PART NINE
The first thing JD became aware of was a dull headache. He made a move to raise his hand to his temple but could not understand why the hand did not respond. Opening his eyes, it became apparent.
Two sets of plastic cable-wraps bound each wrist to the thick, flat arms of a wood chair—poor man's flexi-cuffs. He pulled hard against the bindings but only managed to redden the soft skin trapped by the plastic. An attempt to move his feet was just as futile and he realized his ankles were secured to the chair legs.
A gagging scream brought his mind to full attention. His head whipped up but a wave of relief followed when he noted Ezra to his right, bound in the same fashion. The southerner's face was void of emotion and his eyes gazed at an unseen point toward the far end of the hangar.
JD's heart beat faster as another scream pierced the air and he realized only Aaron was with them. The detectives' bodies were gone and two trails of smeared blood led into an office where the desperate cry had echoed from. Like a pig being slaughtered by wolves, Arthur's gasping shrieks rose to a fevered pitch.
The sound ripped through JD's body like an icy wave. He swallowed hard as his stomach rolled in reaction to the torturous screaming. Finally the noise dissolved into a gurgling series of gasps, followed by a single loud pop of gunfire, and then silence.
JD couldn't pull his eyes from the closed office door. Dorison had called Ezra by name, had mentioned busting him. Vargas would never believe Ezra wasn't in on the plan to steal from him. JD's brain raced. They had nothing. No bargaining power, no backup, and no way out.
The office door opened and JD wasn't sure what sickened him more—the faint red stains evident on Vargas's freshly wiped hands or the energized look on the man's face.
Timothy followed close behind, his face pale. Shutting the door behind him, he headed for the bathroom and did not return for several minutes.
…
Standing behind one of the Qwest vehicles, Buck tugged absentmindedly at his mustache while the fingers of his other hand drummed an incessant beat against one open rear door. He, like Rafe in the other communications company vehicle, hid his tactical vest under a blue technician's uniform. Cloaked under a lightweight, specially cut jacket was his shoulder-holstered Glock 22, and a Smith & Wesson SW99 at the small of his back.
If need be, the two would lead close surveillance or surprise infiltration. Until then it was all he could do to contain his nervous energy. He lasted in the driver seat of the other truck less than five minutes after Chris gave the order for the strange convoy to pull off the road. Now he hung around the back of the truck that contained Chris, Vin and Josiah.
He tried to fight off the thoughts crowding his mind. He could not deal with the realistic scenarios that darted in and away, snapping at the thread that held his hope for JD and Ezra's safety.
They were okay. He had to believe they were okay. They would be okay because they were lucky. Lucky Seven. You can't have luck if you don't have Seven. That's just the way it was. Ezra was the honey-man—walked smack into a bees' nest and came out with the honey. And the kid, well, JD had the luck of the Irish. Black Irish he was, and it fit damn perfectly with Larabee's outfit of Black Sheep. Couldn't have luck without Seven, and couldn't have Seven without luck.
Buck stood behind the truck, peering inside where his fellow agents sat, and listening as Ray verbalized what they were all thinking.
"For Chrissake, it's been over half an hour. We can't just sit here; there's gotta be something we can do!" He didn't even need to glance at the Senior FBI Agent sitting beside him to know he was getting a reproachful stare from his boss. "And don't give me that look, sir, because I know you're thinking the same thing."
Ray didn't voice what the other agents knew he wanted to add. But for some of us it's way more personal.
Chris shared a look with Tyler. "What if we tapped into that air support you offered… scramble a chopper for some flyovers?"
Josiah interjected. "Vargas said Ezra would have time to be back in the city within three hours. And he said he had two DC-9s." He looked at Tyler. "Maybe your pilot knows what patches of land around here are out of the way enough to handle something like that?"
"Air traffic control should have a record of them in the area," Buck added.
"Yeah," Vin said, "but when did they land? If Vargas is ready for Ezra to pick up, then they've probably been down and gone for at least a little while."
Tyler looked at the man to his left. "James-"
"On it, sir." The FBI agent squeezed out of the truck to contact air traffic control.
