PART FOUR

Author's notes: I have a couple of chapters that are more character driven than action driven, but I promise, stick with me 'cause once things ramp up I'm pretty sure you'll like it.

...

The diagonally-positioned "Police Vehicle Only" parking spaces looked like they were filled with anything but law enforcement automobiles. In front of the Sixth District station house was a non-descript delivery van, a black Jaguar XJS, and a beat-to-hell Econoline.

Josiah and Nathan stood on the sidewalk beside Chris and Buck. In the passenger seat of the Econoline, JD rested his folded arms on the frame of the open window, listening. Vin had backed the Jaguar in and leaned against the trunk, close to the others. Each of them knew they didn't all need to be there, but until they determined the status of their teammate none of them would head back to the office.

Chris looked to the tall man beside him. "Let's go, Buck. Everybody else hang tight. It's not going to do much for Ezra's cover if we all go jumping in there like gangbusters."

"But," JD replied, "we are Gangbusters." The remark was half-sincere, half-joking. He knew the mood Chris was in, but that didn't stop the comment from coming out. Chris stared humorlessly at the young agent. JD's first thought was that the team leader didn't catch the play on words.

"You know…Elliot Ness….Gangbusters…." The flat expression was still the only response JD received. He nodded. "We'll just hang here."

Chris pivoted on his boot heel and headed for the station house. Rolling his eyes, Buck smacked his roommate upside the head and followed Chris.

...

The instant Chris introduced himself to the officer manning the front desk Buck knew his old friend was bringing matches to the gasoline party. Dressed all in black with boots, jeans, t-shirt and a mid-thigh leather jacket, Chris was a pair of Ray-Bans away from being someone you really didn't want to mess with. A sharp flip of identification had one Officer Ronnbek staring from the federal badge to a pair of piercing eyes.

"Special Agent in Charge Larabee, ATF, to see Assistant Commander Gunderson."

"I'm sorry, Agent, I'll have to see if-"

Chris stopped the man cold. "He knows I'm coming."

Buck tried to hide his grin. Oooohweee. Let the fireworks begin.

Minutes later, the two agents stood in the office of AC Jerry Gunderson. He was a portly man in his fifties who had once seen a lot of street time but over the last nine years had seen only too much paperwork from behind a desk. His "Assistant" title relegated him to working most weekends, which was why he was now stuck bearing the brunt of some intense federal irritation.

"An hour ago your Detectives Dorison and Hilliard interfered with, and may have greatly jeopardized, a multi-agency operation that we had under surveillance. They took two suspects into custody, along with over one-hundred thousand dollars and a van with twenty boxes of BW-5s.

"My team and I witnessed irresponsible police conduct that bordered on illegal; I don't think we even heard anybody Mirandized." Chris's voice was calm, yet it held a dark undertone. "Now I'm sure there's a very good explanation as to why you would give permission to your officers to do what they did, and Agent Wilmington and I are happy to wait while you call them in."

Gunderson seemed thrown but answered quickly. "Agent Larabee, first let me apologize for any perceived difficulties you may associate with the actions of Detective Dorison and Detective Hilliard. They're both good officers and I'm sure that any actions they took were deemed reasonable given their situation."

The man didn't leave Chris any time to respond to the defense. He already had the phone's handset to his ear and had dialed an extension. "Page Dorison and Hilliard to my office." His brow furrowed in reaction to the answer he received. "No. I'll try Booking." A jab with a thick finger and another rapid sequence of numbers rang him through to the admitting station. "Tell Detectives Dorison and Hilliard to report to me immediately."

For the second time in less than a minute, confusion colored the man's face. "They have evidence and two suspects in custody, where else would you suggest I look?...Yes, you do that." The assistant commander hung up the phone carefully, using the seconds to compose himself. "Agent Larabee, I'm sure Michael and Carl are on their way in-"

"On their way in?"

With Chris's response, Buck wished he had a pin just so he could hear it hit the carpeted floor.

"They left a good fifteen minutes before us! Did they forget the way back?" The team leader hit Gunderson with another question. "What were they even doing out there?!"

The commander worked to keep his voice confident. "Until the detectives arrive, I'm afraid I can't answer that question."

It took Chris a second to process what the man was really saying. He cocked his head slightly; his eyes narrowed as he answered in a flat tone. "You didn't know they were out there."

