Chapter VIII: Up Chuck

Charlie felt a cold washcloth on his forehead and groaned.

"Shhh," the woman holding the cloth murmured. "You're safe."

He moaned again and managed to open his eyes a crack. He was small; it seemed that his bedroom was completely dark, but the dim hall light was on and he could make out shapes and shadows.

"Mom?"

His ears were ringing, his head pounded in time with each beat of his heart, and sharp pains shot from his left shoulder into his fingertips. Had he and Don been fighting in the backyard again? He couldn't remember. He reached over to try and stop the sparks from flying down from his left shoulder, but despite his efforts they kept tearing down his arm. He wiggled his fingers—at least they moved properly, if slowly.

His mother's hands tried to soothe him, but they felt strange. Something was wrong. If he could just remember….

He started to sit, but that caused more ringing and throbbing.

"No, stay there." Gentle hands pushed him back onto the mattress. "I don't think—"

"Somethin' 'portant," he slurred.

Don. It had to do with Don. Had to tell Don! If his head would stop pounding for two seconds then he could think long enough to remember. He must have had a fight with Don. How else would he have gotten hurt? They'd been outside on the wet grass. It was a fight about birds, lists, and fists; scenarios, secrets, and scripts; daises, China, and rain. There was a brief lull when he expected his head to pound, but he felt his pulse stutter and in that moment between life and death everything—Janus and Ashby, Colby and Dwayne, Westwood and Markenson—flooded back to him. He struggled to sit up.

And then he threw up.

"Shit!"

"'om?"

"I'm sorry," the woman said apologetically. "My name's Naomi." She twisted the bedside lamp on and he blinked at the harsh light until she angled the shade so the light hit the far wall. This wasn't his childhood room at all.

It was a cell.

Charlie wiped his mouth on his sleeve and waited for his vision to clear a little bit in the now over bright room. There were two Naomis splitting and coalescing before him. He knew that name. Naomi…. Naomi… "Naomi Vaughn?" he asked the clearer one on the right hand side.

"Yes," she unfolded the cloth in her hands which he recognized as a tattered pillowcase from the bed he was sprawled upon. She stared at the cloth as if trying to decide whether or not she should use it to clean up the mess on her shirt, the mess on the bed, or the mess on the floor.

His stomach lurched a second time, but he managed not to puke. "Reporter?"

"If you could call the rag I work for a reporting job," she groused, easing him onto the bed. This time he didn't argue or protest. "And you are?"

"Eppes. Charlie Eppes." James Bond he was not. He'd make a miserable spy. See what playing spy had gotten him: a busted shoulder, split vision, and a spilt dinner. "Where're we?"

"I don't know," she said brushing some chicken chunk remains off of her blouse. "Are you going to throw up again?"

He hoped not. "No. No, I don't think so." His nose twitched as he inhaled the sharp scent of stomach acid.

"Good," she said and glanced around the room looking for something more to use to wipe up his vomit. It was a very small windowless room—smaller than a CalSci dorm room—and the only pieces of furniture were the bed he was lying on and the small table next to it.

There were two doors. The open one lead to a dimly lit bathroom and he could see the sink and toilet. The other was shut and doubtlessly bolted.

"How'd I get here?"

"They, the same men who nabbed me, brought you in about fifteen minutes ago and dumped you here. I was worried you weren't going to wake."

He wished he hadn't.

She refolded the cloth to put a clean section on top and handed it to him. Grateful, he wiped his mouth. "I'll get you some water and a towel, just a sec."

He nodded. That was a mistake.

He sagged boneless on the bed and closed his eyes, so he could hide from reality. If he couldn't see it, it wasn't real. There was something to be said for the wisdom of the ostrich.

"Hey, I don't want you passing out on me again," she scolded and he felt the weight of the bed shift as she sat on its edge. "Open 'em!"

He pried his eyes open and saw she held a paper cup full of water out in front of him.

"Up you get," she said and when he'd propped himself up with his good arm she tipped the cup to his lips. He swished the water around in his mouth, but there wasn't anywhere convenient to spit it out, so he swallowed. He grimaced at the taste, but took another sip.

