Author's notes: Thank you all for the "welcome back" encouragement.

…

PART TWO

-Friday, evening-

"Smittyyy…."

The last vowel of the name rose in pitch as Ezra showed his disapproval of Terrance Smith's idea. The informant had ignored instructions for the type of deal he had been told to arrange and took the initiative to organize a "special offer" for arms dealer Ezra Simpson.

The southerner glanced at Vin, who stood beside him on the dark downtown street. The crisp evening air didn't appear to faze the Texan and he calmly listened as Ezra addressed him. "Tell me I didn't hear him correctly."

"Ya heard right, Ez," drawled Vin.

Ezra turned his gaze once more on Smith, clearly about to protest, but the wiry thirty-something in the leather Broncos jacket spoke first.

"C'mon, Ez, buddy—ow!" Smith rubbed the side of his close-cropped, bleached-blond head where Ezra had smacked him with an open hand.

"Don't call me that." Ezra's tone was on the lighter side, but he made it clear he was serious. "Don't ever call me that. There are only a handful of individuals whom I allow to use that particular familiarity. You are not one of them." The southerner flashed a wide smile. "You may use Ezra or Mr. Simpson. That is all."

"All right, all right… jeez. Look, Ezra, the only reason I told Artie you'd go for the deal is because it's sweet! Sweet like meat, sweet like butta', sweet like your mutha'." He flinched as he saw Ezra's open palm again. "Hey! Okay, sorry, sorry…." Smith pulled an unseen piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue and took another drag from the unfiltered Lucky Strike in his right hand. He tried again to convince the ATF agents that they didn't really want what they had originally asked him for—to set up a deal for one hundred AK-47s.

"C'mon, I'm telling you, if you want to get in good with Artie's boss this is the way to do it. I told Artie you do most of your business south of the border, and he knows you're not some blue-light special who only gets what's fast and easy, but c'mon, anybody can buy a hundred AKs."

Ezra used this opportunity to reiterate his stand on the idea of a "mystery buy". "Yes, Smitty, and any idiot can go into a deal not knowin' what's goin' to be there!" He looked to Vin. "Correct me if I'm mistaken, Mr. Travers, but this certainly screams 'blue-light chump' to me."

Smith jumped in. "Now wait, wait… Artie told me the shit Vargas has is top-notch hot. Definitely not something you're gonna be able to pick up anywhere. He said if you have clients looking for autos, they'll piss themselves over what his boss got his hands on. And like I said—same quantity of one hundred pieces, with ammo, and it's yours for just over a hundred G's."

Smith received only impassive stares from both ATF agents but he kept on with his sales pitch.

"Look at it this way…what's more impressive? The guy who takes the last base model F430 on the Ferrari dealer's lot… oooorr, the dude who shows up at the dealership and says, 'I've got a party to go to, give me something to match my lady's dress'. You buy into this deal and it's gonna show you're a big dog. Make this deal with Artie and he will get you to Ian Vargas."

Ezra again felt the urge to smack The Weasel but pointed over the man's shoulder instead. "Go do somethin' over there."

Smith sighed in an exasperated fashion yet did as he was told.

Ezra looked to Vin but the Texan spoke first. "My gut's tellin' me the same thing yours is tellin' you."

"And that would be how easily Smitty's murder could be made to look like an accident?"

Vin showed a small grin. "The point he was tryin' to make about the Ferrari is right, pard. It'd show you got enough capital to buy somethin' outta the ordinary, and the right connections to move the stuff once ya got it, no matter what 'it' is."

Ezra sighed. "I know. I'd come to the same conclusion." He ran a hand through his hair. "Apparently my 'gut' has wrestled my brain to the ground and incapacitated it. I do believe this is the way to go."

Vin shrugged. "If it makes ya feel any better, so do I."

" '…And the ship of fools broke all the rules and sailed merrily along…' " Ezra wrapped his hands tightly in a ball and breathed on them to instill some warmth. "But youhave to tell Chris about this… He likes you better."

"Nah," corrected Vin, "I just irritate him less."

Ezra signaled for their paid informant to return, and then addressed the man in a less-than-delighted tone. "Tell this 'Artie' of yours, I'm interested."

