Thanks to Xenitha, max2013, Paaps (thanks, and I update as quickly as I can, which is never fast enough…), Caranath, hlahabibty, Jilsen

Coming back to consciousness was never as easy as it looked in the movies.

For starters, there was the pain. Before Frank even opened his eyes, he could feel the ache in his chest and the sting emanating from the back of his head. Then there was the confusion. For a few minutes, he didn't know where he was, or – more importantly – why he hurt so much, and all he wanted to do was go back to sleep so the pain would recede.

It wasn't meant to be.

He was aware of at least three times he was jolted out of sleep by a hand shaking him gently, but insistently, on the shoulder followed by a light that sent stabbing pains straight into his brain being shone in his eyes and a series of questions. And the questions were a problem.

Despite the pain and the headache, he held on to enough of his short-term memory to be cautious about the answers he gave. Since he didn't know how long he had been unconscious, or what information had been shared about his identity, he hedged each time someone asked him his name, saying he didn't feel comfortable sharing that information while turning his gaze to the police officer he could see stationed by the door. Then he would ask to talk to his father. Depending on who shows up, I'll know what answer to give, he thought. Apparently, the nurses were satisfied enough with his responses to the other questions to leave this one be.

When he finally woke up on his own, there were shadows in the room, the sunlight outside just starting to fade. He rubbed his eyes a few times and was about to press the call button for some water, and hopefully some pain medication, when he saw the officer – a burly, middle-aged white guy who looked to have served in the military before joining the force – start in surprise. He propped himself up as best he could on the pillows and strained his ears to hear what was going on the hallway, easing himself back down and closing his eyes when he felt the room starting to spin around him.

"Frank?"

His eyes sprang back open. The light had been switched on, and he could see Agent Malone standing next to the bed, the business-like expression on her face at odds with the oversized, tie-dyed sweatshirt she wore. He squinted against the colors, too bright against the pastel hospital room walls. "Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."

"I'm sorry it took so long to get here." She shook her head and let out a shaky breath. "This wasn't at all what we were expecting." There was a tremor in her voice.

"No." He gestured to the officer outside the room with his hand. "They know who we are now?" There was a ringing in his ears that got louder each time he spoke. Without thinking, he shook his head to try to clear it and grimaced at the jolt of pain the motion caused.

"Agent Vickers is on-scene with the police right now." Malone's voice had switched back to professional law enforcement officer; the juxtaposition between her tone and her appearance made the corner of Frank's mouth quirk up in a half smile. "The doctors were concerned that you hadn't spoken much. Are you sure you're okay?"

Frank nodded, realizing this also wasn't a good idea when his stomach lurched. He closed his eyes again and swallowed hard. "I'm… I'm fine. I just wasn't sure..." He left the last few words off the sentence and reopened his eyes. "You know."

She nodded. "Yeah. I had an interesting time getting your guard to believe me when I told him who I was." An odd half-smile crossed her face. "I guess your training worked." The smile faded, her professional mask falling back into place. "Frank, we need to know what happened. Right now you're our only witness. What do you remember?"

He described what he had seen at the site. "Might be details missing." He sighed. "It all happened so fast. I didn't know what was going on." He took a deep breath and turned his face away so she wouldn't see the tears welling in his eyes. "I couldn't do anything."

"Frank, you were injured in the blast." He heard her shift her weight from one foot to the other, the chains on her boots clinking softly near the floor. "The first responders were surprised you were conscious, never mind standing up."

Something the agent had said tugged at his mind, and he turned back toward her, his eyes filled with urgency. "Only witn… Chuck. I think he was in the store. Is he okay?"

Malone's lips tightened, her eyes darting away from his. "He's in surgery. The doctors are pretty sure he's going to make it."

There was something else in her face, something she knew but wasn't sharing. "But?"

"He lost his left arm."

Frank felt bile rising up into his throat, remembering the scrap of cloth on the floor of the shop. He clamped his mouth shut and breathed in through his nose until he could speak again. "Bob?"

"He didn't make it." Malone's eyes were flat. "He was too close to the explosion."

