PART FIVE

-Sunday, afternoon-

Detective Mike Dorison hitched up his jeans as he walked towards the front desk at the 6th District police station. He threw a wave to the uniformed officer there. "Hey Ronnbek. How was your daughter's wedding?"

The other man smiled. "Nice. She landed herself a good guy. Thank God she dumped that fuck-up she was dating in college. Hey man, speaking of fuck-ups—you and Carl better get over to the AC's office. Jesus, you two sure managed to piss everybody off."

Dorison's stomach tightened. The Assistant Commander was the last person he wanted to see. "What?"

Ronnbek leaned close and lowered his voice. "The collar you made this morning. The two guys with the shitload of guns and money. Some ATF S-A-C was in here earlier… fuckin' nuts. Man, and I thought I'd seen Commander Dilley rip somebody a new one. This guy went from stone cold to ass-chewing and back again in about five seconds. Nobody knew where you two were. Gunderson didn't even know you guys had anything going down. And shit if that didn't piss off that Bureau guy even more."

Dorison swallowed hard and prayed he didn't look as sick as he felt. Ronnbeck continued.

"The AC wants your butts in his office as soon as you're in the building. And if I was you I'd be hoping he keeps it all internal, 'cause you sure as shit don't want that Special Fuckin' Crazy Agent-In-Charge Larabee in your face."

With a forced laugh, Dorison answered, "No sweat, man. Me and Gunderson talked about ten minutes ago. My cell was off so I just missed his earlier call when we were out on the job. It's all cool; I filled him in."

He made a show of patting down his jacket pockets. "Shit, left the phone in the car." He strode back the way he had come, hoping to meet his partner on the way. Carl Hilliard stepped off the elevator from the parking garage only to have a strong hand clamp onto his arm and spin him back into the empty elevator.

"Jeez, Mike, what the—"

"They know!" Dorison hissed.

"What?"

Dorison jabbed the button that would take them back to the garage. "I just talked to Ronnbek! He said some ATF Agent-In-Charge reamed Gunderson this morning after our little breakfast meeting."

Hilliard slumped against the back wall of the car and felt his heart rate spike. "Shit. What do we do?" he stammered. "Are you sure they know? Christ, ATF. What the hell? You think they're watching Artie? They must be after Vargas. You think that's it? That must be it. They must be after Vargas. What exactly did Ronnbek say?"

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened on the quiet garage. Dorison pulled his partner by the arm and spoke in a sharp, quiet voice. "He said enough for me to know we need to disappear sooner than we planned!"

They reached their vehicle and Hilliard fumbled to unlock the doors. "It's too early. Where are we gonna go? Vargas's shipment may not come in for days."

Dorison didn't answer until they were both in the car. "It'll be fine. We just find a place to hole up, get a couple of burner phones, and wait till Arthur says it's go time. Look, we've taken months to sell off everything we own so that no one would notice. We have the passports we got from Trace. He's in Thornton so nobody will be able to get any info from him."

Hilliard had started the car but had yet to move it, he just sat staring at his hands as they gripped the steering wheel. Dorison kept talking.

"We already have our tickets for the Islands. We'll drive to our banks now, drain the accounts and go underground. We've worked this town for eight years–you think we can't find a place to hide for a few days? We have everything planned already. We're just doing it a little early."

"But it's just the Caymans," Hilliard blurted. "The U.S. can extradite-"

"Relax!" He clapped a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Relax, man. Trace set us up with everything we need. As soon as we check in for our flights we are brand new people. Even if anybody looks, they wouldn't be able to find us 'cause they wouldn't know who the hell they were looking for."

A dull nod was Hilliard's first answer. "Right. Yeah, man. We can ditch the car in a mall and just… like you said, hole up somewhere. Arthur's the only one who needs to know how to get ahold of us."

"Right," Dorison assured. "This is it, man. We'll get Vargas's money and then it'll be nothin' but sun and rum and half-naked island girls till we can't get our dicks up."

Hilliard nodded again and finally pulled out of the spot. The Ford Interceptor cruised slowly out of the police parking garage and faded into the Sunday afternoon traffic.

…

-Sunday, night-

Josiah's deep voice was just loud enough for the FBI agent across the table to hear. "…to this day Ezra has a noticeable aversion to the color lavender."