For a brief instant Buck thought Chris looked like he might give in to an inner urge and reach across the commanding officer's desk to grab the man by the throat.

"Two of your men severely compromise a federal investigation and you didn't even know what they were doing!" Chris's voice dropped to a cold, hard level. "Agent Wilmington and I came up through the DPD and until this moment I have never been embarrassed to say that."

Chris's voice took on even harder edge and Buck recognized the icy attitude and presence that garnered the Team Seven leader the reputation he had. "I don't know what kind of clueless, half-assed district you've got here but as of this morning it's interfering with federal jurisdiction. A first-year defense attorney would have a field day with how your men handled things.

"We recorded enough piss-poor performance to get this case tossed out a half a dozen times on technicalities alone. And now you're standing here telling me that four men, an unmarked car, a van loaded with weapons, and a hundred grand are lost somewhere in downtown Denver?"

A shrill ring from Chris's jacket pocket gave Gunderson a respite from the ATF agent's wrath. Chris answered without breaking his gaze on the AC.

"Larabee," he barked.

Buck saw his friend's eyes close briefly and watched the tension drain from his shoulders. Buck didn't need the vocalized confirmation that came next.

"It's him," Chris said. "Where are you?... What? How did you…." The team leader listened to the explanation of how his undercover man got back to their office but he was soon rolling his eyes in an exasperated manner. "…Ez-…Ezr-… your car is fine, we have it…Ez-…"

Buck could all but hear the endless stream of complaint and criticism. Yep, madder than a bald dog.

"Standish!" The team leader's brusque tone silenced the rapid-fire speech on the other end. Chris spoke again but this time Buck recognized the tolerant "handling Ezra" quality in his voice. "Shut up. You all right?"

Buck could hear the long silence from the other end of the call as Ezra processed the question. His supervisor had silenced him for no other reason than to find out if he was unhurt. Nothing else mattered–not the case, not the weapons, not even the one-hundred and ten thousand dollars. In Chris's mind, none of it took precedence over the well-being of the team's undercover man. Buck was always amazed that Ezra never seemed to remember that. But then the faint sound of talking resumed from the other side, and Chris nodded to whatever Ezra was saying.

"...Yeah, Josiah gave us the blow-by-blow…What?..."

Listening to his agent, Chris sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Great, so what time do they want to meet?..." He checked his watch, exhaled again and muttered to himself. "It's Sunday, for crissake, I should be at home… No, we're at the Sixth District house… Why do you say that?"

Buck caught Chris's expression as his eyes flicked just for an instant toward Gunderson. "You're sure?... No, don't worry about that, he is still wanted."

Buck knew Ezra asked about whether or not Mr. Simpson was still considered a criminal and not the alter-ego of an undercover agent. "We'll be there in less than thirty…Yeah, yeah, well, fill out a reimbursement form. You're good at that. Good-bye, now."

He disconnected the call and slid his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket before looking at Buck. "FBI and DEA called already. They want to know what their money bought them." Turning his focus toward the assistant commander, Chris spoke once more before leaving. "You can wait for my call."

As the two agents strode from the office Buck noted that Officer Ronnbek was no longer at the front desk, but now appeared to be deeply enthralled with some filing, directly outside his CO's office. Buck smiled and shook his head. You gotta get your info from wherever ya can. Of course, the ladies' man usually acquired his office gossip from more attractive sources.

…

The other members of Team Seven came to attention as Chris and Buck approached.

"That was quick. Where's Ez?" JD was still in the passenger's seat of the surveillance van but his energy could not be contained and he absently drummed his fingers on the window frame.

"He's okay," Buck answered. "He ain't here, but he's okay."

Nathan's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, 'he ain't here'? I thought those two detectives were out of this District."

"They are," Chris said. It was obvious to his team that he had not received any answers from the assistant commander that improved his earlier mood. He lowered his voice. "Ezra's back at the office. He called me while we were in there. Seems he got offered quite the interesting deal. On top of everything else, it's looking like we may be dealing with a little dirt here at the Sixth."

A low whistle from Josiah and a simple one-word curse from Vin were among the reactions implying the team knew exactly what their leader meant. Chris related the brief amount of information Ezra shared with him during their call. Glancing at his watch, he made it clear their work day was not yet over. "Some of the Fibbie and Drug guys working this case should be at the office by the time we get there. Josiah, we're gonna want those photos sooner rather than later. JD, same thing with the transcripts of what we got this morning."

