Chapter 6 (T - mild language)

Below the Surface

String sat on the patio of the coffee shop and unfolded the newspaper in front of him. To the casual observer, he was out on a Saturday morning enjoying leisure time with java and the reporters of the Leader. In reality, he was waiting for a drop.

The sun glinted off his mirrored sunglasses as he surreptitiously glanced at his surroundings over the edge of the local news section. He leaned forward and took a sip of the still steaming cup in front of him and caught the time on his watch. She was late.

String wasn't surprised. Catherine Faraday, Cat, was never one to worry about the hour. Even her plans with colleagues were never time driven. She marched to the beat of her own drummer whether or not the drummer had a schedule to keep.

String flipped the page over and folded the section in half to make it easier to read and to keep his surroundings in view. There was little in the Burbank paper that would catch his attention anyway. He scanned the headlines. Seeing an article about a recent string of vehicle arsons down by the Bob Hope Airport, he stopped skimming, rested his forearms on the table, and began actually reading.

The area near the airport had been fraught with low-level vandalism in the form of arson. Police had had the area under surveillance for several weeks but had been focusing on the north side. This arson had broken the pattern and occurred on the southwestern side, fairly close to the bar that he and Ashleigh had gone to last night. The other difference was this most recent act had escalated the charges to murder. A body had been found early that morning in a burned out shell of a car.

"Hawke, so good to see you; it's been ages." The honey-sweet voice belonged to an attractive woman with long, blonde hair. Setting her own steaming cup on the table, she took the seat opposite of String's.

String turned his focus to the voice and looked at the woman now sitting across from him. He took his time responding, knowing that his eyes were well hidden behind his glasses. She had changed her appearance. The last time he had seen her, she had had close-cropped red hair. She also had changed her accent.

"Cat," String finally greeted.

Cat's mouth formed a perfect pout as she looked back at him. "What, no I missed you too?" String's lips twitching into a hint of a smile and then falling to neutral were the only indication he gave that he had even heard her.

"Fine," she glowered at him and then brightened suddenly, "where is your better half?"

"Married," String replied, glad once again for the shades. He knew he could school his features to belie his thoughts, but his eyes would have given him away; they always had.

Cat was warming to the subject; as a result, her suppressed Irish lilt was now noticeable in her voice. "Really? You should have told me. I would have sent a gift. When did you two tie the knot, you lucky dog?"

"We didn't; she married someone else."

Cat floundered speechless for a few seconds then recovered, "So you're back on the market?"

"I was never off of the market."

Cat murmured something softly in her native tongue. String could not catch the exact wording, but wishing to get back to a more pertinent topic, he baited, "Careful, Cat, your Irish is showing."

His words had the desired effect. Cat's green eyes flashed something dangerous, and this time she uttered something in Gaelic loud enough for him to hear clearly. String's smile broadened at her curse, and he leaned back in his chair contented that he had derailed her thoughts on Caitlin and him, or lack thereof.

Cat pulled out her BlackBerry and typed quickly on the small screen. Her lips pursed in concentration, she reached for her mug and took a tentative sip. She frowned in aggravation when she tasted the liquid. "Commercial shops," she sighed and then pushed her BlackBerry over to String.

String looked over the screen and shook his head in resignation. "I told you I was good for it."

"Yes, but my prices have changed."

"This is not a reflection of me bringing up the Emerald Isle?"

"I even gave you the friend discount." Cat smiled, as she shook her head negatively in response to his previous comment.

String pulled out his cell and dialed a number. Placing a finger over the mouthpiece, he looked back at her. "This may take a few minutes."

"I'll go get some more, hopefully better, tea then."

Fifteen minutes later, as String hung up his cell, Cat returned to the table. She was holding a bottle of water in one hand. One of String's eyebrows rose over the rim of his sunglasses. Cat saw the movement and answered, "You really don't want to know what they do to tea in there. All set?"

String nodded.

Again, Cat withdrew her BlackBerry and typed a few minutes. A delighted smile alighted on her face, and she handed over her PDA to String. "It's all yours."

"Couldn't find something in basic black or gray?" he commented, looking over the purple handheld device.

"No, and you bought and paid for it."

"That's what I like about you, Cat, always thinking of others."

"I aim to please." Cat removed the screw top to her bottle and sipped the cold liquid. She then turned serious. "Pierrepont is a piece of work. Watch your back."