"I don't suppose there's a toothbrush and toothpaste in there?" he asked weakly.

"Sorry, fresh out. The maids haven't come to clean yet," she joked. Then her smile faded and the line of her jaw turned hard. "We're lucky to have fresh water, quite frankly."

He gave the empty paper cup back to her and let himself sink onto the bed's mattress when the room started to spin a bit too much for his liking. There were several broken springs and the bed had a distinguishable droop in the center.

Naomi had found a towel in the bathroom and she started to mop up his vomit on the floor.

"I'm sorry," he said. He hated how feeble and fragile his voice sounded.

"Don't be. Stay there. I'm bettin' that they gave you quite the concussion when they knocked you out. You must have given them quite the struggle."

"Not like it mattered."

She made several trips from the floor to the sink and when she was done she left the towel and the pillowcase in the bathroom. It still stank in the room, but there wasn't much she could do to fix that problem.

"Look at me," she leaned over him to peer into his eyes. "Your stomach will settle in a bit," she said looking at him critically.

"Promise?"

She smiled. He noticed that she had a pleasantly crooked smile. "The time I had my concussion it was nasty, but it passed." He noted that she neglected to mention how long it took to pass. "However, I'm sure you were out longer than I was." She held three fingers several inches from his nose and he focused on them. "How many?"

"Three."

"Good," she said and dropped her hand into her lap.

"But there were two of you earlier."

She frowned. "Can you follow my finger?" She'd brought her hand up again and moved it to the left. He tracked it as she slowly moved it to the right.

"You have no trouble following movement, but your left eye is much more dilated than the other."

"That's not good is it?"

"Not great, but not horrible. You must have been unconscious for quite sometime."

"In the van…" He'd woken up in the van. He could remember the rush of the freeway traffic. "Then they gave me something."

"Hummm," she said and tapped the finger she'd been waving between them on her lips several times, "that's probably not helping with the nausea. Still, I want you awake and talking. You said your last name was Eppes?"

"Yeah." Resigned he settled himself on the lumpy pillow as best he could.

"Are you related to Don Eppes, by any chance?" She was absolutely a reporter, a reporter who was living something that would probably become one hell of a story.

"He's my brother."

"Brother?" He could tell her mind was going a million miles a minute. "Why'd they kidnap you?"

"Black Rain probably saw my NSA work as a threat."

"You're an NSA agent?"

"I'm a mathematician. I consult for the NSA and the FBI. Why do people always find that so strange? Crime and math make a natural fit." She continued to look at him funny so he added, "They may have hit my head, but I'm not delusional."

"What does a mathematician do to fight terror?"

"I was the one who uncovered the names in Taylor Ashby's Janus List."

"Ahhh... Then you're the one I owe for saving my life before that big, blond beefcake could shoot me. I bet he's the one who arranged for our stay at this lovely establishment."

"This isn't Colby's fault."

"You know the man?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Of course you know him. When your brother took him into custody, it sure looked like he was at fault."

"He wouldn't have shot you."

"And your math told you that?"

The names on the expendable list flashed through Charlie's mind. "Not in so many words, but yes. I know him. I also spoke with him on Sunday afternoon. Colby's a good man. He's trapped just as much as we are."

"It's us trapped in this room not him."

He wanted to argue, but nothing she'd said was false. Colby wasn't here.

"I should've turned that crazy old man away two months ago," she muttered. "The events of the past few days make civil wars and refugee camps look like a cake walk. I never even saw the names on his damn list and it still managed to get me in this hell hole. And you? A mathematician is hardly what I can call threatening."

"Thanks," he said dryly.

"However, they must've seen you as a threat too or you wouldn't be here with me."

"Maybe," he started and pushed a few stray curls of hair out of his eyes. When he pulled his fingers back from his temple they were stained a deep, dark red.

