Romie's crying quieted, her breathing slowing to hiccups. Wiping tears with the back of her hand, she let her gaze drift over the lifeless body upon her lap. Marta looked as if she were sleeping. Her small hands were tucked together upon her motionless chest, the fingers slightly curled. Romie cupped one of the little hands, studying the tiny, smooth fingernails. Hiccupping another breath, she lifted her gaze to Marta's face, taking note again of the black lashes, the slightly crooked nose, and the round cheeks that had once held the blush of life. A beautiful, innocent child, a precious life, cut short by a bullet fired from her foster son's gun.

Romie tightly pressed a fist to her lips, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks.

Josef heard his wife's renewed sobbing and turned from the window, where he had been staring blindly into the night. For one of the few times in his life, he truly felt the weight of his years. Only the death of their beloved son Phillip had held this same bone-deep agony.

Easing his weary body down upon the couch beside Romie, Josef put his arm around her quaking shoulders and gently tugged. She curled toward him and rested her head on his chest. Silence stretched, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and Romie's sniffling. Josef absently rubbed her arm. He dreaded the moment when he would have to break the news of Marta's death to her parents. She had been their only child, the sunny center of their world.

Mozart was huddled in a ball at Romie's hip, his head upon Marta's leg. His brown eyes rolled, flicking back and forth between Romie and Josef's faces, each flick moving the little tufts of hair over his eyes. With a soft sigh and whine, he shifted his front legs, tucking them tighter against his chest. Fighting another flood of tears, Romie ran her hand over his head and overly large ears. Mozart's little, pink tongue flicked out; briefly curling around her little finger.

Josef stared into the fire he had built before their peaceful night had been shattered by a hesitant knock at the door. The fire was guttering now, dying to glowing, red coals. Josef closed his eyes, then quickly opened them again when the afterimage of the fire painted his inner vision red.

The blood of an innocent child had been spilled tonight. Few things were worse. But it had not been Marta's blood that Josef had washed from his palm after placing her into Romie's arms. There was another victim of this night's horrific events – one suffering physical and emotional wounds. Where was he now? Was he slowly dying, like the fire's flames? Was he as much beyond help as Marta?

Josef rubbed his forehead, praying for the strength to tell Romie his suspicions that Hogan had been badly injured. His wife had already had one terrible shock. He could not bring himself to add to her grief. Not yet.

"What are we to do?" Romie whispered, sniffling. She twisted her head, wiping tears on his shirt.

Josef closed his eyes, breathing a long sigh. "We--"

The front door opened and their son, Kurt, briskly strode in, head bent as he unwound his scarf from his neck. Dropping his briefcase beside the hall tree and dumping the scarf upon one its antlered hooks, Kurt started unbuttoning his coat.

"Such a night! It seemed that I would never get away," Kurt grumbled, hanging his coat upon the hall tree. Finger combing his ice-blond hair out of his eyes, he turned toward the great room and his parents. "Now I am late for the party and --"

He froze, one hand still raised to his hair. His wide eyes took in his parents' stricken expressions and his mother's swollen, red eyes, and then dropped to Marta, noticing her stillness and the little dog huddled miserably on the couch. Breath quickening in dread, Kurt slowly approached the couch, his movements jerky and stiff as a puppet's. His voice came out faltering and quiet.

"What has happened?"

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

"Kinch. A word?"

Tearing his eyes from O'Malley's struggle to remove the bullet from Hogan's chest, Kinch reluctantly followed Newkirk into the tunnel. Their departure briefly drew Carter, LeBeau and Olsen's attention and then they returned to their silent vigil of watching over the surgery. Once in the tunnel, Newkirk threw the men lining the walls a pointed glance and they grudgingly backed away, giving them room and privacy. Kinch put his shoulder to the wall, turned just enough that he could still see inside the room.

"What is it?"

Newkirk held up Hogan's gun belt and with a nod, drew his gaze to the empty holster. "His gun is gone. You know he'd never willingly part with that piece, Kinch. It's his favorite, balanced just right for him alone. It's like a living, breathing part of him when it's in his hand." He passed the gun belt to Kinch and then slid his hands into his trouser pockets, as if needing to warm them.

Kinch slowly turned the oiled leather, grimaced when the light caught on tacky blood spatter. Red used to be his favorite color. No more.

"Another thing," Newkirk continued, suppressed emotion deepening his voice. "What happened to his jacket?"

Kinch shook his head. "Your guess is as good as --"

"Let me through!"

Baker appeared from amongst the men in the tunnel, cap askew from the effort to get to by.

"Kinch! We juh --" The grim tableau beyond Kinch and Newkirk caught Baker's gaze and fear warped his expression. "How bad?"

"Bad enough," Kinch answered simply. "What's going on?"

The question went unanswered. Baker's eyes had locked upon the gun belt in Kinch's hands.

"Baker," Kinch prompted softly. "The radio? You hear something from London?"

Baker blinked and shook his head. "Relay message from Josef Metzger."

"Josef?

Newkirk exchanged puzzled glances with Kinch. "Why would Josef be calling?"

Baker nodded toward the room. "The colonel was at the farm. Josef's worried about him and wants to know if he's okay."

"The guv'nor was at the Metzger's?" Newkirk glanced into the room. O'Malley was still hunched over their CO, his expression appearing grimmer than the last time Newkirk had looked. "What the bloody hell was Colonel Hogan doing there?"

"And where's Orion?" Kinch turned away from Newkirk and Baker and stared at Hogan's face, drawn with pain even in unconsciousness.

"Questions, questions and more questions," he said under his breath, then quietly spoke over his shoulder to Baker. "Tell Josef the colonel made it back and we'll be in touch."

"That's it?"

"For now," Kinch replied, shrugging with a fractional lift of one shoulder. Hearing the full truth of Hogan's injuries would only worry Josef more. He turned his full attention back to the room and the man who was as much a friend as CO. To himself, he spoke the question plaguing everyone's thoughts.

"What happened out there tonight, Colonel?"

TBC . . . Thank you for reading!

Thank you for your help, Marilyn!