"I always do."

Cat reached over and placed a hand over his. There was a sense of urgency in her touch. "He did a number on that FBI agent, left her for dead. Your government played a nice bit of cover up in all of it."

At the mention of one of the targets, String raised his head sharply. "Which one?"

Cat released her grip on his arm and flitted her hand back toward the purple BlackBerry. "It's all in there."

This time it was String who reached across the table to grab her arm. "Which one," he repeated.

"Bastún," Cat snarled and pulled her wrist from his grip. "Do that again, and you'll be limping for the next week." Angrily, she rubbed at her wrist.

String held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture, but his voice held its own warning. "It's important, Cat."

"Go hifreann leat!" Cat cursed furiously and grabbed her bag. Her chair scraped noisily on the crushed stone patio as she stood to leave.

Risking his health, String stood and caught her arm again. He blocked the fist that came flying toward his jaw and the knee that was aimed at his groin. "One of those agents is my sister," Sting hissed in her ear as he swiveled her so that her back was flat to his chest, keeping her appendages from making contact with his vital body parts. His words stunned her to silence; the fight left her. Ignoring the scene that they had made, String pulled out a chair and let Cat slide into it.

"Which one?" The fact that Cat repeated his same question back to him had not escaped him.

"Karrison." String saw the emotions flit across her eyes and knew the answer.

"Tá brón orm," Cat whispered softly and reached for the BlackBerry to thumb scroll through the files. She handed the device back to String and watched as he silently read the information. The only outward appearance he gave to the data he was digesting was the clenching and unclenching of his jaw.

The chirrup of his cell phone startled both of them. For a moment, String considered letting it forward to voicemail, but knowing the ring tone was set to St. John as the caller, he chose to answer it.

"Yeah," he growled tersely. There was a momentary pause. "They did what!"

Cat flinched at his shout. It was one thing to stage a scene to disappear from a drop; it was quite another to stick around to become weekend morning entertainment for patrons of a local coffee shop. Grabbing her water, bag, String's PDA, and String himself, she directed them away from the patio and toward a small park she had passed on her way to the meet.

As she walked, Cat kept her ears focused on the one-sided conversation. The dialogue was short. After a sequence of, very un-Hawke-like expletives, String snapped his phone closed with force. He stopped walking, and Cat turned to look at him.

"You know all of this stuff?" String gestured to the PDA in her hand.

Cat nodded and gave the device back to him.

String took the purple handheld and shoved it into his pocket. He then ran his fingers through his hair obviously weighing what he was going to say. Rather than standing around, Cat walked over to a small bench situated near the sidewalk and sat down to wait him out. String followed but remained standing. "I need you to do another job for me."

"Like the last one?"

"Sort of. How are your legal representation skills?"

A Cheshire grin spread across Cat's face, and she patted the seat next to her in invitation.

Mike watched through the one-way glass as Rachelle paced the small perimeter of the holding room where she had been brought. She reminded him of a caged tiger, her body tense as if she might fly across the room and attack at a moment's notice.

If someone had asked if he thought he knew who Rachelle Hawke was, before this morning, he would have undoubtedly said yes. After all, they had been friendly for over a year, sleeping together for months. Right now, however, after what had happened in the conference room, he was not so sure what his answer would be.

As Rachelle's chair slammed into the wall next to him, the last thing Mike had expected was to find her standing with a gun in her hand. Then everything happened so fast yet seemed to move in slow motion. The marshals drew their weapons in response to her threat; he and St, John stood, trying to diffuse the situation, and half of the other members of the taskforce also rose to their feet, their own firearms drawn.

Rachelle made no motion to lower her Glock even after she had been commanded to stand down. Her lack of response scared Mike. He knew that if she didn't make a pacifying gesture, the marshals would fire. She wouldn't stand a chance, so he did the only thing he could think of at the time.

Mike moved directly into Rachelle's sight path. He placed his body in front of her gun, the barrel brushing against his left pectoral. Rachelle didn't blink, didn't move; her finger remained solidly affixed to the trigger. As Mike stood, literally in the line of fire, his brain suddenly went into research mode naming facts about the weapon lethally pressed against his chest. There was no safety on the Glock 38. The only safety was a finger outside of the trigger guard. He had hoped that his actions would have signaled that event. They had not.