Seconds later Chris's phone rang. Every eye was on him as he snatched the cell from one of his vest pockets. His face, however, registered only frustration and disappointment when he noted the incoming number.
"Hey Nate… it's alright, it's not your fault… Yeah, helluva surprise to us too. He had the stuff flown in to a private airstrip somewhere. JD was on the line with Josiah giving him directions and we lost 'em… No, I mean lost lost. We can't reach them on the cell and we don't know where they're at other than somewhere off northbound 76… Us? Oh, we're pretty tough to miss—four trucks, two done up with the Qwest logo sitting on the side of I-76. We're just past Exit-"
"Tell 'im to stay there."
Chris glanced at Vin. "What?"
The Texan nodded toward the phone. "Nate. There's nothin' he can do for us here. Jus' tell him to stay at the office."
Confusion colored Chris's face. "Why?" Almost immediately he shook off his own question. "Never mind." He addressed Nathan once more. "Doc, we're gonna have you hold there." He paused a second before giving his reasoning. "Vin's got a feeling."
…
Everything was wrong. This wasn't how it worked. They hadn't screwed up, hadn't been overconfident, hadn't been careless. The nasty little voice in Ezra's head cut into his thoughts.
Like hell. You call going into a buy at a moment's notice with a psychopath and an agent inexperienced in u.c., without secure back-up smart? You should have come up with a stall. You should have waited downtown till Buck and Vin showed up. You should have… You fucked up. Fucked up in the worst way possible. And it's not just you this time, is it?
It wasn't right. Ian Maxwell Vargas is a Case Study. Ninth week at Quantico – Informants and Surveillance/Undercover Operations. Ian Vargas is a syllabus side-note. A photocopied handout and slide projector photos from 1983. He's the past. He's not real. He's a mental image, a dark memory. He's not flesh, not blood.
Ezra was aware of Timothy positioned over his right shoulder, and in his peripheral vision he could see Aaron over JD's left. Vargas stood, centered, behind the bound agents. Ezra felt a warm hand rest on the back of his neck. His sweat mixed with the slight stickiness clinging to Vargas's palm. He forced away the knowledge that it was from Arthur's dried blood.
"I am willing to make allowances," Vargas said. His palms gently pressed against the exposed skin just above their collars. "Arthur betrayed me. Simple, gullible men are easily influenced; it's not your fault he pulled you in."
His hands slid away before he slowly circled around to stand in front of them and he continued. "I'm only here to conduct business. I don't know why they targeted me. You were right in what you said earlier, John—those men didn't have to die. But that's what they chose." For a moment he seemed to lose his train of thought. "You have very pretty eyes."
JD dropped his gaze and retorted in a low voice. "Pretty sick of looking at you."
Ezra flinched inwardly. Shut up, JD. Eager to pull focus from his partner, he spoke up quickly.
"Ian… you're very correct. Those men were responsible for their own… unfortunate circumstances. Our desires are on par with yours. It's unfortunate to think that the poorly thought-out actions of others could negatively affect an affable business relationship worth so much money."
Vargas's attention had shifted to the southerner. Had Ezra time to think about it, he would have been aware that his mouth was running only about two seconds behind his brain. He and JD had precious little to bargain with so he did what came naturally to him, what he'd always done – he talked; he persuaded, convinced, flattered and bullshitted.
"You're an intelligent man. You know the murders of two police officers won't go unnoticed. I'm sure Timothy was not thinkin' of bringin' such trouble down upon you and your business activities. A man such as himself certainly knows that killin' cops, especially in today's patriotic climate, is not looked upon favorably.
"And with the U.S.'s policy of no statute of limitations on murder, things could get… awkward. Unless of course you allowed us to help you. I have local connections—people who owe me, very influential people whom I could rely upon to see the "truth" in a murder investigation such as this."
Ezra's words spun and danced with the poetic flow of a politician. "Arthur Pentilide was obviously a drug dealer who murdered two of Denver's finest when they unfortunately stumbled across one of his deals in progress. I'm sure it would be easy for investigators to draw the conclusion that Arthur, in turn, was killed and robbed by whichever Colombian connection he was dealin' with. And that individual has since fled back to South America, never to be located."