"Oh, G-d." Frank felt hollow. "This is going to sound weird, but I liked him. I know he was… ruthless with others, and what he was doing was… wrong, but he was funny. He liked me… I mean Zack." The room started tilting again.

"Frank?"

He opened his eyes, only just realizing he had closed them. "Sorry, what?"

Malone was looking at him, her eyes tight, the professional mask starting to crack. "Do you remember what you said to the responder who found you? Something about voices?"

Frank blinked at her a few times, trying to get his brain to pull up that memory. "Bob was talking to someone. He was definitely annoyed." He thought for a moment, then sank farther down into the pillow trying to organize the confused thoughts echoing in his head. "I couldn't hear who it was clearly enough." He turned his head back toward the wall, trying to pull information from his memory, then whipped his head toward her, realizing she knew who it was, grunting with the pain of the movement. "Who?"

The agent's expression hardened, making her look much older, then she bowed her head, her eyes filling. "It was Matt." The words were a whisper.

"What?" Suddenly, all the air had disappeared from the room. "Matt? Why…?"

Malone lifted a hand to her face, wiping her eyes. "I don't know. He and Randy had a fight. That's all I've got."

Slowly, she filled Frank in on what they knew so far; the bomb had been in the back of a transit van parked right by Quest Star's back door and had obliterated the back room. For some reason, only half of the explosives had detonated, so while the rest of the store had sustained serious damage, parts of it were still standing.

"We got lucky. If the whole thing had gone off, half the street would be gone," Malone said. "The bomb squad is going to go over what's left with a fine tooth comb, but it's going to be a while until they can examine it closely. They have to make sure it's not booby trapped and the structure is safe enough to dig around in." She sighed. "By the time they get to any real evidence, these guys are going to be long gone."

"No." Something flickered in Frank's mind. A memory of a scrap of paper. "I got a print," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"What?"

"A print. Off the materials… The client." His head drooped, exhaustion suddenly making everything hazy. "Coffee table." He looked at her, his eyes bleary and filled with pain. "Can't… promise."

She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "You rest. I'll find it and get it processed. This could be just what we need." She turned back toward him when she got to the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Then she turned off the lights and was gone. Frank closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift back to sleep.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

By the time Kara was able to get to the Moscow Police Department, it was long after nightfall. The streetlights made the light-colored cement building look bright and alive as she approached, a stark contrast with the rest of the street. She dropped the evidence bag containing the fingerprint with the forensics people then went to the interview room and stood watching Randy alternate between telling off the two-way mirror and sullenly kicking the table leg.

The officer watching him rolled his eyes. "You'd think he'd get tired after a while."

Kara shrugged. "He doesn't know what's going on. He's scared."

"Hmmph." The man shrugged. "You want company in there?"

She shook her head. "He knows me. Whether or not he believes me will be another issue." She indicated the door with her chin. "Let me in."

When he saw her enter the room, Randy jumped to his feet. "Carrie? What the hell are you doing here?"

Kara straightened and pulled her badge from her back pocket, laying it on the table in front of him. "Agent Kara Malone. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to ask you some questions about the job you were working on yesterday. The falsified passports."

Randy stared at her, his mouth open. "Jesus, Carrie, what the…?"

With a smooth motion, she reached back into the waistband of her jeans, pulled out her department issued Glock and pointed at his chest. "Not Carrie. And this will go a lot faster if you tell me what I need to know."

"You're going to shoot me?" Outrage deepened his voice.

Kara made sure the safety was still engaged and slid the gun back where it belonged. "No," she said, her voice calm. "Just making a point. The guys out there," she indicated the room on the other side of the mirror, "wouldn't have let me in with the gun if I wasn't who I said I was. Now I need you to tell me anything you can about the client who ordered the passports."

He stood looking at her for a long moment, then swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I need you to tell me why I'm here first." A pause. "Then I talk. Until then..." He zipped a hand across his lips. "Nothing."

"It's for your protection." She leaned forward, her hands out, palms on the table. "We don't know who did this, or if they know you were involved. We need to keep you safe."

