Chapter 3:

A/N: Okay, bare with me here. I don't know Chicago like I know Denver, so this part will likely be at least somewhat inaccurate and I will get the boys back to CO as soon as possible.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot bunnies in my own head.

-/-

Denver was cold. Chicago was cold on a different scale. At least when the sun shined in Denver the cold didn't sit quite so deeply in your bones. Though that might have been a product of the 90% humidity the windy city boasted. It seeped into you, and lay itself down like a bear hibernating for winter, deep and unmovable.

The plan was simple enough. They needed Alaveri off Erikson's payroll, and Ezra on it. The worry, however, that any sign of federal scrutiny in Erikson's interests would spook the man. If he got spooked, he'd likely tighten the bolts of his operations, if not shut it down in it's entirety. They already knew where his supply of weapons was coming into the country, if not the how of it's crossing the border. And it wasn't like Erikson would just walk away. He'd just bide his time while he shuffled pieces of his operation, the pieces they already knew about as well as the ones they didn't. It would mean possible months more of legwork to put them back in the position they were in now. So it couldn't be the ATF that pressured Alaveri out of the game. It had to be Ezra, aka Edward Stanover. It was a power play that served a dual purpose. Get rid of Alaveri, and get Ezra on Erikson's radar.

Chris, Buck, Vin, JD and Ezra had all made the journey up to Chicago, though on different flights. Josiah and Nathan, for their part, were headed to California, to the ATF field office in San Diego. They'd need cooperation from the San Diego offices, and the best way to do that was loop them in early on the case. And really, Nathan and Josiah were more diplomatic than most of the other members of Team 7. Ezra had arrived in Chicago last. He had a suite at the Peninsula Hotel, but he wouldn't be headed there straight away.

Ezra entered the dark bar, eyes scanning the crowd as he shed his gloves and coat. It was a basement bar, tucked beneath the busy Chicago street above. Small high top tables dotted the floor, with high sided leather booths on one side and an L shaped cherry wood bar on the other. It didn't take long to spot Buck on the short arm of the bar. To be fair, at 6'2" and sporting the mustache he did, Buck would stand out most places. He'd at least traded his customary Wrangler jeans for a pair of dark gray slacks. The suspenders over the blue work shirt might have been a little over the top, but Buck managed to wear them well. He was engaged in conversation with the rather bosom bartender, a glass of whiskey in his hands.

Folding his jacket over his arm, Ezra walked past Buck without acknowledging him. Chris and Vin were somewhere else in the bar, but Ezra didn't see them and didn't care to draw attention by looking. He'd already switched the mic in his ear off after JDs disembodied voice had confirmed their target was on the premises. The Alderman Hunter's contact had come up with was a man named Wiggins. Three times he'd been voted into office for Chicago's 26th Ward. He was up for reelection the following year.

Wiggins sat in the center of the bar, the cocktail napkin that had been under his drink torn into tiny pieces of red confetti. A soft looking man in his late 40's, Wiggins had a nervous countenance, pale blue eyes in a fair face that never looked like it saw sun, the back and sides of his shirt collar stained permanently darker by sweat. Ezra took the seat to the man's left, first draping his coat over the seat beside that. Best to deter others from sitting too close. Wiggins pinched a little when Ezra pulled out the chair before ducking his chin down, eyes riveted on his mostly untouched cocktail.

Ezra flagged down the bartender, who left Buck's side with a small pout and a laugh. He ordered an Old Fashioned. "Not, I presume, who you were expecting?" Ezra asked Wiggins after the bartender went to go make his drink. Those pale blue eyes darted in his direction, but he didn't answer. Thankfully, Ezra had never needed the other person to talk to make conversation. "A woman perhaps?" Ezra nodded to the bartender as she set down his drink.

"If you don't mind," Wiggins said in a low voice, "Id prefer to be left alone with my drink."

"Oh, of course." Ezra smiled. "One can't be too careful can they. Don't want to bring attention to ones self while they wait for their escort." Ezra leaned closer to the man, his voice dropping. "Their PAID escort. Wouldn't look to good to their constituents, would it? Or perhaps you're waiting to discuss numbers with your not so above board contractor, to let him know when you'll be able to grease the palms of the Council members on the Financial Board to go ahead with your plans at condemning several buildings in Humboldt Park and funnel city money into funding your gentrification plans for the neighborhood." At that point Wiggins abandoned his cocktail napkin shredding, to turn and stare at Ezra. The undercover agent sipped his drink. "And since you are poised, however indirectly, to purchase said properties, I imagine you stand to make quite a windfall."

Wiggins chair scraped loudly across the tile as he stood, a red flush rising up his pasty, soft neck. "I don't need to sit here and listen to this," the man blustered.