"Damn," she swore. "I thought I'd gotten it to stop bleeding." She retreated to the bathroom and came back with a wad of toilet tissue. "So, you think this Black Rain organization thought I had the names and then they found out you'd seen them?" She dabbed the tissue tenderly at his hair line. "That's why we're here?"

"No," he said fear repooling in the pit of his stomach. "We're bait."

He fought, but it wasn't enough. Don held the gun; he held the chalk. This wasn't even remotely close to the safety of his equations and programs. His stomach heaved and he bolted upright.

"You gonna be sick again?" she asked.

He nodded because it probably wouldn't be wise to speak. They scrambled to the bathroom and he managed to kneel on the floor in front of the porcelain basin before it was too late. In between sobbing breaths—while Naomi held his hair back—he prayed for his mother.

-oOo-

Megan hung up the phone with a frown, reached into her desk drawer, and pulled out a hair tie. She stuck it between her teeth while she finger combed and gathered her hair into a serviceable ponytail. Once her hair was bound it was a relief to have it out of the way. A small relief, true, but with another sleepless night behind her and daybreak spilling sunlight into the eastern sky, she wasn't going to expect any more.

About to close the drawer she spotted her resignation letter. She pulled it out, unfolded it, and reread it. The words felt more real now than they had when she'd written them, especially after the team's unprofessional argument and disturbing revelation in the garage.

Nonetheless she was glad Don had stopped her since she couldn't help him—or Charlie—if she was on the outside looking in. She ripped the letter in two pieces and unceremoniously dumped it into the trash.

Now was not the time to make life altering decisions. She needed to stay for Don's sake.

As near as they could tell, Charlie had been taken shortly after nine o'clock. After she, David, and Colby had left the house the night had been insanely busy: they'd set a trap line on the Eppes' family phone in the—unlikely in Megan's opinion—event that the kidnappers would call; they'd called in a forensics team—despite Colby's assessment of Black Rain's espionage skills—to scour the house, the garage, and Charlie's bedroom; they'd posted guards—overruling Don's objections—at Charlie's house; they'd processed the necessary paperwork—after David's realization that the disappearances must be connected—to search Naomi Vaughn's residence.

As midnight melted into three in the morning they'd quietly begun to gather data about all of Black Rain's official operations, contracts, employees, and governmental ties. Megan knew they would need to tread carefully on any investigation of Black Rain's clandestine activities, but before they could get to that they needed more basic facts.

It was now approaching seven in the morning and they'd entered the lull before data started pouring in for analysis.

"Coffee?" Colby asked dangling a Styrofoam cup in front of her.

"Thanks," she said absentmindedly and accepted the drink, a caffeine boost would be most welcome.

Megan took a sip and that sip confirmed that Colby had brewed the muck himself. It was triple strength, it was bitter, and it was awful. However, all in all, it suited the atmosphere and her mood perfectly. In an odd way it was nice to know Colby's chronic habit of making horrible coffee hadn't changed even though so much of him had metamorphosed in the past week.

Colby had a cup as well and he was stirring the copious amounts of sugar he need to make the brew palatable to his warped taste buds. He kept stirring longer than was strictly necessary before he spoke. "There's probably going to be a few hours sometime in the near future where I'll be unavailable."

"That's a bit vague."

"It's meant to be."

She could rationalize the fact he was shielding her, but she didn't have to like it. "You protecting me?"

"Until the day I die," he said softly.

There was power leashed in his quiet words and she blinked in surprise. He even paused mid stir, startled by his own admission, and his expression revealed that he did indeed feel guilty for abandoning her during the firefight.

"I sincerely hope that won't be necessary," she said after a long moment.

"You'n me both."

"Ummm," she rubbed her neck uncomfortable with both the intensity of his words as well as the reality of it happening. "What else can you tell me about these hours you're going to be unavailable?"

He resumed to whisking the straw in the coffee. "Anything except the name of the person I'm going to meet, the time we're going to meet, the place we're going to meet at, the reason for the meeting, or the matter we're going to discuss."

"And that leaves?"

"Pretty much what you already know."

"If we're going to successfully do what you suggested in the garage, then you're going to have to tell us more."

