Mind Games

Chapter 23

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: My humble thanks to all for the reviews - they are a fanfic writer's only reward, and I appreciate every single one of them. Luvnumb3rs, you asked for a bonus chapter, and here it is. Next posting on my usual Tuesday...

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The CIA operative, Mike Tate, finished installing the camera in the living room vent of the Craftsman, and trudged upstairs. A half hour earlier, he had arrived in a truck wearing a coverall that advertised him as a heating and air conditioning repair man, and had reported in to Masters, flashing his CIA badge, saying he was there to sweep for bugs.

The operative didn't question why Masters and the others, obviously federal personnel, weren't allowed to know that the CIA was pretending to remove bugs, and was instead actually installing cameras. He'd learned over the years that the CIA often had its own agenda, not all of it legal. That was one of the reasons the other branches disliked and mistrusted them. The nickname "spooks" wasn't necessarily bandied about with affection. Not that it mattered to Tate – if he had a thin skin, he wouldn't be in this line of work.

He'd been told the barest minimum he needed to do the job – that two men, brothers, were in the house, under federal protection. One of them, the younger, was a double agent, and was under surveillance by the CIA – that man, Charlie Eppes, wasn't to know that Tate was there to install cameras. In fact, the only man who was allowed to know what Tate was doing was his brother, Don Eppes – who, Tate surmised, was in deep, and obviously working for the CIA.

He stopped upstairs at a closed bedroom door and knocked, and a man answered it. Don Eppes – Tate had been sent pictures of both men when he'd been given the assignment. "Jon Wilkes sent me," he said quietly, and Don opened the door and let him in, shutting it behind him. "I'm installing cameras," he told Eppes, "so you don't have to wear your jacket in the house. Wilkes said to tell you to keep it quiet – don't tell Charlie or any of the others. And Wilkes told me to give you this."

He opened his tool case, lifted out the top section, and pulled a knife in an ankle sheath out of the bottom. He handed it to Don. "Wilkes wanted you to have this. He said you'd know what it was for."

Don Eppes pulled the blade out of the sheath to examine it, and it glinted wickedly in the lamplight. Tate went immediately to work, and in five minutes had a camera installed in the upper vent. It was record time; he was glad to be out of there – he didn't like the look in the other man's eyes. It was – not quite right. He was telling himself that he was a dumb-ass, and that he should have given him the knife after he installed the camera, instead of before, as he stepped down the hallway to the next bedroom, and knocked again. A man's voice answered – dead, dull, defeated, yet with a hint of wariness.

"Yes."

The operative opened the door. A young man was lying on the bed – Charlie Eppes, he recognized him from the picture; there was no mistaking the hair. He was lying on his side; curled up as if in pain, and when the door opened, he sat up, awkwardly, wincing. The operative flashed his badge. "I'm here to sweep for bugs," he said. The young man merely nodded, silently.

He'd thought he'd have to work carefully to keep Charlie Eppes from seeing what he was actually doing, but the young man moved slowly to his desk and sat with his head down, pretending to look at papers while the operative worked. He never looked up, even when the operative left the room.

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The operative's next stop was Don Eppes' apartment, and following that, the FBI building. He arrived there at around midnight, with a faked contract that said he had permission to clean out the heating vents during the off shifts on five floors – one of them, the floor that housed the FBI offices. He tried that floor first, but even at that hour, there were agents there, still working. Still, he moved out of the hallway near the elevators and took a quick walk through the bullpen, before explaining to one of the agents he'd be back later that night, so he wouldn't disturb them.

The reason for his brief stroll was to get a glimpse of the offices for his command, Dr. Allman. He was wearing a camera himself to record the images, and as he stepped out of the elevator onto the deserted floor above, he opened his cell phone, and dialed. "Did you get the video feed?"

"Yes," came Allman's voice. "We found it very interesting. I would like you to proceed with the camera installation – target the bullpen and all of the conference rooms, especially the glass-walled room. One of my people wants you to check the room out and tell me how secure it is – find out whether it is really glass or a composite, and whether the door locks, and report back to us."

"It'll be a little while," said Tate. "There are people still working in there. Give me a couple of hours." At Allman's agreement and dismissal, he closed the phone, sat down at a desk, and unwrapped an energy bar.

At about the same time, a late arriving flight from Washington, D.C. touched down at LAX, a few miles away, and Megan Reeves stepped off the plane, and strode down the familiar concourse.

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The window shade was outlined with the gray of dawn, and Charlie blinked at it wearily; he had gotten very little sleep. He was huddled under his comforter on his right side; his left ribcage throbbed, and pain stabbed at him whenever he moved. The physical pain wasn't the only thing that had kept him awake, however. The ache in his heart was far worse.

