Notes: This chapter uses some of the Charlie and Amita backstory found in my first two fics Daisy Irrationality and Greedy Rationality. Also, Colby's quote about crossing lines is taken directly from Two Daughters.

Chapter VI: Chicken

This approach wasn't working; it hadn't been working for several hours. And if Charlie were honest with himself, then he'd admit he hadn't been able to concentrate since he'd left Don with Colby's classified file earlier in the afternoon. Charlie hadn't expected flowers, candy, or even an apology, but the tightly controlled anger had been a surprise. Don's anger hadn't been directed at him like that since high school.

Pride goes before a fall and Don's had just taken a tremendous beating. Don deserved to know Colby's actions weren't his fault and if that meant Charlie had to stay in the dog house, then so be it.

They may have grown up, but they were still the same two boys: the jock and the genius, the gun-toter and the chalk-wielder, the protector and the protected. Charlie snorted. After thirty years, couldn't Don see that he had grown up?

He knew what he was doing. He did! Except…

Except his approach wasn't working; he glared up at his chalkboard. He was missing something, he knew it, and he had no idea what. He groaned and tossed his stick of chalk into the tray. His shoulder muscles were harder than rocks, his right hand was cramping from gripping the chalk for too long, and he had a crick in his neck from writing terms high up on the blackboard.

How do you distill someone's life into an absolute yes or an absolute no? Even if that person was a spy, was it possible for them to fully comprehend the consequences of all their actions? They couldn't. He could. He'd need a matrix to—he quashed the train of thought. He didn't have the time.

He sighed. A binary yes and no lacked the beauty of a number line, which could stretch to infinity and which could also be divided into another kind of infinity. Numbers could allow for ambiguity and for error margins. He held the lives of hundreds of people in his hands, thousands and millions if he counted the population of the United States. He was the one protecting them.

And this…. This was brutal and he couldn't afford to fail, couldn't afford to condemn the wrong people.

Did Don ever feel nerves like this?

"Problem?" Markenson—his almost ever present babysitter—asked from his position on the couch.

"No," Charlie lied. "Just a crick in my neck." To prove his point Charlie brought his left hand up to massage his right shoulder. Rocks were softer than this. He turned from the blackboard to the laptop resting on the table.

Charlie had been up half the night before chasing (thrice damned) closing parentheses to build a Minimax model in Lisp to simulate the game of spy like the game of chess. It was a half-hacked model with none of the graceful code Amita would have written, but it ran. And it produced quick tangible results both Markenson and Westwood could understand. The particular scenario calculating right now played out a Chinese attack.

"Is the next run done yet?" Markenson asked leaning forward.

"No, not yet," Charlie said. "There's probably"—he checked his watch—"another five minutes of calculations left." He brought up the status screen and it confirmed that nineteen out of twenty steps were completed and the final one was nearly half done.

"Oh, alright," Markenson sagged back onto the couch.

Needing a break from his equations he paced around the computer. Maybe it would get the blood flowing again. "How long have you been with the NSA?" Charlie asked Markenson for something to talk about.

"Four years next January."

That was a surprise. Justin Markenson wasn't that young. This couldn't have been his first job. Sure his ginger hair was still mostly full, but it was starting to thin. He wouldn't have to worry about the Hair Club for Men for another five years probably, but he'd long since lost his college baby face. A choice Charlie was grateful he wouldn't have to make.

"What?" Markenson asked shifting in his chair at Charlie's scrutiny.

"Sorry," Charlie glanced down at the computer again to force himself to stop staring. Seventy percent. "I would have guessed longer. What did you do before? Military?"

"I worked for an international agency," he replied vaguely.

"Which one?"

"Do you care?"

"Not particularly. Just making conversation. Your boss is a real piece of work, you know that?"

"He's a bastard," Markenson agreed, "but he gets results. I'm good at what I do and I did a lot to get here, so I do what I'm told," he shrugged. And he'd been told to supervise Charlie's every move. The man must have been played over a hundred games of Solitaire and Aces Up and Clock in the past several hours. He'd finally won Clock and had pocketed the cards in victory fifteen minutes ago.