"Eventually, but it won't be here. And it won't be today. David check in yet?" he asked closing the subject and tapping the tiny straw on the edge of the cup. A coffee teardrop dangled from the end of the straw and he wiped it away on the cup's brim.

"No."

"Don called though. He's on his way in."

Colby made a face and chewed on the straw. "You're gonna have to send him away."

"I know, and I'm not looking forward to it," she took another drink of the sludge. "He does need to check in with the Assistant Director and he asked me to attend the meeting with him."

"That's probably smart." Colby said and continued to eat the straw instead of drinking the coffee. The man's oral fixation was obviously a delaying tactic.

"What?"

"Watch what you guys say."

"That goes without saying."

"It still needed to be said. Look, Dolon's been born and bred as a counterintelligence and counterterrorism expert. He may"—the way Colby stressed the word indicated that there wasn't any doubt about it—"have deep ties with Black Rain and if Don starts to shoot his mouth off, then we're screwed, so you're going to have to rein him in."

"Never thought I'd be policing my superior."

"Never thought I'd be telling you to," he said and the straw bobbed with his words. "Use any trick you need, but get him in and then get him out. The quicker the better."

She sighed and was grateful she didn't have wisps of hair in her face anymore. "Got it."

Colby took the mangled straw out of his mouth, gave a resigned smile. "You also know he's going to try'n take charge of the investigation when he gets here. He's been a leader so long he doesn't know anything else."

"And I'm going to be the one to snatch it away."

"Better you than Dolon."

"Cold logic comes easy to you."

"Logic can't be warm, but it can't exactly be cold either. It is what it is and we've all got to do what we've got to do."

Megan took survey of Granger from head to toe. He was a study in contradictions: tired steel grey eyes, a wise boyish grin, and a relaxed ever-alert stance. Compassion wrapped in a friend; danger packaged in lethal form. Whoever Colby Granger might be it was clear he had focus. "You're a man on a mission," she said.

"One fucked up mission." Colby snorted and stooped to toss his straw into the trash.

Instead of straightening up immediately he put his coffee cup on Megan's desk and picked something else from the trash—her tattered resignation letter. Although it was torn in two he'd clearly figured out the gist of its contents.

"Put it back. There's a reason it's in the trash," she told him.

He hesitated, but obeyed. "I assume there's also a reason you wrote it," he asked straightening up.

She toyed with her Styrofoam cup instead of answering. There were many, many reasons why she'd written it and most of them were still valid: her disillusionment with her superiors, the fact she'd seen how easily the Constitution could be twisted to obtain information about its citizens, the means and methods that could be employed to conjure even more intelligence. Then she'd come back to safety only to be thrown for a loop with Colby's alleged betrayal.

However, Charlie's disappearance trumped it all.

She wasn't a quitter, and if she went out, then she would go out with a bang instead of a whimper. For the past day (and night) she'd been simmering over the knowledge that Westwood has used her for his own ends. If that pig contributed to harming a single curly hair on Charlie's head then she was going to see to it he paid for it.

"Megan?"

She rummaged through the piles of paper on her desk and unearthed the Janus List. Without a word she handed it to him.

He scanned the list and she saw his eyes catch on what must have been his own name near the top, but he forced himself to read on to the bottom. "This is why you asked me about Owen Roybal?"

"He has an extensive military background. If you were going to have contact with anyone on this, I assumed it would be him."

He returned the list to her and grabbed his coffee. "That doesn't explain why you wrote a resignation letter in the first place and why it's now lying in the trash bin."

"I threw it away because I can't help Charlie if I run away," she replied deliberately leaving out an answer to the first half of his comment.

"Run away, humm?" Then he chuckled as if remembering something. "This evening—I mean yesterday evening," he corrected himself and took a too casual swallow of his beverage, "I had a brilliant plan to get smash drunk."

"What stopped you?" she asked wondering where this was going.

"A friend showed up at my apartment."

"Oh?"