Ezra caught the man's forearm in a tight grip before he could do more than stand. "You most assuredly do," Ezra's voice was sharp as a razor, "if you don't want to be exposed for the opportunistic lowlife that you are." Really, it was impressive what JD was able to dig up on the man given 24 hours notice. His penchant for hiring prostitutes for one. His shell company investment firm for another.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Wiggins hissed. "I'm just trying to better this city. Clean up the neighborhood."

"Well, how magnanimous of you. And if you happen to make a fortune doing it," Ezra shrugged, 'who's to say you don't deserve it. Dedicated public servant such as yourself."

Aware that people were beginning to look, Wiggins sat back down, and Ezra released his grip on the man's arm. "Who are you?" Wiggins questioned.

"I am a man who does not give a damn about the political machinations in Chicago, luck be to you." Ezra took another drink, his previous half bored look returning to his face.

"So what do you want?" Wiggins asked.

"Why, I want to save your political career. At the cost of but one small favor."

"Which is?"

The undercover agent turned, hands bridging on the bar. "You know Carlo Alaveri. I believe he regularly supplies you with hush money that you parlay into your extralegal investments. He recently acquired some new business. Business that I want. Business that I mean to have. You're going to convince Mr. Alaveri of the wisdom of withdrawing from this new venture."

If it was possible Wiggins got even more pale. "I told Carlo I didn't want to get involved in that. Fudging a few building inspections and overlooking some illegal electronics is one thing. But this," the man shook his head, bug eyed, "I told him it was a bad idea."

"Well now you are going to impress that upon him with every ounce of authority you possess," Ezra told him.

"And if I don't?" The man clearly had at least an idea of who Alaveri had partnered with, and was scared. Which really, was a fairly intelligent take on the situation. Erikson was well known for having associates disappear, and never be heard from again.

"Then the Chicago-Sun Times is going to wind up with quite a damning article about one of this city's Alderman. Who knows? I wouldn't bet on a racketeering charge being off the table either. Have you ever been to prison Mr. Wiggins?"

The man swallowed hard. "Fine. I'll do it. And then you'll leave me alone?"

"Funny thing my memory," Ezra nodded, "it can be quite unreliable. Id say there's a good chance I'd forget everything we just discussed."

"How do I get ahold of you once I talk to Carlo?"

"No need to concern yourself of that Mr. Wiggins. You have 24 hours. After that? I'll find you." Ezra finished the rest of his Old Fashioned in one drink. He rose, and took a couple of bills out of his billfold and set them on the bar. Then he touched his pointer finger to his temple and left.

-/-

"We think this Wiggins guy is gonna come through?" Buck asked later that night. He passed a beer to Vin, but was looking at Ezra.

The men of Team 7 were holed up in the rat dive hotel Chris had booked for himself and Vin. Not terribly different than the rat dive motel Buck and JD were staying at, but this one had a mini fridge. It was a terribly far cry from Ezra's suite at the Peninsula, but there were too many eyes there for them all to meet. Eyes. And security cameras. The lack of said cameras, was actually a selling point for this particular establishment. That, and rooms by the hour. Ezra steered carefully away from any surface that couldn't be adequately cleaned with Lysol.

Ezra shrugged before taking a pull out of his own long neck. "Cowardly little man. Easy to manipulate. Only question, is he more scared of Erikson, or the complete destruction of his political career?"

Vin lifted a sandy brow. "If he's smart, that money's on Erikson," the sharpshooter said. "Judging by his file, that man ain't hardly friendlier than a pit viper. And that's if you're on his good side."

"What's your take Ez?" Chris asked, arms in lock step over his chest.

"I believe that man will do what it takes to keep his fat from the fryer, as it were. But if I were a gambling man…" Vin snorted. Ezra's favorite expression was 'I abhor gambling. Therefor I leave nothing to chance.' Usually something he said right before cleaning them all out at poker night. "…I wouldn't put money on Wiggins having a sturdy enough spine for what we're asking."

"So we should get ready for Plan B," JD piped up from his seat on one of the two queen sized beds.

"Lord," Buck rolled his eyes skyward, "even when shit should be easy there's Plan B. I hate Plan B," he grumbled.

Ezra raised a disdaining eyebrow. "You don't even know what Plan B is yet Mr. Wilmington," he observed.

"Don't matter," the lankier man returned, "cause it seems whenever there's a Plan B, we end up gettin' shot at." He rolled his shoulders, head snaking sideways. "I hate Plan B," he reiterated with a quick mutter.

Vin smirked. "Hell Ez, he does have a point."