Charlie did several forward shoulder rolls trying to loosen the tightness in his shoulders. "You can't enjoy being bossed around so much. Does he ever let you have an opinion on something more important then where to eat lunch?"

"Occasionally I get to pick the dinner restaurants too," he said dryly.

Charlie smirked and reversed the roll of his shoulders. "How many of these men and women do you know?" Charlie asked briefly tilting his head to his lists on the blackboard across the room.

"Most of them."

"Personally?"

"Of course." The man was almost cavalier.

Charlie dropped his shoulders and sighed. He needed to talk to someone and seeing as how his usual sounding boards weren't available Markenson would have to be an acceptable substitute. "Then how can you feel so at ease deciding who should live and who will die?"

"It's a dangerous world, Professor. Those of us who fight in it know the ends justify the means." His eye narrowed. "Are you having second thoughts about your analysis?"

"No. I'm just—" The computer beeped saving him from having to elaborate on his answer. "It looks like the algorithm has completed the first China scenario," told Markenson.

"Who's where?" The NSA agent asked standing up and joining Charlie in front of the laptop. Markenson peered over Charlie's aching shoulder. He tried not to flinch at the invasion of his personal space. "Roybal's essential again?"

"Looks that way. Here, let me print out the full result set," Charlie suggested.

"Okay," Markenson said and obediently went to the printer. It immediately began to purr into life. Charlie scanned the lists of essential agents and expendable agents. He shivered; Colby was listed as expendable again. Keying up the second scenario Charlie fought the urge to cross his fingers when he hit the start button.

"Charlie? Are you out in the garage?" Amita called out from inside the house.

He made a quick glance at Markenson. "She come out here?"

"Fine with me."

"Yeah, come on back," he hollered.

"Hey," she greeted him. She would have said more, but she spotted Markenson and clammed up. She was dressed in jeans and a halter top, which concealed more than enough to be decent while hinting at all that wasn't. She looked good. Really, really good. He wished Markenson wasn't in the room so he could kiss her hello properly. Instead he settled for a brief peck on her cheek.

"Hey, yourself."

"Can I talk to you privately?" she asked.

"You guys stay here," Markenson said grabbing the last sheet from the printer and excusing himself. "I have to go check in with Westwood anyways. He'll want to get an update on the latest run." The man left the garage with his phone already plastered to his ear.

"Hi," Charlie said suddenly shy once they were alone with no interloper listening in.

"Millie sent me."

"Oh?"

"Grades are due two days from now," she reminded him.

Shit! There was no way he was going to be able to finish them in time. He'd barely had time for sleep the past couple of nights. Where was he going to find the time to flunk three students, pass dozens more, and award As to the brilliant ones? Well, it looked like he was going to have to make the time. He didn't need to face Millie's wrath, or give any more support to her assertion that his crime work took precedence over his teaching. This week it might be true, but there were extenuating circumstances. "I've got two days. That's plenty of time."

"Charlie, have you even restarted grading the finals?"

"I haven't—"

"Where are they?" she asked cutting him off.

"Over there." He pointed to four stacks of papers, which had been discarded on the air hockey table. "Why?"

"Because I'll grade them for you."

"You don't—"

"You don't have the time," she repeated changing the end of his protest. "And since the NSA won't let me help you with the case, I can help you with your grading. It's the least I can do."

His shoulders slumped now that the metaphorical weight of pounds of essays was lifted. "Thank you." He had enough to contend with without imagining Jeremy Durkin's heartbroken face when he saw his grade.

"I'll just grab them and get out of your way so you can work," Amita said walking to stack all the exams together. "Is your grade book here as well?"

"On the bottom," he replied.

She lifted a tattered stack and unearthed the book to verify it was indeed there.

"Can you stay?" he blurted out. "I mean…would you stay for dinner? I'm almost done with my work for this afternoon. Oh, you should be proud of me incidentally." Charlie waved at the humming computer.

"You hate writing in Common Lisp," she chuckled when she saw the interface.

"I know, but I did it. And," he returned to his plight, "since Dad all but ordered me to get Don to come tonight, I don't want to face a family dinner alone."