He showed a hint of a grin. "Like Ezra says, boys, 'no rest for the wicked.'"

…

Vin whistled softly as he stepped off the elevator to the 11th floor of the nearly empty Federal Building and walked beside JD toward the bullpen. With JD checking in the surveillance van and Vin cautiously driving the Jaguar, the two agents were the last two to arrive.

"Oh, shit," Vin blurted. He tossed the keys he had been absently fiddling with to JD. The kid's reflexes kicked in and he snatched the Jaguar's keys out of the air. "Tell him you drove."

JD's brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"The Jag."

"Oh! Right."

Ezra had stated on several occasions that JD was the only member of the team whom he truly trusted to drive his sports car. In his words—Vin should not be trusted with any vehicle, Josiah drove like an old woman, Nathan had the tendencies of a repressed speed-demon and, well, he had many other words to say on the subject.

"He's had a shitty enough morning already," Vin said. "Might as well try to make the rest of the day as stress-free as possible."

The southerner's laugh blended with others coming from the conference room.

JD glanced at Vin. "Maybe that won't be as tough as we thought."

The small room was crowded with not only their team but also five other individuals, one of whom was very well known to Vin and JD.

A handsome, dark-haired man of Mexican descent leaned hip-shot against the long table. He had obviously just finished relating an animated story but he let his focus follow Chris's glance toward the doorway. His dark brown eyes lit up and he showed a white-toothed smile as he spotted the approaching agents.

Raphael Cordova de Martinez met Chris Larabee's group four years earlier. His initial interactions with the team had been far from smooth. The Agent In Charge heading the Drug Enforcement Administration team that Martinez was on had been the source of the trouble and conflict.

When the dust from that first assignment settled, Raphael had formed an uneasy truce with Team Seven. Based on mutual respect, it eventually grew into a friendship after Raphael's transfer to a better DEA unit and the opportunity to work several cases with Chris's group.

"Hola, chiquito!" Raphael greeted JD with the nickname he had bestowed on the young man upon their first meeting. Though it had started as a moniker with sarcastic undertones, he used it now with nothing but fondness.

JD shook his head but couldn't prevent the grin that crept across his lips. He received the hand and hug offered to him. "Rafe, what the heck are you doing here!"

A soft Hispanic accent peppered the other man's speech as he answered. "What am I doing here? This is our party. It is you all who are the invited guests."

JD recognized a second member of Raphael's team and waved at a tall, lanky man in his late 20's with a goatee and straight, shaggy blond hair that brushed his shoulders. He leaned quietly against one wall of the conference room dressed in jeans and a Green Day t-shirt. He slouched with his hands in his back pockets. "Agent Fiores," JD said, addressing him with a flourishing, respectful tone. "Good to see you again, Marco."

"Hey, JD." The agent nodded and shyly smiled as he came forward to exchange a greeting with JD that involved a soft high-five that morphed into a bumping of forearms. It was like baseball players after a win. "Hey Vin." He shook the other's hand, while receiving a bit of teasing.

Vin tugged at the ends of Marco's hair. "You goin' clean cut on us?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend told me it was looking straggly. Took off about four or five inches."

JD scanned the faces of the three other men wearing visitor's badges but assumed they must be FBI, as he didn't recognize any of them. "Where're Steven and Benny?"

"Ibagua." Marco said it as if the Colombian city was as commonly known as Starbucks.

Raphael elaborated on his quiet partner's answer. "El jefe and Benito are soaking up the sun in Bogata…west of there actually, but you get the idea. They're working this case from the other end."

JD grinned. "Chris said DEA was in on this too but, shoot, what are the odds?"

"Small world, no?" Raphael switched his attention to Vin and warmly shook his hand and pulled him in for a quick hug. "Oye cuate! Que honda?"

"Same ol', same ol'. Y ti?"

"Nothing exciting. Inez doing well?" He asked the question with the same slight trepidation that he always did. The DEA agent still harbored guilt over how he'd allowed blind loyalty to his superior nearly ruin the life of a woman whom he now considered a friend.

"She's good. Still the manager over at 'J. Watson's'. Come on out with us tonight, she'll be workin'. She'd love to see you."

Raphael let a sly smile show and he spoke with overly-poetic sarcasm. "Quieres ser parpadear de ternura ante una botella de whisky esta noche?"

Vin made a show of pressing his hand to his head as if battling a headache. He laughed and answered. "Cállate, guey, cállate."