"At first I wouldn't answer his questions either. When Charlie's safe we're still going to have to face our problems. If we weren't working," he continued, "I'd take you out for a drink, but since it's so early in the morning I figured I'd bring you coffee instead."

Colby gave her a pat on the shoulder and seated himself at his desk. He busied himself with sorting through various leads and files on the computer.

She took another sip of her coffee and she realized that despite its taste, or perhaps because of it, she savored it. It was the little moments and the small gestures others gave her that mattered. Larry's need to find the time to stop and smell the flowers no longer seemed quite so idiosyncratic. Colby's dual nature even carried to his actions. He may have come with advice about Don, but he must have also noticed her dark mood. He was farther along the road than she.

When had the man become wise?

"Colby?"

"Yes," he said without turning around.

"Thank you again for the coffee."

"Anytime." He still didn't look up from his reading, but the warmth in his voice was unmistakable. They worked side-by-side in companionable quiet for the next ten minutes. He was right. She'd still have to face her emotions after this storm had passed, but it was always darkest just before—

"Don," Colby said greeting their boss.

Megan swiveled around and said, "Morning."

Don tossed his jacket over his chair just like he usually did every morning. "What've you found?" he asked briskly, crossing his arms and waiting for their report.

"We've got preliminary reports from both the garage and Naomi Vaughn's place," Megan replied, slipping into the comfortable reporting role like a glove. "There's nothing conclusive yet because it is too early, but there are some promising leads—"

"You guys should be focusing more on the Black Rain angle," he said keeping his voice low.

Colby glanced over his shoulder to verify no one was lingering nearby to overhear. "We are, but that's something we're going to do carefully," he said.

"Tell me you've at least started."

"David's working on it," Megan assured him. "He went to retrieve the employee list and run some background checks. I expect he'll return soon."

"Good. What else?"

To stall for time she shuffled several sheets of paper on her desktop. Once she found the sheet of paper she wanted she handed it to Don. "Here's the shift rotation for the agents posted to guard the house."

He didn't bother to read it. "Come on, you gotta give me more than that."

Megan swallowed, but knew there wasn't anything more she should give him. She looked to Colby hoping for help.

"We made sure to choose people who have, at the very least, a passing acquaintance with Charlie," Colby added.

"You're both gonna stonewall me?"

"You know we're not. You know how these things work. At this early point there isn't much more that's definite we can give you," Megan said.

Abashed, Don folded the list in half and creased the fold with his fingernails. "It's a bit different being on the other side," he admitted. "You wouldn't believe the all-consuming need to have answers."

"I understand that you feel powerless, but I promise you we'll tell you as soon as we find anything relevant." That was the standard protocol answer. She'd given it hundreds of times before, but it had never left such a bad taste—ashes and acid—in her mouth before. She finished the last of her coffee off in an attempt to mask the imaginary flavor.

It helped very little.

Colby jerked his chin and Megan turned around to see David charging down the hallway like he had attack dogs on his heels.

"I hit the jackpot," David said slightly out of breath when he arrived. He stood on the opposite side of the half wall of glass and handed Megan a fax with LAPD letterhead.

"What is it?"

"There was an apparent suicide at the Westin Bonaventure hotel last night," David reported. "Room service tried to deliver an early morning breakfast and discovered the body."

"Sounds like more of an LAPD matter. Why'd you bring it up?" Megan asked.

"Because the dead man worked for Black Rain less than five years ago and for the last few years he's been a special assistant to Victor Westwood."

"Markenson?" Don asked.

"Justin Markenson," David confirmed and brandished a NSA file.

"What's the supposed cause of death?" Don asked.

"Overdose."

"They sure it's him?" Colby asked, ever the skeptic.

"It's his room," David replied.

"I'd feel better after we get an official ID."

"Then we'll get it," David bristled. Colby and David had danced around each other all night, always proper, always respectful, but never forgetful. It seemed like she was going to have to force the issue. "I got this hot off the presses of departmental exchange. The forensics team is about to head to the scene to start documentation."

Megan put her hands on her hips. "If they're under the impression this is a routine suicide."

"Exactly," David smiled. "I want to go myself."