"You sure?" she asked leaving the papers on the air hockey table and returning to him. "If your father wants a quiet dinner with just the three of you, then I don't want to intrude." He didn't say anything further because she was getting to the point where she could read him like a book. Two seconds later comprehension dawned and her expression cleared. "You had a fight." The fact she could read him that well was probably both a blessing and a curse.

"That's putting it mildly."

"With Don?"

He nodded.

"About what?" she inquired.

"About all this," he gestured to the chalk covered blackboards, to the computer running his time intensive, costly program, and to the door Justin Markenson disappeared out of. "He wanted me to drop the assignment. We haven't fought like that in years. I know he's exhausted, but being around him right now is like dancing on eggshells. And…" He might as well get this off his chest. "And I hate to admit it, but he's probably right. I'm not too wild about the assignment myself, but now I can't take it back."

"Because you've put your ego on the line?"

"That and I signed a contract." He snorted. "But, yeah, ego's most of the reason. He wouldn't let me help him—still won't—so I did the next best thing."

"Sometimes," Amita said with a wry smile and a glace at his exams, "the best way to help is to just be there."

He rocked back on his heels. "You're right."

"It took me a while to realize that, but I'm happy I finally did."

It was humbling to see their situation paralleled with his and Don's. When the time came, he hoped he could bear it as charitably as she. "Did you…ummm…did you get the flowers?" he asked trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

"They arrived this morning. You always give me daisies."

"You don't like them?"

"I do," she soothed him. "They're lovely!"

To assure him of the truth she leaned in and kissed him: full and wet and wonderful. That relaxed his shoulders more than his self-massage. "I'm glad," he whispered against her lips.

When she eased back she wore a teasing, crooked smile. "I'm just wondering why you always choose daisies."

He cleared his throat to stall for time, but knew the longer he stalled the quicker he could dig himself into a hole he'd never climb out of quickly. "Because of that first night two years ago, that one disastrous, perfect night."

"What's that have to do with daises?" she asked not following.

"Before you finished your thesis," he said trying to keep the blush from heating his cheeks anymore than they already were. "I had a daisy," he explained. "You know the chant: 'She loves me. She loves me not?'" She was looking at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Anyways, that's why I always send daisies."

Here eyes were wounded soft. "That's something you doubt?"

"No," he said framing her face between his palms and focusing on her full lips. "No, not now. Not anymore." To prove it he bussed her mouth again. Lightly. Nimbly. Teasingly. "She loves me a little?" he asked.

"She loves you a lot," she countered and added a kiss of her own for good measure.

"Passionately?" he asked between kisses and slid his hands from her face to bury them in her silky hair. How he loved the feel of her hair. How he loved the feeling of her!

"Madly." She showed it too.

He broke the series of kisses when the backs of his legs stumbled into the couch. She pushed him wickedly and he sat, shocked and dazed. And hard. Poised above him the light behind her head caused an aura to glow around her. Then, without any shame she climbed into his lap and wiggled.

"Agent Markenson is going to come back any minute," he protested with words even while his body sold him out.

"Then we'd better be quick," she replied. She nibbled his neck and shifted her hips leaving no doubt as to what she wanted.

He wasn't in any position to—or about to—complain.

-oOo-

"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice," Don mentioned to Dr. Bradford as they headed into the psychiatrist's office.

"Don't worry about it. I had a cancellation at six, so contrary to what my secretary may have said, I was open. Come on in and let us get started." Dr. Bradford took his seat and Don sat in his usual leather chair. It was comfortable now, unlike the first few times.

"So," Dr. Bradford parted his hands, "How has the last week been for you?"

"Not so great."

"I didn't see anything in the news, but did anyone on your team get hurt in a firefight?" he asked.

"No, no one got shot." Don said scrubbing his face with his hands and then ran his fingers through the spikes of his hair above his forehead. It only it could have been that simple.

"Family problems then?"

Don laughed wryly. "You could say that." The jumbled events of the past few days seemed almost overwhelming, but piece by piece he brought Dr. Bradford up to speed on the Taylor Ashby bombing, Granger's duplicity (Dr. Bradford hardly turned a hair with the revelation of Granger's ties to Chinese Intelligence), and his argument with Charlie. "And now," he finished up, "my loyalty is being questioned by my superiors and I don't want to go home. So, all in all, it's been a hell of a week."