He kept trying to get his mind around the fight that had occurred the evening before, and was failing miserably. Don apparently was furious at him for what had happened at the end of their undercover operation – he blamed Charlie for the accident, because he blamed him for taking the undercover job to begin with. That was bad enough, although Charlie thought he might be able to handle it if Don was simply angry, and was letting off steam. That wasn't the case; however, Don wasn't merely angry – the words he had chosen, the look of hatred in his eyes made it clear that he knew he might be doing irreparable damage to their relationship – and he didn't care. Don didn't care if the relationship continued or not – in fact it seemed as though he would rather it didn't – and he apparently didn't care if they ever resurrected it again or not. Inconceivably, their budding connection as friends, as true brothers was over, and Charlie had no idea why.

He closed his eyes tightly as Don's harsh words echoed in his head once again. "selfish – you've always been selfish…," The worst part of this was that it seemed that Don's feelings were rooted not only in what had just happened during the undercover assignment, but deep in the past. There was a chance that his brother had always felt this way, and for some reason was only now finally admitting it. It didn't jive; however, with the brother that Charlie had left in New Orleans. It was as though a stranger had come home in his place.

He stirred, painfully. The room was chilly and he didn't want to move, but he hadn't been out of his bedroom since early evening the night before, and nature called. Maybe it was best to get up now – it was early; Don would still be asleep. He stifled a gasp as he pushed himself upright, and shuddered as his feet hit the floor and the cool air swirled around his bare legs. Slowly, hunched like an old man, he shuffled through the room and collected clean underwear and sweats. He might as well get a shower while he was in there. He looked out into the hallway before proceeding, listening. The house was quiet.

In the bathroom, he slipped off his T-shirt, gingerly, and surveyed his chest in the mirror. There were bruises on his abdomen, but the worst damage was to his left rib cage. It was swollen and already turning odd colors; Charlie had no doubt that Don had cracked a rib. He swallowed another upwelling of emotional pain, and turned to the shower.

He ran it hot, almost scalding – the heat felt good on his ribs. After he was finished, he dried off carefully, ran some mousse through his hair, and shaved. He needed to appear normal. One thing was certain, he was not letting Rogan and Masters know what had happened – not until he found out why Don was acting this way. He had to know why, or he couldn't fix it – whatever it was. Deep down, he wondered if it was fixable – but he knew he had to try. If Rogan and Masters knew what had happened, they'd take him out of there, away from Don, and then he might never find out.

Don's bedroom door was closed, and he paused in front of it. For a moment, he had the wild urge to go inside and sit on his brother's bed, as he had when they were children and something was bothering him. Often Don would shoo him away, but sometimes, especially when they'd argued, Don would let him stay, and they'd talk. Not about the argument – young boys didn't do that, it was mushy – but about other things, letting each other know from their words and their mannerisms that things were okay again, that the argument was over. For just an instant, Charlie wondered if he should try. Maybe a good night's sleep and the light of day would make things okay again. Then he remembered the murderous look in Don's eye the night before. He shuddered, and shuffled quickly for the stairs.

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Don rolled restlessly in his bed, eyes closed but moving under the lids, caught in a dream. It wasn't based on past events; it had never happened, but somehow, it had a familiar sense about it. He was twelve, he was in the garage, and seven-year-old Charlie was backed into a corner, terror in his big dark eyes. It was crystal-clear; Don could feel the heat of the summer day, smell the familiar dusty-oily scent of the garage; see his brother's curls, so dark against the pale face.

Charlie had his hands up in front of him. "No, Donnie," he whimpered, "please, I'm sorry." He was trembling, terrified, and Don was advancing towards him relentlessly.

He could feel horror deep inside; he knew what he was about to do, and he desperately wanted to stop, but somehow, he couldn't. He could sense his own face, twisted in a snarl of hatred, feel his fists balling, and he raised his arm to strike…

"Unnh!" He sat up, gasping for air, sweating, shaking, jolted awake. His head was throbbing – he'd had constant headaches over the past several days, and they were getting worse. For a split second, there was something else – another feeling besides hatred and abhorrence, a mingled sense of sorrow and love. Then the hatred came seeping back, blotting out all else, displacing any other emotion, negating good memories, leaving only bad. His breathing slowed, his features relaxed, his eyes turned cold. Seven-fifteen a.m. It was another day.

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"Hey, George, you're falling asleep at the wheel, man. Look at his bar chart."

The Team A leader at the command center, a man named Johnson, spoke sharply to the technician, who grunted and blinked, and glanced at the video feed from Don Eppes' room. Eppes was sitting up in bed, obviously shaken, and the bars on the monitor indicated that his brain had drifted over to positive emotions again. The technician fiddled with the knobs in front of him. "Damn – he's a tough one – he keeps getting breakthrough, even in his sleep."

"Well, get him into shape. Ziegler could walk in at any minute – you want him to see that?"