"Give me the gun, Rae," his voice was whisper quiet, and his hand moved to the one that was holding the gun.

Rachelle didn't blink, didn't falter. He wasn't sure that she even saw him, and for a brief fleeting second, he wasn't sure that she wouldn't fire through him to get to her target. His fingertip grazed the barrel, and she flinched. The gun moved but not away from the target. It pressed itself even more firmly against his chest.

"Get out of the way." Rachelle's warning was toneless, automatic. She gave no ground, showed no semblance of cooperating.

"You don't want to do this." Mike watched her eyes, looking for some way to reach her.

"Yes, I do." The declaration was fierce and punctuated with a hiss of breath. Her eyes were determined.

As Mike kept himself between Rachelle and her target as well as between the marshals and theirs, St. John slowly crept behind his sister. Careful to not give away St. John's position, Mike watched his progress from the corner of his eye. He knew it very well might come down to brother taking out sister. Keeping her as distracted as possible, Mike asked the one question that might make things clear. "Why?"

The anguish that flooded Rachelle's eyes was enough to make him regret his question, to want to take it back. For the first time since this whole standoff had begun, he recognized the woman in front of him. Even though the barrel of the gun scraping his chest did not move, he felt her hand shake, and she looked at him, not through him, but at him.

Rachelle's eyes closed, and her head dropped along with her hand, gun loosely in her grip, finger out of the guard. "You have no idea what you've done."

Her words still echoed in his head as he stood watching her through the glass. It wasn't just the words, but the way they had sounded. Mike shook his head and looked at the marshal guarding the entrance to the room holding her. Deciding that it was worth trying to engage the man in conversation again, Mike held up his wrists to show the metal bands encircling them. "You know these are really not necessary,"

The guard didn't even grunt a response. Given the marshal's lack of expression, Mike thought the man must have been part of the British Royal Guard at one point in his life. "I'm complying, and I won't hit you again." As before, his comments were met with stony silence.

Mike sighed. He wouldn't hit the marshal again. He wouldn't have hit him in the first place, if the guy hadn't brutally grabbed Rachelle and muscled her to the ground as soon as she had lowered her weapon. Mike had already diffused the situation. The use of force by the marshal had been unnecessary and excessive. Rachelle had not been resisting. In fact, she hadn't even reacted at all. So, Mike had acted for her. His reward had been his own way to the floor and pair of matching handcuffs.

If the clock on the wall were correct, all of that had happened more than an hour ago, and Mike and Rachelle were still cooling their heels in separate rooms. Hopefully, St. John could find a way to help expedite their release; although given everything, Mike wasn't sure that would even be an option. In the conference room, St. John had done his best to try and talk them out of their predicament, but the representative from the attorney general's office had not listened to a word he'd said. She had warned that if St. John acted in any manner, he too would be taken into custody.

Mike resumed his position against the glass wall and looked back into the room housing Rachelle. She had finally come to a rest and was now seated at the metal table. She sat stiffly, arms resting in her lap, still adjoined at the wrist by her own set of cuffs. Her eyes stared directly at the mirrored pane hiding the other room. Mike fixed onto her blue gaze, trying to see what was going on in her head. Her eyes were cold. He knew she couldn't see him, but the way she still seemed to look through him unsettled him.

Idly, a memory floated to the front of his mind. She looked almost like Jason had when he had been under the control of the Ridgemont Institute. Could Rachelle be under some kind of impulse control? He immediately rejected the idea. Rachelle's actions in the conference room, while disturbing and contrary to who he knew her to be, were not those of someone under someone else's control, at least not directly. If that had been the case, she would have shot through him in an instant. Mike's gaze focused on the ugly bruise decorating her forehead. She had been hurt last night. Maybe she had some kind of head injury? That thought caused his heart to beat faster in worry, but he quickly dismissed that possibility as well. None of her other actions prior to or after would warrant that diagnosis. So what?

Mike's thoughts were abandoned as the door to the room burst open, and the very angry representative from the attorney general's office entered along with an additional marshal presumably for her own personal protection. She was on the phone.

"I don't care the circumstances; my meeting, my taskforce, has been shot to hell. You tell your representatives to get their collective asses over here in the next hour, or there will be sanctions."