"Then you're out of luck. No clue what happened." Randy shook his head, some of the swagger coming back into his voice. He pointed to his chest with both hands. "I was in my room minding my own business when the cops dragged me out and brought me here." The shocked look on her face stopped him cold. "Wait, something really happened? I thought they were shitting me. No one said…" He swallowed again, then sank down into his chair, his eyes intent on her face. "Tell me. Please."

She kept to the facts, trying to keep her voice level and dispassionate, pausing and cursing internally when it cracked as she told him of Matt's death. When she finished, she looked down at him. He was shaking his head, his face white, tension lines on his forehead.

"No. You're lying to me." His hands were splayed on the tabletop, his fingers trying to dig in to the surface. "You lied to me before about who you were. You're lying now."

Kara's shoulders slumped, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. "I wish I was." She pulled the out the chair and sat, perched on the edge of the seat. "But I'm not."

"He's really gone..." Randy's voice was a whisper. "I can't..." Tears leaked from his eyes as he stared into thin air. When he looked up, pain was carved into his face. "Why?"

"I think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time." She sighed. "The bomber was expecting two people. He heard two voices. I don't think he considered they might not be the right two people."

Randy's face grew cold. "So it should have been Zack, not my cousin. If that's even his real name. He's one of you, isn't he?" The words came out in a snarl.

"He is." Kara regarded him with clear eyes. "We're lucky the guy didn't know you had been called in to help with the second order." She paused a moment to let the words sink in. "Or you might have been there, too. Then we'd have no one who could help us get him."

"Oh, my G-d." Randy wheezed as if he had just been punched in the stomach. "I think… I'm gonna..."

The door burst open, and the officer hauled Randy to his feet, almost dragging him to the nearest bathroom. When they returned a few minutes later, the officer plunked sodas down on the table, then left, closing the door behind him.

Randy sat down and grabbed one of the sodas, holding it against his right cheek. Kara grabbed the other and popped it open.

"So, what can you tell me, Randy? I'm willing to offer you immunity from prosecution for the fake ID ring if you can help us get this guy." She took a long drink.

He shook his head, some of the soda sloshing onto his face. "Nothing." His eyes took on a pleading look. "Not because I don't want to help. Because I don't know anything." He lowered the can to the table. "I'm sure Zack told you this already, but Bob wouldn't let us ask any questions. He was the only one who knew the details."

"Crap," Kara whispered. "I was hoping…"

There was a brief knock, then the door opened. "Agent Malone?"

Kara turned toward the voice. The officer at the door was a young woman, probably about her own age, but with darker hair. And looking more like a grown-up, she thought, lifting a hand to the dyed tips of her hair. "Yes?"

The woman grinned. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but we got a hit."

"What?" Kara stood so fast, the chair tipped over. Through the corner of her eye, she could see Randy on his feet as well.

The officer handed over a few sheets of paper. "The print you fave us. It pulled this up from the database.

Kara turned the papers over. A photo showed a blond man in his early twenties with longish hair, bright blue eyes and a sullen expression. The rap sheet listed crimes ranging from assault and battery to vandalism as well as hate crimes against various ethnic and religious groups.

"That's him," Randy breathed from over her shoulder. "He's older now, but that's the guy from the passport pictures."

"Did one of them use this name?" She pointed to the name listed at the top of the sheet. He shook his head. "Do you know what names were on the passports?" It was hard to keep the impatience out of her voice.

"The two we did." He paused. "And two of the others. Zack kept making cracks that he," he nodded at the photo, "didn't look like a Neil or a Gary. More like a Bubba."

"Give Officer..." Kara looked at the woman's badge. "Office Barnes what you can remember. I'm going to head back to the hospital to see if..." She cleared her throat. "… if Zack can remember the others." She turned to Barnes. "Get an APB out on him as soon as possible under all the names you've got. Someone from my group will contact you when we've got more information."

Barnes gave her a grim smile. "Already done. Contact us as soon as you've got the rest. We'll get this bastard."

Kara nodded her head once and ran from the room.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Matt's funeral took place two weeks later.