Dr. Bradford folded his hands in his lap and leaned forward. "Then I'm glad you came. Do you blame Colby for this?"

"I trusted him—despite my serious misgivings about Dwayne Carter from last October—and…and…"

"And he let you down?" Dr. Bradford finished for him.

Don sighed. "That's part of it."

"What's the other part?"

Don slouched and tilted his head back against the grey leather chair. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

He pulled in a deep breath. He wished he could deny it, but he couldn't. "I do," he confirmed. "I can't help but imagine what I'd have done if I were in his shoes."

"How so?"

"Granger's good, you know, good at interviewing, good at interrogation. I don't believe I've ever seen him lose it while he's been questioning a witness or suspect," Don said.

"And you have?"

"We all have. That's part of the job—part of the territory that comes with being an Agent."

"When was the last time you lost control?"

Don thought for a moment. "The case that sent me to you. The interrogation of Buck Winters during the Crystal Hoyle mess. Megan'd been kidnapped and we were all wanting to take it out on somebody. I'd roughed the kid up, closed the blinds, and walked out of the interrogation room as Edgerton went in. I would have done anything to get Megan returned safely to us. Granger caught me coming out. He asked if I was sure this was what I wanted to do. I blew him off. And he said—I can still remember the exact wording—he said he'd 'seen what happens when you cross certain lines. It can be really hard to find your way back.' He knew what was going on. He knew I was kiltering on the edge."

"That doesn't mean he's never lost it."

"Oh…I know, but I wonder…"

"Wonder?" Dr. Bradford prompted.

He let the moment stretch out before answering. "I keep wondering what I'd do if it were Dad or Charlie or Liz," Don whispered.

Don scrutinized the palm fronds blowing slightly in the breeze outside the window. They had built up a steady rocking motion; they'd reach one side and instead of snapping, the limber trunks would pull the trees' center of gravity back to the middle ground.

"Charlie shoved some information down my throat this afternoon. About Granger's past. Information I should have searched for and requested myself earlier this week. For nearly three weeks…" Don trailed off catching himself. "It's classified so I can't give you the details."

"There's no need to elaborate. I understand. Go on. You were worried about filling his shoes."

"I can't imagine what it must have been like to be ordered to do something that would force you to be unable to protect yourself, force you to become a pawn in a larger game. To be given no choice in the matter. To have to sell your soul and have the owners continue to pick at it. That takes…" What was the right word?

"Grace under fire?"

"Yeah," Don replied and then he snorted. "I've never thought of him as graceful before," he said and, still slouched in the chair, turned his head to Dr. Bradford. "Hardheaded, cocksure, fast and loose, yes. But not graceful. In an odd sort of way I admire him for living through a nightmare, but what were the circumstances when Granger did lose it? What was the situation? He was speaking from personal experience. And now I know he's been on both sides. Even when I was questioning him Friday—he was rattled, sure—but David was right, he never lost control. He had it and I didn't. He was able to pull himself from the edge and maintain discipline. That's gotta take strength, man."

"It sounds to me like you envy Colby Granger."

"No." Don moved to shift in the chair and he had to pry his bare forearm off the leather. "I told you a while ago that I was worried that Granger'd seen too much. He has seen too much. He knows too much. He has done too much."

"More than you?"

That question cut him to the bone and he pulled in a deep breath. "Yes, more than me," Don admitted. "And I can't help but speculate about what I'd do if I were in his position. Would I have done anything different in the past few years? Would I have had anyone to turn to? Knowing he was held hostage for nineteen days, shouldn't make a difference to me."

"But it does?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Dr. Bradford never asked easy questions.

"Because it feels like I…." he trailed off and then in a very small voice Don asked, "Did I fail him?"

"Did you?"

"I…" The fronds outside rustled to center. "I hope not."

"You need to be asking that to Colby Granger, not me. He's the one who has your answers." Dr. Bradford replied.

"I've put my life and my team's life in his hands on a regular basis. You can't do this job and not. I'm the boss. I have one agent who's a spy, another who lost his best friend, and a third who wants to quit. What kind of a boss am I?"