He tried to ignore how dry his mouth was. A line of perspiration trailed down between his shoulder blades and pricked at his spine. Vargas had been staring at him, unblinking, since he'd started speaking. Ezra couldn't tell what the man was thinking. He had no idea if Vargas was convinced of anything he had said. So he just kept talking.
"JD and I came here this afternoon to give you money, a very large sum of money. I don't see any reason why we can't still do that, while also takin' this other ugly entanglement off your shoulders. The U.S. is much too profitable of a place for you to lose a firm hold on. You just got back… There are billions here for you to make, there's no need to give it up so soon."
As soon as he spoke the last sentence Ezra realized his mouth had gotten ahead of his brain. "You just got back". Ezra Simpson should not know anything about that. He prayed that Vargas had not caught it. The undercover man's experience taught him that dealers—whether drugs or weapons—had a tendency toward paranoia. Nothing beneficial would come from Vargas wondering why and how Ezra knew about his past. He tried to rectify the mistake.
"To be perfectly honest, Mr. Vargas, I did ask some of my long-standin' contacts what they knew about you. General consensus was that, while your more recent dealin's have been abroad, you are a heavy-weight, no matter the continent. I've been lookin' for a man such as you to help me supply my customers. The people who owe me favors, they will ensure that only Arthur's name is attached to Timothy's…overzealousness. I will see to it that you have no reason to abandon the fertile grounds of this part of the world."
Vargas locked eyes with the southerner, staring like a predatory animal readying to strike. He answered in a slow, deliberate tone.
"I have no plans to give this up anytime soon." His eyes flicked to the closed office door. "Things are just getting exciting for me. Coming and going from America is not as difficult as your Homeland Security would like people to believe."
He stepped forward, laying both hands gently on either side of Ezra's face. The undercover man desperately fought the instinct to pull back. Ian leaned in close, his lips no more than an inch from the agent's right ear and Ezra closed his eyes briefly as he heard the whisper. "It's as easy as slipping out of one's skin."
Vargas let his hands slide slowly away from the southerner's face and felt a charge as his tactile senses picked up the light film of perspiration now clinging to his fingertips.
JD knew Vargas had whispered something to Ezra, he just couldn't hear what. But one look at the southerner's physical reaction and JD felt a flush of warmth spread through his body. Ezra was scared.
The younger agent felt lost. Surely Ezra knew that Vargas had every intention of killing them once he got his money. Yet, the southerner offered it to him as if it was nothing more than a gift of good faith. JD knew he couldn't do the transfer. It was the only thing keeping them alive.
Vargas stepped between the two bound men and eased himself to a crouching position in front of them. He rested each of his hands on one of theirs – JD's right, Ezra's left – and lightly stroked the backs of their hands in a calming motion.
JD risked a glance downward to where Vargas studied the skin, tracing lines between the knuckles with his fingertips. He seemed oblivious to the tough, plastic bands that cut into their wrists and secured them to the arms of the solid, wood chairs.
The surrealistic aspects of the moment made JD feel as if he was watching the scene play out on a movie screen. His eyes flicked to Ezra. The southerner stared at the far wall of the hangar, just as he had when Arthur's death screams filled the cavernous space. The blank expression on his face disturbed JD more than he wanted to admit.
It made the young agent feel that his partner was pulling away from him, from reality. Consequently, he felt startled a split-second later when Ezra's eyes locked on his. The southerner took in a soft breath of air and quietly released it, relaxing the jaw muscles he'd set so tightly.
JD felt like he was being guided, blessed, prayed for and informed when the now-vibrant eyes communicated with him. He could practically hear Ezra's voice. Play it easy. Stay neutral. We don't set off this psychopath and we may just get a bit of an emotional upperhand.
"John."
The quiet voice made JD's skin crawl. He forced himself to look Vargas in the eye.
"John, you're the answer here. You are the solution to everything."
The disturbing rhythmic sensation of Vargas's fingertips across the trapped hands never stopped as he explained in a gentle voice. "It's all in there on that piece of paper next to the computer. A simple business deal—the money from Ezra's account to my accounts. And that's all you have to do. That's all I care about. Then you and Ezra are free to go. I go my way and the two of you continue on with life."