Buck interrupted. "My Spanish may suck but I know the word whiskey when I hear it."

Raphael translated, making a feeble attempt to sound innocent. "I only asked Vin if he was up for another date with a bottle?"

"Yeah," replied the Texan, "and I told him to shut up. Took me a whole day to get rid of the hangover I got last time he was in town and we all went drinkin'."

"We were celebrating getting a conviction last time, no? Let us hope we can toast to that again soon." He turned to Ezra. "Though it seems, as always, Los Magnificos aren't happy with just one fish."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "It's not my fault those two buffoons blundered in." He glanced at Chris. "Any read off their CO?"

Chris shook his head. "If he knew what they were doing then he's a damn good actor."

"Hell," Buck said, "he looked more confused than a nun with a positive pregnancy test. Damn it all Ez; you're the only man I know who can stumble into a bees' nest and come out smellin' like honey."

"Yes, well, be that as it may," Ezra answered, "we are goin' to have to get I.A. involved and, while there shouldn't be presumed guilt of anyone else at the Sixth, they should go into it assumin' the worst."

Chris added a call to Internal Affairs to the list of things he would have to do before going home. He considered skipping home completely and going right from the office to the saloon and just spending the night there.

As the agents settled themselves in the room, JD laid the Jaguar's keys on the table in front of Ezra. The younger man winced at the discoloration highlighting his friend's left cheekbone. "You put any ice on that?"

Ezra smiled at the display of concern and nodded. He wasn't eager to draw attention to the fact that he had been knocked around and he smoothly redirected the focus. "No damage. The clip mic and transmitter are on your desk."

Chris stood at the head of the conference room table and rapped his knuckles on the polished surface to get everyone's attention. Addressing Vin and JD, he gestured with one hand to a youthful looking, clean-cut man in his mid-forties seated at the opposite end of the table.

"You fellas missed introductions earlier. The man responsible for the files you studied up on...This is Senior Agent Tyler Desmon and a couple of his boys from the FBI's San Diego office."

Vin glanced at the two men flanking Tyler and couldn't help but wonder if the FBI was breeding agents rather than recruiting them. They both appeared to be in the same mid-thirties age range with short, dark hair, athletic builds and square jawlines. Though dressed in street clothes, there was something about them that made Vin think they would feel more at home in suits. No wonder Ezra started out FBI, he's got the natural genes for it.

Tyler nodded to his right, then to his left. "James Cheski. Ray McRaney." He looked at JD and Vin and spoke sincerely. "As I said before you gentlemen arrived, the FBI is very grateful for your assistance on this case and my agents and I look forward to working with you."

The man introduced as McRaney was staring at the table but he lifted his eyes just enough to shoot a glance at Ezra. "Well…we're looking forward to working with most of you."

With JD and Vin sitting on either side of him, Ezra sensed both of them tense. JD leaned forward in his chair and Vin fixed the FBI agent with a piercing stare. Though Ezra felt truly appreciative of their reactions, he did nothing more than show an amused grin. "Mackie, by sayin' that, you're implyin' you do actually work."

Ray tried to maintain his hard look but only managed it for a few seconds. A wide smile surfaced and he addressed Ezra again. "This from a guy who made manipulating the hours of the work day a freakin' art form."

Vin and JD realized what was going on and allowed themselves to relax.

Ezra tried to sound put out. "Excuse me, but I worked very hard in those days."

Ray sobered. "No bullshit there, Standish. It just sucks that Atlanta was run by a bunch of idiots and assholes." He shook his head. "Damn glad to see you outta there. Hell, I'm damn glad to be outta there," he smiled again and slapped the table, "and right here…pissin' with the big dogs!"

The latter exclamation garnered a reproving look from Senior Agent Desmon, and Ray coughed in an apologetic manner. "And by that, I mean-"

Ezra cut him off. "Ah-ah. Mackie, you should probably just stop talkin' now, otherwise you're liable to owe more than just the first round tonight."

Tyler and James exchanged a slightly startled look at the southerner's knowledge of their own team's way of punishing an "open mouth-insert foot" maneuver.

With a nonchalant tone, Ezra explained. "I assume from your expressions that he initiated that particular penalty amongst ya'll. From where, exactly, did you gentlemen think he learned it?"

Light laughter echoed throughout the room and Chris suspected it was a good time to start the debriefing.