There was a brief pause as the woman came up for air. She glared in Mike's direction, and then continued, "No, Nex, you are the lead agency here. Get me someone from the local office now, and take care of your own people!" She slammed the phone shut and turned to Mike.

"Your little stunt in there just eviscerated my taskforce, Major."

"With all due respect, ma'am, my stunt in there kept at least one of your men from being truly eviscerated."

The woman was not pleased at Mike's use of semantics against her, and that emotion clearly showed in her piercing brown gaze. "I want answers, Major."

So do I, Mike agreed silently. "I think, you'll have to go to the source then."

"Connors," the woman commanded, and the marshal guarding the entrance to Rachelle's room snapped to attention. Mike marveled in silence that the man was capable of standing even straighter than he had been. "Remove the cuffs from the major. You're free to go," she threw over her shoulder as she passed him and moved to the room where Rachelle was being held.

"Thanks," Mike replied, rubbing his wrists reflexively as the marshal removed his restraints. "If it is all the same to you, I think, I'll stay."

"Suit yourself." she dismissed him.

As she closed the door to the room escorted by both marshals, Mike moved to the observation window. Since the powers that be had apparently decided that he was no longer a threat, he was now alone in the room. Gingerly, he toggled the small switch to the intercom box mounted on the wall. He wanted answers as well.

Rachelle barely glanced up as a woman flanked by two guards, marshals, entered her room. The only indication that she was even aware that she was no longer alone came from the slight straightening of her spine against the metal back of her chair.

"Ms. Hawke, I'm Amanda Gibbs with the US Attorney General's Office," the woman said taking the seat across from Rachelle as her escorts covered each side of the door. "I want to know why you just attempted to murder my federal witness."

Rachelle looked up into the African American woman's face and blinked silently. Her final response was to lower her eyes back to her clasped hands resting on the table in front of them.

Rachelle's lack of reaction incensed, the attorney general representative. "Do you have any idea how serious this is? These are federal charges. You know what that means?"

Before Rachelle could offer any answer, the door to the room opened again. Both of the marshals reacted at once, guns drawn and targeting the unexpected intruder. "Easy boys," a honey-haired woman spoke in a heavy southern accent. "I'm here on Ms. Hawke's behalf."

Holding her hand outstretched to the other woman in the room, she introduced herself. "Catherine Faraday. Ms. Hawke's brother asked me to represent his sister in this unfortunate chain of events, that apparently your office jangled up."

"Amanda Gibbs, US Attorney General's Office," the other woman replied, ignoring the proffered hand. "I don't recall placing Ms. Hawke under formal arrest."

"Yes, well," Cat continued, coming to stand behind Rachelle, "the handcuffs seem to indicate otherwise."

"The handcuffs were for my men's protection, Faraday."

"Yes, she does appear to be very dangerous." The comment was laced with saccharine sarcasm. To prove the point, Rachelle remained immobile; her only motion was the shifting of her eyes as she scanned the two other women in room.

"Your client drew a gun and attempted to kill a man in my custody in front of a half dozen witnesses all from various law enforcement agencies."

"With no provocation?"

"We entered the room."

"Indeed. Ms. Gibbs, are you aware of the relationship of your witness to my client?"

"Enlighten me, Faraday."

"I'd like you to meet, Rachel Karrison, ex-FBI, that your client…"

"Stop," Rachelle ordered, looking at her counsel. "Ms. Gibbs, I take full responsibility for my actions."

"Hawke," Cat growled, "I advise you to keep your mouth shut."

"That's quite all right, Ms. Faraday, things have become crystal clear for me," Amanda interrupted, looking at the detainee with more tolerant eyes. "I was under the impression that Karrison was a non-factor in this taskforce. Agent Francisco was to be the only prior complainant in the room. She already was aware of the full specs for the mission. No one told me that Ms. Hawke and Karrison were one and the same."

Cat grunted in incredulity. "You have sources all over the map, and you want us to buy that load of crap?"

Amanda ignored the comment and continued. "Given what has happened, I'm willing to overlook this incident."

"Good," Cat interrupted and turned to Rachelle, "let's go."

"Not so fast, counselor. I have conditions for her release. First, she is to surrender all of her firearms. Second, she is not to have access to my witness for the duration of the taskforce operation. In fact, I don't want her in the same vicinity as my witness. That means effective immediately she has a TRO of 500 feet. That includes Company Headquarters"

"Are you out of your mind?" Cat argued. "Given the circumstances, I think, the TRO should be against your witness."