"The fact that you're even asking the question says a lot," Dr. Bradford said and then allowed Don several minutes to stare out the window before their session ended.

-oOo-

He should eat. He knew he should.

"You all finished with that, Donnie?" his father asked about to reach for Don's half-eaten plate of grilled chicken and carrots.

"No, I'll finish it," he replied. Why was lifting up his fork one of the hardest things he'd done all day?

"You picked at your food all night. Should the chef be offended?" His father took his seat across the now empty table. He could hear Charlie and Amita laughing in the kitchen as they loaded the dishes into the dishwasher.

"It's good," Don said, sighed, and put the fork down on the plate. He and Charlie had been cordial if not warm during dinner and they'd let Amita and his father direct the conversation. Neither brother had apologized, but they'd reached an unsaid understanding: I won't mention it if you won't.

"Charlie's in the other room. You want to talk about it?" his father asked full of maddening compassion.

Don kept his gaze on the carrots, they were fresh and home garden grown. They should have tasted spectacular. "What did Charlie tell you?"

"Nothing."

"Then how did you know?"

"That's how I knew it was bad. You had a fight."

Don didn't bother to contradict the statement.

"And so you spent the last half an hour pushing your food around your plate like a toddler? You've had plenty of fights with your brother before. Is there more bothering you?"

"It's all tied together. I went to see Dr. Bradford after I got off work this evening."

"Oh?"

"It wasn't a good session," Don said and reached for the fork again. Food was preferable to spilling his guts.

"I'm sorry to hear it."

He chewed his tasteless meal while his father watched him like a hawk and Charlie and Amita began to horse around in the kitchen. How could they be so giddy while his world was falling apart? He needed sleep and lots of it.

"It's been suggested that I should talk with Granger."

"Who's suggested that?"

"David, Charlie, now Dr. Bradford. I'm sure I could scrounge up a few more names."

His father's expression told him he'd make a really quick fourth name. "And you don't want to?"

"I don't have anything to say to him!"

His father crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. "It sounds like you've made your decision then."

"You're damn right, I have." Don used his fork to cut up a few more pieces of the chicken and shoved them into his mouth. He swallowed the mouthful of food and reached for his water glass to wash it down. "I interrogated him Friday night. I've read the Assistant Director's official statement. Charlie gave me his classified file. I told him this morning that he'd be transferred as soon as I could draw up the proper paper work. There isn't anything else to discuss." He slammed the glass as if to indicate his decision was final.

"I understand."

"Do you?" Finished with his dinner Don pushed the plate away. "Is the part where you tell me some cute, little metaphor and tell me everything is going to be alright? I'm a little old for fairytales."

"You're a little too old to be throwing temper tantrums too." His father hardly batted an eyelash; he leaned back in his chair and looked at Amita's empty place. It had been Mom's years before. "Over the years, I've learned not to argue with your mother when she was dead set on something. This house for instance."

Don stared at the drinking glass as if it were the Holy Grail.

"I didn't think we could afford it with an infant—you were hardly walking—my parents would now be on the far side of town, plus there were plenty of more practical places we could have chosen. However, she'd fallen in love with the place. She begged. We argued. The realtor moved heaven and earth to make a fair deal, your grandparents were so enthusiastic, my co-workers were very encouraging. She won."

Finally, Don looked up.

"Two years after the deed was signed, I lost my job with the firm I started with after college. Reorganization. The new salary I got at the City Planners Office wasn't nearly as much. I tried to convince her that we needed to sell the house. She wouldn't budge.

"I remember that." In his mind's eye he remembered creeping down the stairs after he'd been put to bed. He'd wanted a drink of water, but had gotten much more than that. "Mom said 'this was our home and you were a fool to not to realize it.'"

"I was a fool not to realize it. She was right and it took me four years and a promotion before I could admit it. I'd been arguing all the logical points: money, security, practicality. From the standpoint of the brain, I may've been right, but contrary to Charlie's prostrations, logic isn't everything. It thrills me that Charlie bought the house. He fought for his home, when I tried to sell it. I was a fool again."

Don smiled. "You trying to tell me you can't argue with the heart?"

