A/N: I know, I know, it's been forever! You'll have to forgive me! I was running out of steam, and my AP tests were coming around. But school's over, yay! So now I'll be able to upload more.

Excuse this chapter's shortness. I'm sorry.

Enjoy!

Erin may as well have been put on house arrest. Confined to the humid garage, she wasn't even allowed to go into Tool's tattoo shop, let alone go home on her motorcycle. It sat in the darkest corner, covered in a dark, heavy tarp. The team took turns babysitting again while the rest of the team conducted a massive search.

"Finally," Hale said, jumped to his feet as Christmas entered the garage. "You're turn. I'm grabbing some food." He turned to Erin. "Want anything?"

"What're you getting?"

"Chinese sounds good."

"Get me the usual." Erin watched the man straddle his bike and guide it out the door. She finally met Christmas's gaze. "What?"

"Nothing," the Brit growled, scowling. He meandered through the garage, purposeless, his eyes darting periodically back over to Erin. She lounged on a chair, feet propped up on the nearest elevated object, head tilted back to relieve the tension in her neck. The ears on the wolves tattoo seemed to swivel around and follow Lee's every movement, as though alive and keeping an eye on him while Erin tried to doze.

"We've haven't found shit."

Erin cracked open an eye. "I didn't think you would, but nobody ever listens to me, 'cause I don't know shit."

Christmas shook his head, dragged a chair over to where the former Ravenous team member sat. "Are you sure you never heard a name tossed around?"

Erin sighed, rolled her head to look Christmas straight in the eye. "Would it really matter? You know the CIA. They never tell you the right fucking name. Haven't you seen The A-Team?"

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"The fucking CIA bastard was named Lynch, but it turns out that's not his real name – and then there's some other fucking CIA bastard who claims to be Lynch, only they're pretty damn sure that's not his name either." Erin's eyes fluttered shut. "It's amazing I remembered that."

Christmas stared at her, eyes wandering down the length of her body. Cracking her eyes just a slit, Erin watched Christmas's gaze, amused by the furrow in his brow and the coldness in his eyes as he finally came to the end of her long, long legs. He let his eyes drop to the floor, ruminated in his thoughts. Erin reached an arm up over her head, stretched, feeling every muscle in her body tense pleasurably and then relax. She felt like a wolf that had just woken from his midday nap, ready for the rest of the day and whatever shit it brought to her attention. And like any wolf, she wanted to hunt – badly.

"You guys ever gonna let me leave?" she asked. "Or at least go home?"

Christmas yanked his gaze away from the grease-stained cement. "Not until Ross says so."

"Then get him on the phone and ask." Erin pulled herself up, pushed herself onto her feet. "I'm tired of being stuck here; I'd be better off at home."

"He's probably out driving. He can't answer the phone."

"Yes he can. This isn't fucking California. There're no laws here that say he can't talk on the phone while driving."

Christmas frowned, met Erin's penetrating stare. If they had been anymore childish around each other, the two would've had a staring contest. Lee blinked first, fished the cell phone out of his pocket. The corner of Erin's lips twitched into a smug, pleased grin.

"Talk to me."

"Erin wants to go home."

Ross sighed on the other end. "Can't she wait a few more hours?"

Christmas glanced up at Erin. She had begun to pace back and forth, her agitation evident in her step. "I don't think so, Ross. She looks like she's ready to pounce or something."

"Pounce?"

"Yeah. You know, like a cat."

"A cat."

Christmas passed a hand over his face, shook his head. "Forget it. Do I take her home or not?"

Silence. Then:

"Make sure she wears a full helmet. She can't be seen."

"Got it." Christmas ended the call, shoved the cell phone back into his pocket. Erin glanced over at him expectantly, one eyebrow arched in inquiry.

"Well?" she asked, one hand on the nearest motorcycle.

"Grab my helmet."

"Thank you, Ross!" Erin snatched up the Brit's helmet, slipped it over her head while Christmas straddled his bike. "Gotta love that man."

"Sure," Christmas muttered, his voice lost in the roar of his motorcycle.

The ride to Erin's house was uneventful. Cars didn't slow down when they passed them; nobody on the streets gave them a second glance. It was as though they didn't exist, as if they were invisible to the world and only left ripples of displaced air in their wake. There was a beautiful breeze out, despite the overbearing sun; it nipped at the two mercs' exposed skin, cooling them, sending shivers down their spines. They pulled up into Erin's driveway with no problem, parked the motorcycle within the garage. Erin was quick to ditch the stifling helmet. Christmas yanked Erin's tarp over his bike as the woman flicked through her keys to open the door.

"How's a beer sound?" she asked, finally finding the right key.

"Just what I need."

Erin left the door open for Christmas as she headed into the kitchen. Christmas watched the garage door slid shut before he stepped into the house.

Erin's keys clattered against the floor.

"Get your fucking hands off me!"

Christmas stiffened. "Erin!"

Movement to the right. Christmas twisted, reached for the knife on his hip. The force of a freight train hit him. Pain exploded in his chest, exploded in his side. His skull slammed against the tile; ringing filled his ears. His attacker loomed over him. He struggled, his movements sluggish, heavy. He heard Erin fighting in the kitchen, cussing at the top of her lungs. Drawers banged open and shut; silverware, dishes, pots and pans clattered, clanged against the floor. Christmas tried to push himself up, white bursts of pain blinding his eyes. A fist to his gut, another to his jaw. He clawed against his attacker, tried to swivel the bastard off him. The fucker had to weigh at least two hundred forty, probably stood over six feet tall.

Christmas kicked, elbowed, finally flipped the bastard off him. He stumbled to his feet, the room spinning. His attacker was on him before he could even blink. Christmas slammed his fist into the guy's gut, felt the bastard's Kevlar vest jar against his knuckles.

A gunshot went off in the kitchen.

"Erin!" Christmas yelled.

A knee slammed into his crotch, knocked the breath out of him so hard his vision went black for a moment. He slumped over, gasping, gagging. A boot kicked him down to the floor, pressed against the back of his skull. Nausea rolled in Lee's stomach.

The bastard leaned in close to Christmas's face. "Nighty-night, asshole."

The last thing Lee saw was a boot swinging into his vision.