Smith grinned, showing a row of cigarette-stained, uneven teeth.

"But," added Ezra, "you tell him I will call you tomorrow afternoon with my final decision. Now go away before I find a reason to hit you again."

Smith backed away, making a show of bowing as he left. Ezra glanced at Vin. "At least the phone call will let me back out if the powers-that-be slap us down. And I'm sayin' now—it will be a sanctified miracle if I get the okay for the buy-money on this. One hundred thousand…good Lord."

"The Fibbies are the ones leading this hunt for Vargas, just get it from them."

Ezra let out a small groan. He was so used to dealing just with his own bosses he had honestly forgotten to consider whether the other agencies involved with the Vargas operation would back his decision. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. "I will be a laughin' stock if this brilliant idea doesn't play out well."

"I wouldn't worry about it, Ez. I don't think your reputation could sink any lower at the FBI."

Ezra fixed his partner with a sideways glance. "That's not funny, Mr. Tanner."

Vin smiled and slung his arm over the southerner's shoulders as they walked back to Ezra's Jaguar. "You're secure with us, pard."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better." Ezra shook his head in a defeated manner. "I am actually listenin' to Smitty the Weasel. What's next… fashion advice from Buck?"

…

-Sunday, morning-

Team Seven knew first meets were traditionally lower-level buys. It established the validity and capability of all parties concerned, while involving as little risk as possible. The ante, however, was always relative; and in the circles Ian Vargas played in, the buy-in was big. The agencies had pooled their resources and Larabee's team had acquired the hundred thousand dollars. Now they just had to discover what they were buying.

The usual traffic of a work week was non-existent on Sunday morning, especially around the warehouses in the Capitol Hill neighborhood on Denver's east side. The ATF had gained permission to use a metal-cutting machine shop next to the building where Ezra's meet was to take place— KLK Automobile Parts, an import/export company suspected of being a front for money-laundering.

Seated in his Jaguar in front of KLK, Ezra listened on his Nokia for further instructions from JD. Unlike the rest of his teammates, Ezra had no audio available to him so he and JD tested the wireless microphone with assistance from the cell phone.

JD perched on a small stool in a weather-beaten Econoline van that, from the outside, completely belied the advanced technology it housed. The vehicle was parked two blocks from the warehouse and looked like little more than a drifter's home. The distance gave the team more than enough coverage for the wireless equipment's range yet allowed them to be far away enough from the meeting point so as not to attract attention.

In the van, Buck sat in the driver's seat, while Chris took the passenger's. Nathan squeezed his considerable height by the back doors on a retro-fitted fold-down stool.

Vin and Josiah each had elevated locations. As scout and emergency tactical backup, Vin sat on the roof of the KLK warehouse. Josiah served as photo surveillance on the second floor of the machine shop. It was a vantage point that afforded him a near-perfect view through a wide panel of windows down to much of the main floor of the meeting place across the alley.

JD adjusted his lightweight headset and tilted the microphone away from his mouth. He entered a series of numbers into the computer in front of him, speaking aloud to himself as he typed. "165.9125, o-fish-al ATF F5 surveillance frequency… oh, come on."

The young agent maneuvered his mouse for a few clicks and complained to nobody in particular. "Whatever happened to building warehouses out of wood?" He glanced at Chris, "Seems like we're gonna have some path loss; the dBs are already lower than what I can usually get at this distance."

"Just do your best, JD," Chris answered. He often let a lot of JD's shop talk roll past; the kid had a habit of talking out technical issues to whoever was closest. He did not seem to expect answers from them; it was more like he used them as a sounding board until his brain delivered the solution.

JD focused again on his computer. "All this metal framework gives me a crapload of interference… oh, hang on… am I getting it from your phone?"

"Well, JD," Ezra answered, "I'd say that's somethin' you need to determine. I don't have any other form of hearin' to do a mic check with you… unless you'd like to shout out your window at me." His response filtered through the van via its open audio system, while Vin and Josiah picked it up on wireless headsets.

JD ignored him and re-fed numbers into the shielded computer. "Let's try this."