Law enforcement officers had captured the suspect without a struggle outside the Umatilla National Forest where he had run out of gas on the back roads of Ritter, Oregon trying to avoid the more heavily patrolled highways and main roads. The man, whose real name Frank found out was Matthew Jenkins – an irony that had made Frank shake his head in disbelief, had been extradited back to Idaho and charged with two counts of murder. Vickers was working with a cadre of other agents, sifting through the evidence and questioning Jenkins to see if they could find out who else was involved with the bombing and the passport scheme. Once Frank had been thoroughly debriefed, he was told he was no longer needed in Moscow and could head home.

"You did good work, son," Vickers told him, the accompanying clap on the shoulder making Frank's ribs ache. "If you're interested in joining up..."

Frank shook his head. "Thank you, sir, but no. I think I prefer to remain independent."

"Like father, like son," Vickers said. "Would you at least be interested in contracting with us again?" At Frank's surprised nod of assent, the agent smiled. "Good. Tell you father I said hello." Then he turned back to the pile of papers that sat in front of him.

The day of the service was cloudy and cool, typical for early December in Idaho. While nominally limited to family, Frank could see both a contingent of the Vandals basketball team standing vigil at the far end of the cemetery holding a banner with Matt's jersey number on it and a handful of the regular gamers from the comic book store grouped near by them, Chuck easily identifiable among them by the empty coat sleeve pinned up to his shoulder. Frank stayed hidden as best he could behind a tree, not wanting to be seen, but needing to be there.

Once the mourners dispersed, he walked over to the grave, a single white carnation wrapped with a silver and gold ribbon in his hand. He dropped the flower onto the casket and stood for a long moment, head bowed in prayer. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I wish..." He shook his head, let out a long breath, and turned to go.

"Hey!"

The voice took him by surprise. He had thought he was the only one still at the cemetery aside from the workers. As the figure came closer, Frank recognized Randy. His hair was combed to one side and he wore a suit that was at least one size too big for him.

"Who are…?" Randy's voice faltered, recognizing Frank even with his hair cut to its normal length and wearing clothes that weren't stained, ripped, or plaid. The boy's eyes hardened. "What are you doing here?"

Frank looked at him for a moment before answering. It didn't look like Randy had been sleeping well. Or at all. With a twist in his gut, he wondered if maybe Matt and Randy had been as close at one time as he and Joe still were and had to close his eyes against the thought of something like this happening to his brother.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

Frank cleared his throat. "I'm just here to pay my respects," he said, his voice soft.

Randy's eyes widened, and Frank knew he was cataloging the differences between Zack and the person now standing in front of him. "You're… you're..."

"My name is Frank Hardy. Agent Malone needed someone with computer skills." He shrugged. "Look, I'm really sorry about..." He stopped trying to think of something to say. "About everything," he finally finished. He looked Randy straight in the face. "You do some good work. Maybe the agents can find a way for you to use it to catch guys like Jenkins." He held his right hand out, unsure of what reaction he would get, and pleased when Randy took it. "Good luck."

As he walked toward the car he had rented to drive to the airport, he pulled out his cell phone and punched at a few keys, waiting to see if anyone on the other end would pick up.

It only rang twice.

"Hello?" His mother's voice sounded in his ear.

He could have cried.

"Is anyone there?" There was an edge of annoyance in the words. "I'm hanging up..."

"Mom, it's me."

"Frank! Gertrude, it's Frank!" The annoyance was replaced with joy overlaid by worry. "Sweetheart, are you all right? It's been months!"

"I know," he said, "and I'm sorry. Things got… complicated."

There was a long pause. "Can you tell me about it?"

Frank shook his head. "No. But I'm coming home."

"Does Joe know?"

"I'll call him once I'm home." Frank's throat caught. "I need some time to decompress. I'll see you in a few days."

"All right, dear." His mother's tone told him she knew he wasn't all right but also wasn't going to push him for information. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Mom. I'll see you in a few days. Bye."

He ended the call, put the phone in his jacket pocket, and got in the car. When he drove away, he didn't look back.