"Oh, you can argue with heart all you want, but when everyone you know is giving you the same advice you're a fool not to take it. Or you're a chicken." Alan stood up. "I didn't raise a fool, or a chicken."

Charlie stuck his head through the kitchen door. "You done with dinner, Don? Your plate's all that's left to go into the dishwasher."

Don stared at the remains of his meal. Was he a fool? He didn't need to trust Granger in order to hear his side of the story. He didn't need to change his mind; the man was still going to be shipped off to another Regional Office. He didn't have anything to lose by speaking with him.

"Yeah, he is," Alan said, piled the used silverware on top, and handed the plate to Charlie.

"I interrupt something?" Charlie asked taking the plate with one hand and pointing between Don and their father with the other.

"I'm done with it," Don said.

"Okay..." his younger brother said drawing the word out in a disbelieving tone. Don saw his father shake his head and Charlie changed the subject. "Amita's got the ice cream all dished out, do either of you want chocolate sauce?"

"Yes," his father said.

"One for chocolate. Don?"

He was now staring at the empty plate still in Charlie's hands as if it held all the answers he was seeking. Home is where the heart is. Granger's home sure as hell wasn't his apartment. His home was his work. He'd made that plain this afternoon by having the guts to show up at the office. What if his home was also…his friends?

"Don?" Charlie asked again.

"No thanks."

"One chocolate and one no chocolate, then. They'll be coming right up."

"Sounds good," Don said in a hollow voice.

Charlie pushed the door open with one shoulder and delivered the order to Amita. Instead of entering the kitchen he turned around. "I did interrupt something, didn't I?"

"Yes, but it's fine," Don admitted.

Charlie nodded and joined Amita in the kitchen.

Don turned to his father and grumbled, "I still say that was a cute, little metaphor."

His father raised his eyebrows in that smugly superior way that suggested his little boy made a good decision. "Did it work?"

"Perhaps."

"One chocolate?" Amita asked coming into the dining room with heaping bowls full of ice cream.

"Mine," said Alan.

"And than must mean you are the no chocolate," she said and scooted the second bowl in front of Don.

Amita licked the extra chocolate off her thumb and sat down in his mother's chair. She belonged there now. Charlie brought in two more bowls and doled out spoons to the four of them.

Fresh spoon in his hand he realized if he didn't go immediately, he'd lose his nerve. It would be too easy to let Granger slip away, tail tucked between his legs. What kind of a boss was he if he didn't at least ask what Granger's motivations were?

A poor one.

"There's something I need to do," he pushed himself away from the table and dug his car keys out of his pocket.

"You hardly touched the ice cream!" exclaimed Charlie.

"I have someone I need to talk to." He was going to have to talk with Gra—Colby. Colby. Don to Colby not Eppes to Granger. Even if all the conversation did was convince him he wasn't chicken it was something he had to do. He was sure his father was smirking.

He wasn't chicken!

-oOo-

Charlie's blackboard was covered with equations and numbers, lists and graphs, Greek symbols and mathematical symbols. Markenson had relaxed Westwood's absurd rule about constant supervision for the evening and it was nice to work without distraction since the house was quiet; Amita had left after dinner and his father had headed up to bed earlier than usual, which left Charlie alone with his work in the garage. The laptop beeped to announce the completion of Chinese Scenario Two and he spun, chalk still in his hand, from the blackboard to the computer.

The results blinking on the screen weren't any better than those of Scenario One. Frowning he printed out the detailed results set and set Scenario Three to run. It was the most complicated and would probably take all night to finish.

Retrieving the printouts he brought them over to the air hockey table and spread the detailed results out next to those of Scenario One. He pushed the test papers Amita had forgotten further into the corner to give himself more room. She'd no doubt get to her apartment, realize they were missing, and return to the house to collect them. Then he'd have the chance to convince her to stay the night.

There were similarities between the two runs: the most notable being that Colby ended up on the dead and expendable side both times. He transferred the chalk from his right hand to his left and picked up the red marking pen.

He circled a few anomalies for later review and stood back to look at the whole picture. It wasn't a pretty one. He felt it again…just like earlier. There was some variable missing.

He listed the major inputs in his head: the US, the Chinese, each individual agent, all the affiliated government agencies on both sides, the population as a whole.