Ray McRaney laughed at the mental pictures conjured by Josiah's story, while Nathan, Chris, Vin and Buck shared broad smiles, thanks to their own real memories. Toward the back of the bar, around a pool table, JD and Raphael exchanged a high five. It was apparent that their challenge to Ezra and Marco for a game of Cannonball had left them victorious.

Ray took a sip of beer and didn't mind that his boss and their teammate had not been able to come out with them. "Aw, hell," he stated confidently, "Ezra can piss-and-moan all he wants, but he was never happy any place else than when he was working u.c. and trying to pull one over on the bad guys." He called out to one of the four men returning from the pool table. "Ain't that right, Standish?"

Not bothering to sit, Ezra retrieved his half-finished shot of Glenmorangie single malt and answered. "Now, Mackie, what sort of Sunday come-to-town fool would I have to be to blindly agree with somethin' you've said?" He looked at the other men around the table. "Do I even want to know what sorts of lies and half-truths this uncouth reprobate is tellin' about me?"

Vin scooped up the last bit of now-cold nachos from a plate in the middle of the table. "Nothin' worse than the ones we're tellin' 'bout ya." He shoveled the large portion in his mouth and smiled broadly as he chewed.

Beside him, Chris also answered, showing a hint of a wicked grin. "And nothing we won't be able to blackmail you with later."

Nathan puffed lightly on an Ashton Virgin Sun Grown cigar. "Who won?"

A cool confidence radiated off of Raphael as he took a seat beside Nathan. "The chiquito and I schooled them well."

Ezra shook his head despairingly and exchanged a look with Marco, who stood with Ezra at the head of the long table. "Now, that's not fair. We were at a disadvantage; I haven't played pool in a while." He slipped a hand into the pocket of his dress pants. "How 'bout this? I have another twenty here, care to go double or nothin'?"

Raphael opened his mouth to accept but JD cut him off. "Uh-uh." He pushed his backward-facing paperboy cap off his forehead a little and glanced at Rafe. "When he says that, it's best to just walk away with your winnings."

Ezra stared at JD. "You can't tell him that! Rafael, do not listen to this boy. He's been drinkin'."

"Haven't played in a while?" challenged Nathan, exchanging a look with Buck who finished his friend's thought.

"You robbed me and Nate of twenty each at 8-Ball just last Friday." Buck shook his head. "I can't believe you're tryin' to hustle them, pard. That's low."

Ezra stuttered a reply. "Hustle? Hustle? You think…. You're sayin'…I believe my character has been besmirched."

Standing behind the southerner, Marco silently mouthed to the men at the table. "Besmirched?"

Though Ezra couldn't see Marco, he could see the resulting smiles and cocked his head upward in the direction of the DEA agent. "Oh, please tell me I am not bein' mocked by Scooby-Doo's Shaggy."

The younger man was saved from answering by a muffled ring, and nearly everyone at the table began patting down their pockets for phones.

"Is that me?" someone asked.

"It's me." The serious look on Ezra's face indicated the ringing phone was not his personal one. The only individuals who called on the number of the secondary cell were looking for Mr. Simpson. He slipped a silver Nokia from the pocket of his suit jacket on the back of Josiah's chair and looked at the caller ID.

"Ya'll will excuse me," he requested, with a dark smile. "After this mornin's little circus, I'm goin' to enjoy makin' Arthur sweat a bit over whether or not I'm still interested in this deal." He made his way to the quiet surroundings of a back hallway and faintly heard Vin call out.

"Give 'em hell, Ez!"

Ezra grinned as he answered the phone. "Simpson…Why, Mr. Pentilide, I do believe you and I have a few things to discuss."

Back at the table, Ray wore an expression of disbelief. "Ez?"

Vin shrugged and nodded toward JD. "He started it."

The FBI agent's incredulity melded into a warm smile and he shook his head. Never in a million years did Ray think Standish would allow anyone to shorten his given name. He must have finally found someplace where he feels comfortable. Ray looked at the young man now seated beside him. "He must be mellowing in his old age."

JD shelled a peanut and tossed it in his mouth. "Has he changed much since you guys worked together?"

Ray chuckled. "Yeah, you could say that. Hell, the whole time I knew him, I only got him out for beers maybe three times. And I didn't see the inside of his apartment more than once, maybe twice."

