.

"Fulton?" Ashleigh called, her voice sounded like a croaking rasp, and she tried to turn to look for her partner, but the maneuver only caused something to scrape uncomfortably against her exposed back.

Taking a calming breath, Ashleigh closed her eyes and reopened them slowly. Her vision remained dim, but it wasn't because her eyes weren't working properly. The room was murky; only a scant amount of light was filtering through a grimy rectangle located on the wall to her left. The dismally, small window was only about sixteen inches from the ceiling and probably not much longer than a couple of feet wide and half as tall, and it was the only source of light in the room.

As she turned her head to look the other direction, her cheek pressed against something cold and rough and her hands jangled slightly above her head. Ashleigh pulled on her arms again, but they remained elevated and out of her line of sight. She was apparently shackled somehow against one of the walls of the room. Judging from their rough texture, they were some kind of masonry, probably cinder block, which meant more than likely she was in a basement of a building, somewhere.

Ashleigh shivered again and shifted her weight as best she could on the concrete floor. She appeared to be alone, but she had no idea how long that might be the case; she had to act. She didn't wear bobby pins, and she didn't have access to anything small enough to pick the small lock nor did she have a spare cuff key. The only advantage she had was her slender wrists.

Ashleigh knew it would hurt that she might break her thumb, but she had to try. She began to pull continuously and straight down on her restraints. She stifled a cry of pain as the metal bit into her flesh. The metal rubbed her wrist raw; a slick moisture began to slide down her arm. Using the blood as a lubricant, she pulled until her left hand came free of the handcuffs. She cradled her injured arm in her lap, and her other arm fell woodenly to her side as the handcuffs slid off the pipe on which they had been held. Pins and needle rushed into her arms as the circulation returned to her semi-starved appendages.

Ashleigh had no more time to react as a key rattled in what she guessed was the only entrance into the room. She tried to stand but ended up stumbling as the door opened and the room was cast into stark brilliance from a bare light bulb anchored into the low ceiling. Ashleigh blinked furiously and tried to shield her eyes.

"I see you're awake, and mobile," a voice rumbled from the entryway.

Ashleigh backed away until her back flattened itself against the wall. She lowered the arm shielding her eyes and wrapped it across her body. "Who are you; what do you want?"

"Where is Pierre Gunn?"

"Who?" Ashleigh shook her head in confusion. She didn't know anyone by that name.

Ashleigh's interrogator moved fully into the room. The metal door clanged behind him rattling the casing with its weight. "I don't have time for games, Agent Francisco." To highlight his point, the man unsheathed a long tube from his belt. With a flick of a switch, a noisy, visible current arced between two electrodes embedded in the tip of the flashlight. Ashleigh's eyes widened in recognition of the object.

"I see, we are on the same page now. You know what this is?" Ashleigh nodded her head hesitantly as her eyes scoured the room for a means of escape.

The interrogator stepped forward menacingly, and Ashleigh's eyes immediately fixed back to him. "Nasty little item," he continued, lifting the weapon and brandishing it like a fencer preparing to thrust. "Those imbeciles at the DOI say that as long as this device is used on animals, it isn't inhumane. But, humans are animals; aren't they?"

Ashleigh shifted as the man jabbed the tip of the weapon at her. She parried the arm holding the weapon aside and made a grab for the device. She didn't anticipate that the housing below the electrodes would be electrified. Her hand sizzled; her arm immediately went fiery hot to numb, and she let go and fell backward slightly dazed.

"Oh, I guess, I should have mentioned that this baby's been modified to be more than a simple prodder of cattle. Now, do I need to ask you twice?"

Ashleigh shook her head and held out a hand in surrender. "I don't know a Pierre Gunn," she hissed trying to ignore the wave of pain in her arm from her nerves firing chaotically.

The modified stun baton made contact with her upper arm and she writhed back until her body slammed against the wall. "Please," she begged and shied away from another hit. The rod hummed electrically as it barely missed her ear.

"We're tired of waiting. He made promises and now is the time to deliver. You know where he is, so end this."

"Wait," Ashleigh breathed raggedly. "I'll tell you what you want to know, but you have to stop swinging that thing."

The interrogator smiled tightly, the expression sinister. "I'm waiting."