"I agree, we've got to check this out immediately," Don said, taking charge. "Megan, you should go with David to the scene."

Megan saw Colby purse his lips, but he didn't speak. She was responsible for contradicting Don; if she was going to lead, then she'd better start. She took a deep, settling breath. "Colby and David will go out to the scene," Megan corrected. Colby's expression flickered with irritation, but he did start gathering his jacket and keys. David stiffened, but couldn't come up with an obvious objection. Don just glowered. "You and I have an appointment with the Assistant Director, remember?" she reminded Don gently, purposefully ignoring the sticky friendship issues her orders had also brought up.

"This is more important," Don protested. "You don't need to be there."

"Megan," David interrupted, "are you su—"

"Yes, David, I'm sure," Megan told him firmly. "Gentlemen," she said turning from David to Colby. "I believe you have an assignment."

Both men acknowledged the order and departed, but Megan couldn't help but notice the large gap of space that gulfed between them.

"How wise was it to send them out together?" Don asked her once David and Colby were gone.

"They're going to need time to talk."

"You and I both know their friendship will never quite be the same again."

"Either they work it out, or they don't; we can't baby sit them forever. Besides it's my call."

"Yeah." Don grimaced and his forehead wrinkled. "Old habits die hard," he explained.

"Apology accepted," she replied. That was closer to a concession than she expected. "Are you ready for this meeting?"

He opened his mouth quickly to respond, but no words came out. "Not as ready as I thought I was."

"I'm not going to let you do anything stupid," she assured him.

"How are you going to stop me?"

"Let me worry about that." Honestly, she wasn't sure herself, but telling that to Don would probably be detrimental. "You have enough on your plate."

"Is he here?" Don jerked his thumb towards the hallway of executive offices.

"Got in a half an hour ago." She and Colby had watched the Assistant Director stroll arrogantly from the elevators to his office. Megan stood and stuffed her arms into yesterday's wrinkled suit jacket.

Don didn't say anything as they walked down the hall. Megan made sure to keep a half a step behind him in order to offer him the dignity of leading a little longer. It was another small gesture, but one she offered him without hesitation.

"Just stick to the facts and keep your temper," she cautioned him right before they arrived.

"Easier said than done."

"Let's get Charlie home first. That's the first task. Then we can worry about… other matters."

"I can't stop thinking of him," he muttered and knocked.

Dolon absentmindedly glanced up from his paper-strewn desk. "Agent Eppes. Agent Reeves. What's this flack I hear about Naomi Vaughn being missing?"

"It's not flack, sir, it's fact," Don replied, completely unabashed that he'd yet to report about her disappearance.

"Why didn't you bring this to my attention yesterday?" He may have asked Don, but the Assistant Director shifted his gaze to Megan at the end of the sentence.

Megan bit her tongue and let Don answer. "Yesterday we were unsure."

"Now, you're not?"

"No."

"Seems like it was a bit preliminary to release her from protective custody."

Don didn't even flinch. "Vision is always twenty-twenty in hindsight," Don said coolly sizing up the Assistant Director up.

Megan did the same. Even if Colby's suspicions were true, how could someone who seemed so outwardly benign continue to play such draconian games? Their second task was daunting.

"Is there anything further?"

"Yes, sir. I need to request administrative leave and while I'm gone I'd like to place Agent Reeves in charge of the investigation."

"Excuse me?" Dolon said caught completely off-guard.

"I believe this is more than a single missing person case. My brother's also missing."

"Your brother?" the Assistant Director echoed dumbly.

"You didn't know, sir?" Don asked unable to keep the biting edge from his voice.

"No, I didn't." The Assistant Director calmly looked out the window at the low morning sun.

"It's Black R—"

"Yes, it's black right now, bleak too," Megan butted in, metaphorically stamping on Don's foot. He wore a bitter-lemon expression, but took the hint to shut up. "However, we may have located a third person of interest. He's dead, but I'll be interested in the results of the autopsy. There isn't a positive ID on the body yet," Megan added, deliberately not adding who they suspected it was. "I've assigned Agents Sinclair and Granger to—"

"Granger's about to be reassigned," Dolon wrenched his gaze away from the glass building across the way.