Ezra let JD continue to talk to himself. He glanced down at the geometric pattern on his silk tie and maneuvered the Sony lavalier tie clip mic, ensuring that it was not only firmly attached to the fabric but that it would appear as a natural accessory to his wardrobe. The Vega body-pack transmitter clipped to his belt seemed to be nothing more than the pager it was designed to mimic.

JD's voice came at Ezra through the cell phone. "Okay, say something again."

"I am the very model of a modern major general."

The southerner's casual accent slurred together some of the syllables, prompting Josiah to speak up. "Isn't that supposed to be 'general'?"

"That's what I said," retorted Ezra, overhearing the critique on his cell as it fed to the van.

Buck spoke up, knowing his comments would be sent out via the sensitive microphone on the headset JD wore. "No pard, you said gen'rull. Josiah's saying it should be gen-er-al."

Ezra rolled his eyes. "Well, the day I perform Gilbert and Sullivan I'll be sure to enunciate all the syllables. But currently, I am not hearin' a difference."

There was no bite in his tone and Buck knew Ezra easily tossed off the harassment. It certainly wasn't the first time his teammates had messed with him over his deep southern accent. "JD," Ezra added, "you may wish to recheck communications on your end. Buck and Josiah are havin' difficulty receivin' me properly."

In the passenger's seat, Chris let the banter play out, even tossing in a jab of his own. "No, Ezra, there's no problem receiving, 'cause I'm hearing an awful lot of unnecessary chatter."

Ezra quietly drawled a response. "Josiah started it."

Up on the roof of the warehouse, Vin smiled. When in a sniper position, he unconsciously dropped into a subdued mode, communicating only when he deemed it necessary. He was glad to hear his teammates' frivolity, however; especially Ezra, who had been uncommonly tense over the past few days. Perhaps whatever had been worrying the man had finally passed.

Nathan cut in to the conversation. "Shame on ya'll, gettin' Ezra into trouble like that."

Buck answered, speaking loud enough for those on the monitoring channel to hear. "Well you're talking now, Nate. Ain't you afraid of Chris?"

JD answered instead. "Nah, he's only afraid of Rain."

Ezra abruptly changed the subject. "Speakin' of that fair flower, what day is it that she wants us all over to your place for supper?"

"Saturday," replied Nathan, while leaning over JD's shoulder so the boy's mic picked up his answer. "There'll be a few of our neighbors and Rain's cousin will be in town. And Lord, when those two girls get to cookin' it's as good as a Sunday boil. B'sides, Rainey says she ain't seen ya'll in awhile. So missin' this feed is gonna equal big, big trouble."

Ezra smiled at the thought of getting together with his makeshift family. It was a complete antithesis to the world of ugliness and greed he dealt with in his job. And that was not exclusive to being undercover; memories of his last year in Atlanta still pained him.

The idea of being with people who not only had no desire to manipulate him for their own agenda, but actively shielded him from those who might, well, it still sometimes confused the southerner. That didn't mean, of course, he was above harassing those friends.

"What's that, Mr. Jackson?" he queried lightly. "Did you just say that Rain equals big, big trouble? That is very ungentlemanly."

"That's not what I-"

Josiah interrupted. "By 'big' are you suggesting Rain is getting a little heavy around the bottom,? I'd say comments like that will get you in trouble, Nathan."

JD piped in. "Nate, you oughta be ashamed…."

Buck finished his roommate's sentence. "…saying Rain is big, big trouble."

Vin's voice broke in. "Hold up, fellas. I think we got our boy."

The chatter instantly ceased and the team waited for Vin to elaborate. "White delivery van comin' from the north off of Colfax. Judgin' from the look of the rear tires, it's carryin' a decent payload."

Ezra took advantage of the silence that followed. "We good, JD?"

"Good to go, Ez. Vin? Last ups?"

"Catcher out, Homebase."

"Roger, that," answered JD. "Left field?"

"Left field, out," said Josiah.

"Roger, that. Homebase, over and out."