From his crouched position Vargas looked up into JD's face and read the lines of doubt which creased the soft skin around the hazel eyes. "It's an easy decision, John. You just finish what you started and you both walk out. You can make that happen."
Vargas felt as if the young man seated before him wavered on a thin line between distrust and knowing freedom was as easy as he said. A few seconds passed and Vargas sensed JD moving to the wrong side of the line. He spoke again, softly and sincerely.
"You're not doing it for me. By tomorrow morning I will be nothing to you. You're doing this for your friend. Ezra needs you to do this."
Without warning, Vargas locked his left hand tightly around Ezra's little finger and wrenched it violently back. JD heard a muffled pop just a split second before his partner released a harsh, violent scream then sharply drew in a desperate gasp of air. Ragged breaths shook the undercover agent's body for several seconds before his head dropped forward and he bit into his lower lip.
JD pulled against his restraints, lunging toward Vargas, and dragging the chair he was secured to several inches across the concrete floor. "Son of a BITCH!"
A massive arm instantly wrapped around JD's throat from behind, forming a chokehold, and Aaron's other hand jerked back a fistful of JD's shoulder-length hair. Vargas had already risen and taken a step away. He focused a hard stare on the younger man.
"That is nothing, JD! Absolutely NOTHING!" Spit flew from his lips with the savage outburst. He grabbed the young man's jaw hard with one hand. Strong fingers pressed painfully into JD's skin. "You have no idea how much pain a man can go through and still be alive. Do you really think you can handle watching that happen?" Vargas paused and let the thought sink in. The grip on JD's face softened into a cradling touch. When Vargas spoke again it was the same gentle tone with which he'd started.
"Just finish what you began, John, and you both walk out. It's that easy…You can do that."
Aaron released his hold on JD and Vargas drew back, looking at his bodyguards before motioning towards Ezra. "Move him to the other room." His sharp, gray eyes flicked to JD. "I'll give you a moment to make your decision."
Ezra's restraints were cut and he was hauled to his feet. The shock of the break and the stark realization of how desperate their situation had just become left him reeling. He fought to keep his legs under him.
JD's anger exhibited itself as a violent tremor that shook through his lean frame. As he watched his partner be pulled from the chair, his tongue betrayed the control he tried to maintain. "Ez…."
His voice sounded pleading and tight in his ears. He made a silent appeal to his friend. C'mon, look at me. Just let me see that cocky grin that always bugs the heck out of Chris. If I can see that, I'll know you're okay. I need to know your okay…If you're okay, we're gonna get out of this.
The southerner locked eyes with his partner and JD stared back, intent to communicate. A fine sheen of perspiration covered pale features, but the breathy voice held a solid message.
"Be smart, JD." Then he was guided away from the younger man.
At that moment, JD didn't care if Vargas had asked him to crack the Federal Reserve, he would have found a way.
…
Ezra was unsure how many minutes passed. He'd been dumped in the bare, windowless room and left alone. He rested where he'd been dropped, in a hunched over position on his knees, with his right elbow resting on the cold concrete floor. He pressed his left arm carefully to his chest. Pain engulfed his hand and shot jabbing needles up his forearm, a detached part of his mind was surprised at how quickly the swelling had progressed.
He willed himself not to look at the three bodies lying in the far corner of the room. The scent of blood permeated the air and he breathed through his mouth to avoid it. Thoughts ran through his brain. Please. God, not like this. Not JD.
His mind's eye recalled the photographs he had seen years ago of the two DEA agents. The medical examiner's report that had been included in the Academy case study had not been written to scare reality into students, but it did. The M.E.'s findings showed that the men most likely endured four to six hours of torture before succumbing to death from blood loss as a result of having thin layers of flesh carved from their bodies.
Pain, stark fear, and tension rolled through him. His stomach tightened and with a harsh shudder he gagged violently and vomited up lunch. He coughed hard as his throat rejected the acidic assault.
With a struggling effort he worked to control the short, shallow breaths, which invaded his body and made him dizzy.
