Disclaimer: We do not own the Hardy Boys or any of the canon book characters, nor do we own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and are making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s). Co-written with Talefeathers of the HDA.

For those of you who are not familiar with The Sentinel's characters, we hope this will be a pleasant introduction to them for you. For those of you who are already acquainted with Blair, Jim, Simon and the others – enjoy! Trying to fit these four stories into two different story arcs [Hardy Boys and The Sentinel] just barely worked. Band of Brothers and Welcome to Cascade take place before September Song [Hardy universe] begins, and any time after The Perfect Partner [Sentinel universe]. Missing Persons happens right after Fanfare for June [Hardys]; A Matter of Public Record takes place any time between Death on the Fourth of July and February Flirtations [Hardys], and before Remodel and Rebuild [Sentinel].

The stories in the series were written in 2006 and 2007. Technology does not match today's levels. Nor does airport security!

Thank you, Sarai, for your continued support and comments.

Welcome to Cascade

A Sentinel/Hardy Boys Crossover Story

By EvergreenDreamweaver & Talefeathers

Chapter 9

Once the loft was comparatively tidy again, Jim decided to take advantage of a few free minutes to grab a shower. He might have been sitting around in the bullpen most of the day, but he'd driven home in a non-air-conditioned truck, and although the loft was relatively cooler than outside, he still wanted a chance to cool off and clean up.

The three teenagers were settled in the living room again, watching an old rerun of Lethal Weapon II. Ellison couldn't help grinning a little at the choice – it was one of his favorites as well. All three of the boys were chanting the dialogue along with the actors. Deciding that wandering around the loft in a towel as he usually did might be considered slightly poor manners right now, Jim went upstairs to his bedroom, got out clean clothes, and descended once more to take his shower.

Ten minutes later he was dressed and feeling much more civilized. He got another bottle of water from the refrigerator, and paused near the front door, thoughtfully. He'd hung his holster and service weapon in the usual place when he'd arrived home, but maybe it would be a good idea to wear it, just because...He took the holster down and buckled it on.

"Expecting trouble?" Joe inquired quietly.

Ellison turned, slightly surprised to see the young man directly behind him. "Not really," he acknowledged, "but it's always better to be prepared."

Joe nodded, and turned away, evidently heading for the bathroom. In the living room, Frank and Daryl got to their feet as well; the movie halted for the time being.

"Pizza ought to be here any time," Frank noted with satisfaction.

"And Blair should be back with the pop," Daryl added. "I'm going to put my CD away," he went on, and popped the disc out of the player, holding it carefully as he placed it back in the jewel case. He headed for Blair's bedroom. Frank shut the television off, then trailed along behind Daryl, for no other reason than to be companionable.

#####

It had taken so little effort. The pizza-delivery car had pulled into the parking space and the delivery boy had gotten out, balancing two large boxes. The top box had a slip taped to it, with 'Sandburg, 852 Prospect, #307' and the price. Andy Martin had stepped out of the stairwell door as the kid entered the lobby.

"Is that the pizza order for #307?" he asked in a friendly tone. "I'll pay for it and take it up."

"You Mr. Sandburg?" the kid asked, checking the slip of paper.

"No, I'm a friend of his. He sent me down to meet you and bring the pizzas up." Andrei lied smoothly. He smiled and held out a $50 bill. "Here. Keep the change."

Smiling, the boy handed over the pizza boxes and pocketed the cash. "Thanks! Enjoy your dinner."

"Oh, I intend to," Andrei said softly, watching him depart. "I fully intend to."

#####

When the knock sounded on the loft door, Jim went to answer it. He cranked his senses up just the slightest bit, having kept them on the low side while the kids had had the CD player on, and the volume up on Mel Gibson and Danny Glover's exploits, but he could discern nothing amiss – the aroma of hot pizza was nearly overwhelming, and he could hear nothing out of the ordinary. "Yes?"

"Pizza delivery!" was the answer, and Jim slid back the chain and opened the door...

...when the slightest hint of something else tickled his nose, underlying the tantalizing redolence of tomato sauce-and-cheese.

PEPPERMINT!

Moving on instinct, Ellison threw himself against the door, attempting to block the entrance, but the man outside the loft was already shoving through the gap, pushing the bulky boxes of pizza straight into the detective's chest and tilting them up to mash against Ellison's face.

"DARYL! FRANK! JOE! Get out, NOW! GO! GO!"

Struggling frantically to grasp the smaller, more agile man, hampered by the boxes crushed between them, Jim couldn't let go to reach for his holstered weapon. He could only hope and pray that Marchlewicz didn't have his own gun out – because if he did, Jim was a dead man – and so were the three boys.

He shifted his weight to one leg and lifted the other, twisting it around Andrei's ankle, trying to throw the assassin off-balance. It worked, but somehow Andrei managed to maneuver in mid-fall, pulling Jim over so that he landed on the bottom with Andrei on top of him and reaching for his gun. Cursing, Ellison shoved frantically up, pushing the boxes against his attacker and forcing him to abandon his intention of drawing his weapon. He flung the pizza boxes to the side and dodged Andrei's blow at his windpipe; it caught him on the side of the head, and momentarily, Ellison saw stars.