Who gained the most in a US-Chinese war? Neither side would actively seek an open confrontation any more than the US and Russia had during the Cold War. Both sides had too much to lose especially when the status quo had served them so well for years.

He looked around the room for inspiration hoping something would spark a connection: dirty laundry piled in baskets on the washer, empty suitcases waiting for vacation, spider webs dangling from the rafters, splintery wooden support beams held the Craftsman house steady.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!

Outside the sprinklers hissed to life to water the yard.

Why did his visions only work when there were others in the room or he had someone to impress?

He clenched his fists and the piece of chalk split into two. Naturally, the smaller of the two pieces was left in his hand. He stooped to pick up the fallen piece from the floor when he heard the door to garage open behind him.

"Amita, it is good you're back. I was hoping—"

It wasn't Amita.

Charlie saw a rush of black fabric just before a violent shove forced him to the cement. His shoulder hit the floor hard and he cried out as white-hot pain shot into his fingers like fire. A brutal kick to the gut ended the cry and knocked the wind out of him. Charlie doubled up into a ball on his side. His assailant rolled him over onto his back and his head bounced off the floor.

Stars bloomed like novae in front of his eyes.

Dazed Charlie watched them dance on the ceiling. A masked man crouched over him blocking out the lights from the lamps above, but not the star-like pinpricks of light.

A hand covered his nose and mouth. When he tried to squirm away a firm voice ordered, "Stay still!"

He kicked, but hit only empty air. He spun on the ground and tried again and his shoe kicked the chalkboard. It rolled back on its wheels hitting the washer and dryer. The clang made his already sensitive ears ring. The hands on him slackened, but a second later gripped him even harder than before.

"Do not move," the voice growled in his ear.

The man pinned him on his side and ground his bruised shoulder into the floor. The pain flared up again worse than before. He felt what could only be a gun pressed into the small of his back. He arched to try and get away from it, but the man kept it firm. The hand covering his mouth disappeared and the man shoved him onto his stomach. A knee replaced the gun and he couldn't get in a full breath.

He grunted when the man wrenched his injured his arm back and bound it to his good one. The pain increased tenfold, but he moaned and couldn't do anything else except endure it.

"Clear?" a second, deeper voice asked.

"I've got him."

And bound like a turkey there wasn't anything he could do about it. Trying to clear his mind he focused through the whirl of stars on what was in front of him. The laundry bin had fallen off the washer, darks mixed with lights on the ground. Dad was going to be pissed because he couldn't keep them separate. He blinked again and the stars dimmed.

He couldn't keep his NSA work separate from his FBI work? Why shouldn't that be reflected in the laundry?

The first voice cut into his thoughts, saying, "Move or speak and you die."

In too much pain to do either he didn't scream and didn't retaliate while he was manhandled into an awkward sitting position. That brought the stars back and the garage whirled around him. His stomach lurched; he was going be sick!

"Where's your father?"

He wasn't going to puke. He wasn't.

"Answer me!" the man demanded and shook him.

"He," Charlie swallowed down the rising bile, "he went," another swallow, "to bed."

A blindfold plunged him into darkness and the gag stuffed down his throat forced him to concentrate solely on breathing.

"Take him to the van," the second voice ordered. "I'll check upstairs."

Upstairs?

Oh! God! Dad! Oh God!

He choked trying to scream. The man hauled him to his feet and he swayed when his feet failed to hold him. He tried to find balance, but felt too dizzy. Charlie fought to keep conscious so he would eventually be able to tell Don something about them.

Anything about them.

They pushed him forward and Charlie stumbled. His left arm was throbbing now, the pain completely overwhelming the racing of his heart. Obviously annoyed with his slow speed the man picked him up.

He was useless, worthless, and there wasn't anything he could do.

Charlie strained to hear the fire of a gun upstairs, but it never came. The only sound he could hear from outside the garage was the hiss of the sprinklers and when the drops hit the grass they sounded like rain. He went limp and the feeble light though the blindfold wasn't enough to overtake the black. It wasn't Don's pride falling; it was his.

Then there was just the black and just the rain.

Black. Rain.

-oOo-