Ashleigh pushed herself from the wall and slammed her foot into her assailant's groin. As the man crumpled, she kicked out and dislodged the pole from his grasp. Scooping it up, she turned it on and jabbed it into his neck. The man screamed in agony and hit the floor hard. Fighting the temptation to keep the current running into his body, Ashleigh switched off the weapon and threw it across the room. She slid her hands over the insensate man and quickly found a ring of keys. She had to hurry, to get out of there, to find Fulton. Scooping up the stun baton, Ashleigh unlocked the door and ran.

Ashleigh sprinted down the small corridor only to find another locked door. Frantically, she tried the keys on the ring. After fumbling for a few minutes, she found the correct one and opened the door and ran straight into the barrel of a .45 Smith & Wesson. She raised the stun baton in the air momentarily weighing if she could use it before the gun fired.

Rather than the sharp report of a bullet entering her brain, Ashleigh felt a bolt of energy slam into the base of her skull. A field of blue closed around the tunnel of her vision, and her body fired nerves out of sequence. She barely registered the clatter of the stun gun falling uselessly to the floor. Her body immediately followed, dropping her to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Rachelle looked up as the door to the committee room opened to let Mike and St. John enter. Her eyes locked with Mike's, and she knew that there was trouble. It was further confirmed when he chose to sit across from her rather than in the vacant chair next to her.

Avoiding Mike's intense gaze, Rachelle turned her attention back to the folder she had been perusing. While the overall fate of the team had yet to be decided, the Department of Justice had specifically requested the Airwolf Team to take part in a joint terrorism task force. This particular task force was being led by the US Attorney General's Office and would consist of specialized members within the local FBI office, the Department of Defense, the National Security Division, the Environmental Protection Agency, and the Department of the Interior. Originally, Rachelle had been confused by the DOI's contribution in the taskforce, but after reading the extensive dossier, it had become quite clear.

The DOI was a target. It hadn't started out as one, but its policies toward conservation, or lack thereof, and the blind eye that it appeared to be giving certain industries had singled the department out as a likely candidate for terrorist activities. However, these terrorist activities were not associated with groups located in the Middle East but with homegrown eco-terrorists.

SAVE, Society Against Violations to the Earth, was an organization designed to raise public awareness to the environmental impact of various industries. They tackled issues from animal rights to farmer aid to tribal land arbitration to protection of critical water supplies and so forth. The movement was, by in large, peaceful, using public demonstrations and grassroots initiatives to bring about policy change. Unfortunately, as with most organizations of this type, fringe groups erupted.

Once such fringe group, under the false pretense of SAVE, was making a name for itself by employing more extreme tactics, acts of violence, to bring attention to the plight of the environment. They had already taken credit for activities ranging from some simple acts of petty vandalism upwards to arson. While in the past most of the activity had focused on property, costing some industries thousands, even millions, now individuals associated with policies against which SAVE stood, were receiving personal threats.

The main door opening again caused Rachelle to stop reading. She looked up and saw two pair of suits entering the conference room. Given their standard government attire, she assumed they were from one of the three lettered departments. She glanced at the list of members and then at her watch. Neither Ashleigh nor her partner, Tom Fulton, had arrived.

The chair next to Rachelle slid away from the table, but it wasn't the motion that brought her attention to her new companion. It was his hand on hers.

"We need to talk." Mike's voice was soft, but his touch on her wrist was demanding.

"Not here," Rachelle replied and yanked her hand away. There was no way in hell she was going to have the conversation that Mike wanted in a Company conference room.

Mike ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Jason had called them at the house to inform them about the meeting. He had also said that under no circumstances should Rachelle be present. How the hell was Mike supposed to get her out of the conference room and for that matter why? He didn't have time to further wonder as the conference door opened again, and Amanda Gibbs from the Attorney General's office entered followed by three men. The chair beside him, the one Rachelle had been sitting in, flew backward and slammed into the wall.

"Gun!" someone yelled.

Mike stared in horror as he looked from Rachelle to the men in the doorway. She stood perfectly calm, her hand held her Glock 38 fire ready, her finger curled around the trigger, her aim steady on one of the men. Shielding the unarmed man whom she was targeting, the other two men held their department issues pointing directly back at her.