"I disagree. Ms. Hawke has shown herself to be the aggressor. My witness has not had prior contact with her nor does he need to."

"Congratulations, the AG's office has just set victim's rights back several decades."

"Faraday," Rachelle interrupted the tirade she could see the woman preparing on her behalf, "I'll accept the terms."

"Good. If you violate any of the terms, you will be incarcerated for the duration of this mission. Do you understand?"

Rachelle nodded in defeat. She was suddenly very tired and only wanted to get out of there. Her counsel apparently knew the whole sordid affair, and Rachelle was still trying to come to terms with the fiasco in the conference room. As it were, she knew that she was going to have to do damage control with St. John and Mike.

"All right then. Connors, will you remove Ms. Hawke's handcuffs?" Rachelle did her best not to flinch as the marshal took his time removing the restraints around her wrists.

"I'll be taking Ms. Hawke, into my custody," Cat announced.

"That is fine, counselor. But, I'm releasing her into Major River's keeping. Once she is escorted off of Company grounds, you can take her wherever you'd like." Amanda turned to the mirrored glass and addressed the wall. "I assume that you are still there, Major."

In answer to her statement, Mike opened the door to the holding room. "Please escort Ms. Hawke from the premises. And, I am charging you that she does not return. You do understand those orders; do you not?"

"Yes," Mike agreed and walked over to where Rachelle stood. "Let's go," he spoke softly and placed his hand on the small of her back to lead her from the room.

Out in the anteroom where Mike had been watching the exchange between the women, Cat stopped. "I've got some unfinished business with String. Can you take her from here? I assume she is in good hands."

Mike nodded as he glanced at his unwilling charge. Although Rachelle had schooled herself beautifully, he had felt the small jump in her spine when he had touched her. He could feel the tension radiating from her, but she didn't express any of this verbally.

Cat smiled and tried to catch Hawke's sister's eye. "Don't worry; I'll make sure that the TRO is revoked. You may not be able to be part of the taskforce, which from what I've seen isn't such a bad thing, but you sure as hell aren't going to lose the rights to your own workplace."

Rachelle did little more than nod her head solemnly. Mike and Rachelle walked in the opposite direction of Cat's departure and headed out to the main doors.

Once the anteroom was clear, Amanda walked back into the holding room. "Connors and Dawson," she called, and the two marshals in the room walked to their employer. "Go make sure that Mr. Gunn is settled in the safe house. I would prefer that we don't have a repeat performance of this morning."

As soon as the two marshals had left, Amanda returned to the table and spoke out loud, "You can come out now." A panel of the opposing wall slid aside, and a woman entered. "That could have gone better," Amanda complained as she watched her companion slide into the seat Hawke had vacated a few minutes ago.

"Relax, Amanda, everything is going according to plan."

"You almost cost me my prime witness."

"I'd think getting rid of Gunn might be an added bonus," the other woman replied smugly. "The bastard deserves no better. If Hawke had killed him, it would have only strengthened our agenda."

"Did you have anything to do with Francisco?" Amanda asked changing tactics. The surprised look on the other woman's face was enough of a confirmation, and not waiting for a verbal response, Amanda continued, "She's MIA. Nex called to tell me they found her car. It was burned supposedly by the same folks involved in the airport arsons in Burbank."

"Agent Francisco was not part of the plan."

"I know; they also found a body."

"Hers?"

"No, male. Agent Francisco hasn't been seen since last night with none other than Stringfellow Hawke."

"We do not have her in custody. Has anything come in on the line?"

"I've ears to the ground, but no."

"Well, that is curious, but perhaps, we can turn this to our advantage, step up the timetable so to speak."

"So, I continue on?"

"You've got your orders, Amanda; they haven't changed."

1) Translation to English from Gaeilge (Irish Gaelic) –These were found from various sources on the web. Their authenticity is not proven. I don't speak Gaelic. Any errors made are mine with apologies to the Irish.

Bastún – bastard

Go hifreann leat –to hell with you

Tá brón orm – I'm sorry

2) Reference to the Ridgemont Institute: Episode 20, Season 4: The Puppet Master.