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A.D. Wright strode into the bullpen of the L.A. FBI offices and stopped short, as a familiar figure caught his eyes. He frowned and made his way over to her. "Megan Reeves!" he exclaimed. "Let me guess – you got tired of your counseling assignment and decided you want your old job back."

She grinned up at him, and clasped his proffered hand. "No such luck. I came out to L.A. to visit friends, and thought I'd stop in to see Colby and David."

David had walked up behind her, and winked at the A.D. "She means to say that we aren't her friends."

She swiveled in the chair and swatted at him. "I do not – you know what I meant." She rose, smiled at A.D. Wright, and dropped her voice. "Actually, I came here to see what was up with Don and Charlie."

Wright grimaced slightly. "I know – Colby told me you were the one who started all the questions." He cocked his head at her. "You still have all your clearances?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right, you can come on in and listen. I'm warning you in advance – I don't know much, so there's not much to listen to."

In spite of his statement, he didn't use the glass conference room – too public. Instead, he guided Megan, David, and Colby into a smaller one, and shut the door. He looked at Megan. "Ordinarily, Reeves, I'd tell a civilian to hit the road, but the Director thought it better to include you in the discussion, since you already knew something was afoot. I think he was afraid you'd go around asking more questions." He looked at David and Colby. "And you two; be aware that this doesn't go beyond this room. If anyone asks where Don is, you can tell him the cover story – he and Charlie were at Quantico developing a course and were in a small accident, no serious injuries, but they needed a couple weeks to recuperate. Then they're going back out to finish the course."

Colby frowned. "Going back out?"

Wright sighed. "Here is what I can tell you – they were obviously not at Quantico, as Megan found. They were on an undercover assignment – I was not told where, or what – it's highly classified."

"Wait," said David, grinning. "Charlie – our Charlie – undercover?'

Wright nodded, soberly, and David's grin faded. "Whatever it is, it's big stuff," said Wright. "I was told they finished the assignment, and are going to testify in two weeks. The car accident wasn't a random occurrence – it was an attempt on their lives, although I understand that even though their covers were broken, their real names weren't compromised. They have protection, but it's just a precaution - no one should know to look for them here. That is why it is imperative for their safety that you reinforce their cover story."

Colby raised his eyebrows. "Wow."

"Indeed," responded Wright. "Now if you three are done poking around, we can move on." He looked at Megan, a glint of humor in his eyes. "Although, since you're here, and you all are fairly close to the Eppes, for appearances it wouldn't hurt for you to pay them a visit and wish them a speedy recovery."

She grinned back at him. "Well, maybe we'll just do that. Thank you, sir."

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Ziegler pursed his lips and watched the monitors – there were two of them; one on Charlie Eppes, who was in the dining room, and one on Don Eppes, in the kitchen, as the Team A leader, Johnson, spoke. "It sure is nice having the individual rooms wired – we can see what the target is doing when he's in a different room." He paused reflectively. "You know, I can't figure it. Charlie Eppes doesn't seem the type that would be involved in something so deep that we can't even clue in the other agencies."

Ziegler shrugged. "When you've seen as much as I have, you'd know that there is no type when it comes to double agents. Who knows – maybe he's tied up in something that would compromise some of our agents, or other missions. It's not the first time we've been asked to do something like this. Allman told me that even our own Director doesn't know about this one – at least officially. They apparently want to maintain deniability. That's a sure sign that this op is extremely sensitive."

"Yeah, I suppose that could be," said Johnson reflectively. "I guess they are taking pains to make this look like a domestic argument – it's quite the cover-up." He shook his head, looking at Charlie on the monitor. "I just can't see that one as a double agent. Of course, maybe that's why he's good at it." He looked up at Ziegler. "I was reading the reports – you and Team B staged an altercation yesterday between them yesterday; I understand you're going to try to make the target run. Do you want us to do something today?"

"Not yet," said Ziegler. The truth was, he was contemplating making the attempt that day, but he wanted the B team on when they tried it – Jamison, Wilkes, and Korb. They were the team that had turned Eppes; they had the best chance of controlling him in what would be an unpredictable situation. "In fact," he said to Johnson, "I want you to keep them apart if you can."

Don Eppes had turned out to be a challenge; that was certain. Ziegler had doubts that they would be able to manage him for too long – he was too volatile, too unstable, too strong-minded. The sooner they dealt with Charlie, the better. It was hard to tell exactly how things would go – he had a plan that would hopefully put Charlie and Don in a public place, where others could witness the murder but couldn't intercede. It would all depend on getting Charlie to run where they wanted him to go – if he did, he would be a dead man. If not, they would back Don off, and wait for another opportunity. Ziegler, however, had a good feeling about this. His eyes rested on the slight figure in the dining room. By the end of the day, if all went well, Charles Eppes would be dead.

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End Chapter 23