"I know," she said, and in the tension felt the pinpricks of the hair on her arms standing on end, "but it will take some time for the paperwork to clear and since he's a solid Agent I'd like to use him. We all have vested interest in this case."

"Personal interest?" he queried.

"And professional. Dr. Eppes'"—referring to Charlie that way may have felt foreign, but keeping this professional was too important—"techniques have saved us more times than I can count." Even if he wasn't Don's kin, they owed him. Big time.

There was a twist to his lips, but he nodded. "Permission granted."

One hurdle cleared. In for penny, in for a pound. "Furthermore, our initial investigations indicate that some of the NSA work Dr. Eppes was hired for may be related. The current motive is assumed to be retaliation."

She held her breath and the Assistant Director's attention. I'm just an eager Agent doing her job. You like me. You want to hire me.

"Undoubtedly it is," Dolon replied darkly. "However, you should not go sniffing around in the NSA's business."

"I—we—understand," Megan said repressing the urge to shiver. If it turned out that the NSA was in bed with Black Rain she had no intention of acquiescing meekly. Understanding, after all, was different from obeying. Neither did Don. "But would it be possible to receive a list of names from Agent Westwood of people who would have known about Dr. Eppes' work."

"I'll see what I can do. I offer no guarantees, but I will try." As soon as they'd left his office he'd probably be phoning Westwood directly for the complete scoop. Michael Dolon wasn't the sort of man who appreciated being blindsided or kept in the dark.

"Thank you. We both appreciate it," Megan spoke for Don.

"Eppes, I want to apologize for your situation and offer my sincerest condolences to you and the rest of your family."

She didn't like how the man made it seem as if Charlie was already dead and gone. "Thank you, sir," Megan replied speaking for Don, who may as well have been muzzled. "Please let me know the status of procuring information from the NSA as soon as you have the opportunity to ask. I'll do the same with the status of our investigation."

"I'll do so."

"Thank you, sir," Megan said and ushered Don from the room without a backwards glance.

Docile, he let her shepherd him to the safety of their work area. Once he collapsed into his chair, Don cleared his throat like he was emerging from winter hibernation. "I'm glad that's over."

"Me too."

"Do you think he was lying?"

"About knowing Charlie was gone?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think he was. He seemed genuinely surprised," she said, dropping into her own chair. "And pissed," she added a heartbeat later.

"Which means someone is acting without his knowledge."

"That isn't any more of a comfort." Don leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "I don't know how Colby did it," Don admitted.

"Did what?"

"Questioned direct orders from his superior officer."

All in all, they were all locked in quite the nasty moral dilemma, she reflected. "He didn't have another ethical choice and neither do we."

"What if we're wrong?"

"Then we pay the price, but if we're right…." If they were right and did nothing, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. None of them could.

"Tell me there'll be good days again," he whispered.

"Oh, Don." Talk about role reversal. "There will be," she assured him hoping she wasn't lying herself. "Lots of them."

"Thanks. I needed to hear that," he said and smiled at her through his fingers. "I'm just…tired."

"I need you to get some sleep."

He sat up straight and dropped his hands. He knew full well she hadn't slept a wink the previous night either. "If you were me, could you sleep?"

"It would be nice if at least one of us could get some rest and since I need to work, it can't be me."

"I wish I could help."

Megan didn't throw her hands up in the air, but it was a close thing. The man had just formally requested leave and he still wanted to work. Who was Don Eppes without work to define him? She doubted even he knew. "You need to go home, Don," she countered ignoring his protest.

"I don't want—"

"I know you don't," she cut him off gently. "But you're only going to get in the way if you stay. Let us work. Trust us. We'll take care of things."

"That's what I have to do, isn't it?"

"Umm, humm."

He closed his eyelids, and she hoped that he wasn't imagining nightmares behind them. "I don't know if I can."

"You can. Come on, let me drive you home."

-oOo-