That instant was all Marchlewicz needed; he had his gun in hand, and brought it down towards the detective's unprotected skull. Jim jerked reflexively to the side once more, and the gun glanced off without much force of impact. Still, two blows were enough to slow him down, and Andrei took full advantage of the moment. Leaping to his feet, the assassin kicked his opponent solidly in the side, then abandoned the fistfight to chase after his primary targets, leaving Ellison gasping on the floor, his eyesight momentarily blurred by pain.

Stop him...gotta stop him...Painfully, Jim rolled over and struggled to one knee, fumbling for his gun. He pulled it out, focused as best he could on the fleeing sniper, and pulled the trigger...only to hear glass shatter, as Andrei plunged towards the floor in a controlled dive, the bullet missed its intended target, and went through the balcony door.

Andrei was up again and running, turning around and raising his right hand. Two soft pop! pop! sounds were heard, barely audible...and Jim Ellison was flung backwards to lie motionless on the floor, blood spurting from a wound in his left shoulder – and oozing down in a sullen crimson stream from a second wound which sliced along the side of his head.

###

When Jim had shouted his warning, Frank and Daryl had just started to emerge from Blair's room, anticipating the arrival of their dinner. As the detective's words sank in, Frank whirled and grabbed Daryl's arm, dragging him towards the fire escape door.

"C'mon! We've gotta get out of here!"

He didn't have to say it twice; Daryl was already moving as rapidly as he was. The two boys hit the door at the same time and yanked it open, infinitely grateful that it hadn't been locked, then scrambled out onto the fire escape. Not daring to look back, they scampered down the metal ladder as fast as they could go, and fled down the street seeking shelter.

"Here – this way!" Daryl panted, yanking on Frank's arm to pull him into an alleyway halfway down the block. "It cuts through...Blair will be...coming back...from that direction, and maybe...we can hide...behind the Dumpster..."

"Behind, hell!" Frank gasped. "I'm all for hiding IN one!" He dashed into the alley, hearing the other boy's footsteps pounding behind him, and found the hiding place they sought: a large trash container. Reluctant to climb in if it wasn't absolutely necessary, the two crouched down behind the receptacle, trying to stifle their panting breaths. They flinched, hearing in the distance the distinct sound of a gunshot.

"Noooooo," Daryl almost sobbed, fearing the worst.

As Frank caught his breath, he looked around – and came to a sudden frightening realization. "Daryl...where's Joe?"

###

At that moment, Joe Hardy was flattening himself against the fire escape door which led out of Jim Ellison's upper-loft bedroom, holding his breath and attempting to make himself soundless and invisible. He had come out of the bathroom just as Jim had shouted, and like Frank and Daryl, had headed immediately for the fire-escape exit – but instead of going down, the younger Hardy had climbed up. He watched as Frank and Daryl fled down Prospect and disappeared into the alley. He knew he was taking a terrible chance...but he didn't want to leave Jim Ellison alone.

He heard the gunshot, heard the tinkling smash of breaking glass, and knew that whoever had shot had missed his mark. He bit his lower lip hard. Andrei uses a silencer – at least, he did before. That meant that the gunshot – the shot which missed – had been Jim's. He gasped in an involuntary breath...and prayed to hear another.

Moments later, the noise of the door being slammed open below him nearly made Joe jump out of his skin. He was holding his breath again, but watching the metal grid below his feet. If whoever that was, looked up...

But Andrei didn't look up. He was intent on rapidly descending, and Joe, from his elevated perch, caught muttered snippets of words in a foreign tongue, words that nevertheless sounded furious and frustrated. Joe watched in desperate silence as the assassin gained the street and set off in pursuit of his quarry, without looking back.

There was no sound from the apartment below. Slowly, stealthily, Joe made his way down the iron ladder, hoping against hope. He went into Blair's room, and hurried out into the loft.

"Oh God!"

Jim Ellison lay on his back, halfway between the front door and the loveseat. His eyes were closed; his face slack in unconsciousness. Blood was spreading rapidly across the upper part of his light blue shirt, was falling in drops, with slow, dreadful regularity from the scarlet gash in his head. His right hand still loosely grasped his service revolver.

Joe dashed across the floor, and grabbed for the cordless phone on the coffee table. He clicked it on and dialed 911 with shaking fingers, at the same time making a hasty detour into the kitchen, where he grabbed as many terrycloth towels as he could find. By the time he reached Ellison's side, his call had been answered. Oh God, he's breathing...keep breathing, Jim, come on, keep on breathing...

"911, what is your emergency?"

Frantically, Joe relayed the information, attempting at the same time to secure a towel about Ellison's head to staunch the blood flow. He folded up a couple of kitchen towels and pressed them against the wound in the detective's shoulder, as he entreated the 911 operator to "Hurry, hurry, get an ambulance here, police officer down..." He finished off by saying "The door's open – hurry!" and dropped the phone, heedless of the operator's request that he stay on the line.