This time it was JD who looked surprised. Not only did Ezra allow the team to his townhome for such things as poker nights, but JD knew for sure that Buck's "Colorado Parrot Head Club" sweatshirt was in Ezra's laundry room, now most likely cleaned and neatly folded, and Josiah's Birkenstocks were still by the door that led from the garage to the house.

"Damn," Buck said, with a broad smile, "he musta been even more uptight back then than he is now."

Josiah grinned. "That possible?"

"Oh, I could tell you some stories," Ray said.

"Well, by all means," Chris encouraged. "Do tell."

Ezra returned a few minutes later with a self-satisfied grin, which faded only slightly as he caught the end of whatever story Ray was telling.

"…one of those times when you know you're not getting out, and your mind is working about ten different angles at once. But there's always that one spot in your brain that's making those promises to God, 'Sweet Lord in Heaven, please just get me outta this alive.'"

Dry laughter from the men at the table blended with the conversations of other patrons around them and music from the juke box. Ray popped a peanut in his mouth and continued.

"I worked with a guy in D.C.—real level-headed—didn't do any of the superstitious crap you see some u.c. guys do. He said there was a part of the brain called the 'prayer spot'. It's the part that, no matter how busy the rest of the brain is at trying to figure a way out, that spot is devoted only to begging the good Lord for a second chance. Whenever he walked out of something real hairy, he'd say, 'That one sure got my prayer spot working.'"

Ezra breathed a laugh, truly understanding what his friend meant. "So there is a name for it. Well, let's hope I'm not required to call on it. I'm meetin' Vargas tomorrow."

There were more than a couple of surprised faces at the table.

"That was fast," commented Nathan.

Ezra explained. "Since his original buyer backed out it appears desperation is colorin' Mr. Vargas's world."

Vin still sensed their friend was unsettled about something and subtly offered back-up. "Is Mr. Simpson gonna be wantin' his bodyguard along?"

Ezra shook his head. "I don't believe so. We'll save Mr. Travers for a later date."

Raphael and Marco exchanged a look. As DEA agents, they had long known the history of Ian Vargas's brutality.

"You're going alone?" Marco asked. His tone and expression made him seem like a young boy asking about monsters.

Josiah glanced up at Ezra, making sure to catch his eye before looking back to the two drug officers. "Our brother's never alone. JD and I are good for surveillance and back-up."

Ezra knew the reason behind Marco's question but he did not want to think about what the younger man was alluding to. "My instincts say he's just wantin' to feel me out. He's got a suite at the Brown Palace. And considerin' Assistant Director Travis's friendly connection to one of the owners, surveillance should be extremely effortless."

"Let me guess," offered Raphael, "you've been invited to lunch."

JD's brow furrowed. "Lunch?"

"It's what he always does," Raphael explained. "Ezra's right, he's feeling him out. Vargas trusts Pentilide more than anyone else in his organization but he always likes to form his own impressions." Raphael gave in to a bit of black humor and he glanced up at the southerner with a wicked smile. "And I'm sure he'd like to form at least a few of you, cachas."

A pained expression passed over Ezra's features but he didn't reply. JD knew something was not being said; however, he was unsure what it was. "What's that?" he asked.

Raphael was still smiling. "Just my way of telling our amigo I'm sure a man such as himself will have no problems being accepted by Vargas."

Vin had picked up on the Spanish slang that was usually heard when talking about attractive young men, and his brow creased a bit. He made a mental note to ask Ezra a few questions about Vargas.

Ezra tapped Josiah on the shoulder signaling for the large man to lean forward so he could pull his suit jacket from the back of the chair. The southerner slipped into the coat and grinned sarcastically back at Raphael. "My, my, Senor Martinez, you're awfully mouthy for somebody who doesn't have the talent to handle his own case."

Tossing a twenty on the table, Ezra shot back the rest of his scotch and tipped two fingers to his brow in an informal salute. "I must be goin' if I'm to get any sleep tonight. Mackie, fabulous to see you, my friend. Marco, glad to be workin' with you again as well." He broadened his grin and warmly offered a final salutation. "Rafe…go fuck yourself."

He turned and headed for the door, smiling as shouts and whoops echoed behind him.