In the Jaguar, Ezra disconnected the call and slipped the phone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His teammates had come to refer to the undercover man's minutes before a meeting as "the zone". Take one full breath, let it out, close the eyes, deeply inhale and exhale again, open eyes and with deadly seriousness fix on an invisible point somewhere - and the criminal Ezra Simpson came to life. Adrenaline primed, senses lifted to a heightened alert.

On several occasions, when Ezra hadn't been around, his teammates had compared notes on the odd ritual, commenting on the hard-edged energy that seemed palpable after the green eyes flashed open. Casual jokes brushed over the underlying solemnity. In JD's words – it kinda creeped 'em out. Yet the professionalism the undercover man displayed during his meetings was just another reason why his teammates respected him as both a colleague and a friend.

And that air of authority was once more plainly visible in every polished, efficient, unhurried movement with which Ezra Simpson retrieved the two black leather cases from the backseat of his Jaguar, clicked the automatic lock-and-alarm feature for the vehicle and calmly made his way around to the back of the warehouse.

…

The "meet and greet" with Ian Vargas's first line of defense was going very smoothly. Arthur Pentilide had pulled his van into the back of the warehouse, secured the bay door behind him, and proceeded to offer Ezra Simpson a remarkable stock of information and weapons.

"I have to say, Ezra, we were impressed when Smitty told us you were willing to consider this offer."

"I'm a man who believes in stayin' open to possibilities."

Ezra's first impression of Arthur was a short version of Ichabod Crane. Bony features, thinning hair, pronounced nose – like a private school English teacher who illegally sold weapon caches during summer break. He radiated an air of being uncomfortable in his own skin. Arthur was knowledgeable, there was no denying that; but it couldn't suppress Ezra's feeling that the man was "not quite right".

"My employer likes to maintain a well-rounded supply of merchandise," Arthur said. "TEC-9s, AKs, AR-15s – the usual, they're all available. However, Smitty led us to believe you are capable of handling things beyond the usual."

Arthur swung open the back doors of the windowless van, dragged one three-foot by two-foot box to the edge of the vehicle's payload floor and let his customer view the merchandise. Ezra later mentally congratulated himself for not letting his mouth fall open. The pieces were difficult to come by outside of legal channels.

"BW-5s," he stated out loud, while allowing enough of a hint of being impressed into his voice to get Arthur to puff up a bit.

Arthur smiled. "Considered one of the best PDWs available for close-quarter situations."

Ezra nodded. The Federal agent side of him knew the fully-automatic version of the personal defense weapon was the primary firearm used by the FBI's Hostage Rescue teams and SWAT Units. He hoisted one from the crate and inspected it while rattling off details. "Delayed blowback operation, roller lock bolt system… I'm quite familiar with them."

After inspecting the last box of merchandise Ezra reiterated the deal. "Quantity one hundred, and the optional thirty-round magazine is included?"

"It's standard from us. You'd never find these for less than $1300 a piece, so even with the amount of ammunition we discussed you know you're getting a very fair deal. If you like everything you see, we can also talk about semi-to-full conversion kits. And…" Arthur dug into one of the open boxes and pulled out a softcover booklet. "Comes complete with manual."

Ezra couldn't help but laugh. He was about to purchase what was most likely a completely intact stolen shipment. The competitive voice in his head was already gloating over how sweet it would be for Team Seven to brush the FBI and DEA aside and nail not only Vargas but whomever his corrupt connection was as well.

"Mr. Pentilide, if I didn't know better I'd think these fell directly out of the delivery truck and were innocently found in the middle of the street."

"Stranger things have happened, Mr. Simpson."

For all of Ezra's concern over the amount of money required for the buy, it had been less difficult to attain than he'd imagined. Split between three agencies, the $110,000 for weapons and ammunition came together with a minimal amount of red tape. And for someone who earned a Federal Agent's wage, Ezra was rather surprised at how easy it felt to hand over.

He rested the two black leather cases on a nearby table labeled as "Shipping and Receiving" by a casually scrawled cardboard sign, and withdrew his cell. "My associate is within a few minutes of here awaiting my call," he explained to Arthur. "We'll move things from your van to ours and we can all leave very happy men. Oh, and I have your number, you have mine…I am interested in those conversion kits. You should be hearin' from me within the week."