He needed to stay – but he needed to go, as well. Frank and Daryl were out there, being relentlessly stalked by Andy Martin, cold-blooded killer-for-hire. Blair was – who knew? Perhaps too far away to help. The patrols might be cruising the neighborhood, but obviously they hadn't stopped the man...

With a sinking heart, Joe gently patted Jim Ellison's arm. "I've got to go find them – you understand, don't you? The medics will be here in just a few minutes." He started to rise, and then stopped in a half-crouch, gazing down at Ellison's service weapon.

Hell, if I get in trouble for taking a cop's gun, so be it! I'm not going out there empty-handed if I can help it! Joe eased the gun from Ellison's lax hold and stuffed it into his shorts pocket. The next moment he was out the door and about to descend the fire escape, when he glimpsed something that made his blood run cold in his veins.

Andrew Martin was walking slowly back up the street. He had evidently passed the alley where Frank and Daryl had taken refuge, but now realized his error and was backtracking. Unless Frank and Daryl had moved during the time Joe was with Jim inside the loft, they were going to be trapped – and executed – in short order.

From his elevated perch, his eye was caught by another moving figure further down the block – Blair Sandburg, returning from the grocery store. The young detective was sauntering along easily, a rectangular red box in one hand – with no suspicion that he was walking into a deadly trap.

Have to save Frank...have to warn Blair...have to save Frank and Daryl...warn Blair...The words circled in an endless loop through Joe's mind as he watched the two men. If he shouted a warning, Andrei would simply turn and shoot him; Joe had no illusions about the man's accuracy with a gun. He'd only missed before because of last-minute interference! And shouting might not accomplish what was needed; Blair might not hear him clearly, might not understand his peril.

But if he didn't shout, what was to stop the sniper from walking calmly into that alley, shooting Daryl and Frank with his silenced weapon, and then just as calmly strolling back out – and killing Blair Sandburg as he unknowingly walked past?

Decisions, decisions...Joe gritted his teeth and made his choice. Waiting until Marchlewicz was just starting to turn into the alley, he took out Jim's service pistol, pointed it into the air, and fired off two quick shots – and then immediately dropped flat on the fire escape and covered his head, hoping desperately that he might be hidden from the assassin's view.

The reports reverberated through the quiet street. At the sound, Andrei whirled about, searching for the source, gun drawn. Down the block, Blair Sandburg dropped the box of soda cans, snatched his pistol from its holster, and leveled it at the half-crouched figure he could see in the distance.

"CASCADE PD! Drop the weapon!" Blair began to run, keeping his gun trained on his target.

Andrei Marchlewicz spun towards the approaching detective and brought his gun up...

...just as a chunk of concrete, flung wildly by Frank Hardy from the depths of the shadowed alleyway caught him on the shoulder. He staggered, reoriented, and once again raised his gun.

Blair's shot caught him squarely in the left thigh, sending the sniper crashing to the pavement, clutching his bleeding leg and howling in pain.

###

Joe raised his head cautiously, took in the scene below, and darted down the fire escape stairs as fast as he could move. They converged upon Andrei Marchlewicz from three directions: Frank and Daryl from the alley, Joe from the loft, and Blair in the street, still keeping his gun trained on the fallen man.

Frank reached him first, and ignoring his moans and cries, moved quickly to kick the gun away.

Blair was the next to arrive. "Damnit, I don't have any cuffs on me! Are you guys okay?" The detective didn't take his eyes off his captive as Joe and Daryl hurried up.

"We're fine." With surprising calmness, Daryl bent to unlace his sneakers. "Here. Use the laces until you can get some cuffs!" He pulled one shoestring loose and began on the other.

Blair glared down at Andrei, his blue eyes as cold as a frozen sea. "Turn over on your belly and put your hands behind your back," he snapped. As the man struggled to obey, Blair added, "Can one of you tie him?"

"I'll do it." Frank stepped forward, careful not to get between Sandburg and Marchlewicz, and secured the man's hands as well as he could with Daryl's shoe laces.

Just as he completed the task, an ambulance screamed up the street, pulling to a stop in front of the apartment building. Close behind it, a police cruiser braked beside the little group in the middle of the street.

"Sandburg! What've you got?" Two uniformed officers leaped from the car, guns drawn.

"Cuff him and take him," Blair snapped, shoving his pistol into the holster and stepping back to give them access. "That's Andrei Marchlewicz, an international hit man. The one that we've been looking for."

As the officers moved to do so, Blair took in the sight of the ambulance – and Daryl and the Hardys saw the dawning horror in his eyes as he realized just who was missing. "Where's Jim?" He turned to Joe, anguish spreading across his features. "WHERE'S JIM?"

"Andrei shot him—" Joe whispered miserably. "But Blair, he's..."

Sandburg was already running desperately for the loft, and Joe's words went unheard.

A special note of thanks to Phoenix for her suggestions and advice regarding this chapter! Her 'sounding board' ability was invaluable, and jarred things loose so we could figure out what to do! Thank you, O Fiery One!