Sitting up, he released a deep breath of air, spat sharply and wiped his mouth on the right sleeve of his suit jacket. Under the coat, the slate gray shirt he wore adhered uncomfortably to his back, soaked with what was now a cold sweat. He had purchased the shirt not three weeks earlier. Ezra Standish suddenly felt very, very pissed.
One hundred and fifteen goddamn dollars worth of Forzieri silk and it will be a miracle if it ever again smells any better than a wet hound dog.
He silently repeated himself. Not like this. Though now it was a defiant statement.
When the office door opened, Ezra had repositioned himself with his back against the wall opposite the door. His knees were drawn up and he clutched his left upper arm tight against his chest while the throbbing left hand rested on his right shoulder.
JD tentatively crossed to him, ignoring not only Aaron, who remained in the open doorway, but also the bodies and blood in the corner of the room. He crouched before the southerner, his eyes flicking to the ugly result of Vargas's persuasive methods. Ezra had done his best to splint his pinkie against his ring finger with his tie but it was mostly just a wrap. Swelling and blackish-purple bruising extended up to the wrist.
A lump formed in JD's throat and he swallowed to force it away. Force away the feelings of incompetence and fear that threatened to overwhelm him if he acknowledged them. In his hands, he held a wet, wrung-out shop towel and a can of Coke. With the gentlest touch he could manage, he slipped the ice cold aluminum can under Ezra's wounded hand, wedging it against the shoulder while maneuvering it as close to the broken digit as he could.
The slight movement caused Ezra to gasp and JD winced and breathed an apology. He knew it was a poor replacement for ice but he had to try something; and it had given him an excuse to check on his partner. JD attempted a smile. "Sorry…no RC."
Ezra returned the fragile grin. His teammates relished in teasing the southerner about his guarded secret penchant for the occasional Vanilla Moon Pie with an RC Cola. Nathan defended him though. "It's a southern thing," he would say. The others would just never get it.
JD focused on folding the small cold towel and carefully laying it over his friend's hand. His voice was soft when he spoke. "I don't know if it will help or not. It's all I could get." He scanned Ezra's face for a second then cast his gaze downward, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry."
He began to draw back but Ezra caught the young man's right hand with his own and focused intently on him. "It helps."
JD's eyes remained closed, his head lowered, and Ezra noted the slight negative shake of his head. JD still did not look up but tightly squeezed the southerner's hand. Several seconds passed and Ezra eased his hand away in order to lay his palm to the side of his friend's face.
"JD."
The young man didn't move. Ezra slid his hand down to cup the back of JD's neck. With light pressure, he gently shook JD's head, encouraging the other man to look at him.
"JD."
Finally a pair of bloodshot eyes rose to meet Ezra's gaze and JD clamped a hand over the one resting at his collar. "We're walkin' outta this," Ezra whispered.
JD pushed out a harsh breath and replied in the same soft tone. "He's not gonna-"
Ezra cut him off. Releasing his hold, the southerner grabbed a fist of JD's shirt front. "Can you do it?" he hissed.
"What… the transfer? Of course. And then he's-"
"Then you do it!" Ezra whispered sharply. He relaxed his fist and pressed his open palm against his friend's sweat-dampened shirt. He felt the pounding of the younger agent's heart and wondered who was more scared – JD, because of his inexperience, or himself, because of his experience. "That transfer goes through and his deal is sealed." We'll have him dead to rights on a major weapons transaction.
He addressed JD in a soft voice. "It's all we've got. He doesn't know." Doesn't know we're ATF. "Take all the time you can. Keep your eyes open for anything we can use. And you keep repeatin' to yourself, a thousand times if you have to, 'we are walkin' out of this.' Because we are… come Hell or high water."
Suddenly, JD's eyes widened. "Or rain," he whispered.
"What?"
JD patted Ezra's hand, which still pressed against his chest, and then gripped it firmly before resting it on his friend's knee. "Hang in there, Ez. I just got an idea."
The young man stood and walked back to join the bodyguard waiting for him in the open doorway. Ezra was once more left alone in a room with silence, prayers, and three dead bodies.