Arthur pulled up the rolling metal doors of the receiving bay and squinted at the light from the early morning sun. "Mr. Vargas and I look forward to your call."

Ezra knew the rest was easy. He would dial Nate's number, wait for him to arrive in the second van that the team had checked out, and once the twenty boxes were transferred, Team Seven would officially have their foot in Ian Vargas's door.

The large bay door hit its top brackets with a loud clang and the room exploded with an additional unexpected noise.

"Denver Police! Don't move! Do not move!"

"Denver Police Department! Put your hands on your head! Hands on your head NOW!"

Ezra spun toward the two voices, his eyes wide, the cell phone in his hand undialed and forgotten. Two heavy-set men in street clothes leveled 9 mm handguns at Ezra and Arthur and continued to shout commands as they bore down on their targets.

The Glock 19S a few feet from Ezra's chest encouraged the southerner to lace his fingers behind his head, albeit awkwardly, as he still maintained an unconscious grip on his phone. A man in his mid-forties with thinning hair wielded the Glock with obvious professionalism. He shouted again and Ezra slowly moved to comply with the orders.

"On the ground! Face down! Keep your hands on your head!"

Lying on his stomach on the cold cement, Ezra felt his phone pulled from his grip and heard a distinct plastic clatter as it skittered across the floor. A strong hand slapped at his sides and flipped the right edge of his suit jacket up as it found what it was looking for. Pulling the undercover agent's SIG Pro 2340 from the soft holster at his right hip, the big man addressed him again.

"What's this? Does your mom know you have this?"

Ezra could only see the white Reeboks and blue denim pant legs of the plain-clothes officer who patted him down. The rough search continued until it struck home twice more and he was relieved of the Walther P-99 at the small of his back and his ankle-holstered Taurus .38.

"Jesus, this guy is like a clown car, I just keep pulling more shit out!"

Ezra was baffled. The surprise of the bust forced from him a furious vocalization. "What the fuck is goin' on!"

"It's a bust, genius. You're doing something illegal, we're busting you."

Ezra's confusion only added to his disorientation. With his fingers still laced behind his head, he risked a glance upward. "What?" he blurted.

The officer looked at his partner, a blond, muscular man in his early-40s. "Damn, I knew southerners were slow but this guy is a regular Jed Clampett."

With quick confidence, the policeman holstered his weapon, grabbed Ezra's left wrist and twisted the arm behind Ezra's back. A hand on his prisoner's right shoulder helped him haul the smaller man to his feet in one strong motion.

A sharp pain lanced through Ezra's left shoulder; he gasped and struggled to gain solid footing. He'd dislocated the shoulder in the past and was not eager to repeat the experience. Though desperate not to blow his cover with Arthur, Ezra hoped to grasp some piece of understanding as to how Denver PD had found out about this deal, and why they were interfering. He glanced over his shoulder and quietly hissed to the officer. "Who are you?"

The man stared at the southerner with an incredulous expression. "I'm sorry, maybe my partner and I weren't clear enough when we were shouting Denver Police Department."

In an instant, the officer tightened his grip on Ezra and slammed him face-first against the white van. The southerner's left cheekbone made hard contact with the cold metal and his breath escaped in a rush as reverberations rattled through his skull.

He winced when the hold on him shifted. His left hand, pulled up between his shoulder blades, was now being twisted downward at a painful angle while his left shoulder protested under the strain it bore. It was a very effective subduing hold; one which Ezra had used on suspects.

A billfold housing a gold badge and identification flashed in his face and the southerner just caught the last name of Dorison on the ID.

"I'm Detective One and he's Detective Two and we're your worst fuckin' nightmare, Jed. We're the ones arresting you for illegal purchase of firearms."

Dorison's partner, standing behind the van over the prone form of Arthur, made a show of looking in the vehicle. "Lots of firearms."

Ezra's guard pushed him hard against the van once more. "A felony shitload of firearms. That's felony, as in, serious prison time. Oooh, they're gonna love a pretty thing like you inside."

Cold metal clamped around the undercover agent's left wrist and he was deftly secured into a pair of handcuffs.