"If you're meaning to imply that my operational skills are less than adequate I suggest…" Ezra's voice rose. There was that knot, like a golf ball, just under his right scapula. Chris led the Team, but when it came to the specifics of undercover, they took their cues from him. If Buck and the others didn't trust him, if they really thought he'd get them shot…. because it had happened before. Once again the blood thrummed in his ears.

Vin's blue eyes widened. Buck and JD exchanged a look. "Whoa, whoa," Vin straightened from where he'd been leaning against the wall, palms up. "Ain't nobody sayin' that Ez," he assured. "Not about you, just how our luck tends to run is all. And like you said," the sharpshooter shrugged, "we ain't even got a Plan B yet." Ezra's chin lowered and his eyes dropped as he forced himself to take a deep breath. Vin exchanged a look with Chris over the other man's head. Chris remained quiet, but Vin could see the clench in his jaw.

"Not gonna worry about a B till A goes sideways," Chris said, voice betraying no emotion at all. Worried about Ezra or not, and Vin knew well enough that he was, Team 7s leader wasn't about to fuel the fire of doubt in the southerner's mind. There was no room for imposter syndrome. That would get you killed. Being an adept undercover required confidence, self assurance that bordered on arrogance. Ezra had it in spades. Usually. "Right now, we wait for Wiggins."

Ezra glanced at the clock by the bedside. It was late. And his skin was crawling, like it was as restless as the rest of him. "Well, since we're waiting, and I doubt Wiggins will be in contact this evening, I shall leave you to your…" his lip curled in distaste as he regarded the room. It smelled like cigarettes and mildew, "accommodations."

"Aww Ez, don't run off cuz you're all jealous like," Vin scoffed. "We all know this place is much more your scene than that corner suite and silk sheets place you're stayin' at. Place you're at is all sterile, probably disinfect the doorknobs even. This place," he swiped a finger along the headboard of the nearest bed and a heavy sprinkle of dust cascaded onto the pillows. Vin grimaced. "This place has character," he finished dryly.

Chris shot his friend a baleful look. "That one's your bed."

That at least, managed to bring a small smile to Ezra's face. "I will do my best to find a way to manage my disappointment. Gentlemen."

With that Ezra departed. Quiet settled over the room for a moment as all four men took a drink. "I'm just saying, I don't want to end up a statistic on Chicago gun violence," Buck piped up eventually. JD, Chris and Vin groaned. Buck narrowly managed to duck in avoidance of the pillow Vin threw at his head.

-/-

The Z Bar, the Peninsula Hotel's rooftop cocktail bar, was mostly empty when Ezra arrived and took a seat at the bar. Not terribly surprising. Early March in Chicago wasn't warm on the sunniest day, let alone in the pitch black of night with a breeze. Still, the propane heaters that burned cheerily overhead as well as a couple free standing ones at his back warded off the worst of the chill. Each table on the rooftop patio was equipped with its own fire at its center, peeking up from a bed of small. black glass cubes. It gave the entire rooftop the look of some couture communal camp site. Ezra ordered a glass of top shelf whiskey. Double. Neat.

The soft rustle of fabric greeted him a few minutes later, and the chair beside him shifted. The woman smiled, all perfect teeth, flawless skin and eyelashes so thick and full there was no way to mistake them as natural. Cocoa colored hair was slicked away from her face and gathered atop her head in ringlets, adorned with jeweled hair pins of silver and a purple stone. Tanzanite maybe. The corner of his lip crooked upward. Benefits of living with a former jewel thief. Gem identification. Her fawn colored wool coat was trimmed in fur. Ezra highly doubted it was faux.

"May I?" she asked.

"Of course." Ezra rose from his seat. "Help you with your coat?" he offered.

Her laugh sounded like a cacophony of tiny bells. "Oh thank you, but I'm afraid I'm just terribly sensitive to the cold." She pulled the collar a little tighter about her throat, but did let Ezra push in her chair. Ezra resumed his place.

"Strange place to choose for a libation if you don't tolerate hyperborean temperatures," Ezra remarked.

The woman blinked. "Excuse me?"

"If you don't care for the cold," he clarified.

"Oh." There were those bells again. "Excuse me," she drew the bartender's attention. "May I have your High Hopes cocktail? Thank you." Drink ordered, she turned back to Ezra. "I was just out with a friend, we went to the theater to see Hamilton, and I just wasn't ready to turn in yet. And this is the only place in the hotel still open. Honestly?" She took a sip of the drink that had just been set down in front of her. "I almost turned around," her cheeks pinked, "until I saw you sitting here."

Ezra smiled. "You thought I looked in need of some company?"

She gave a small shrug. "Something like that." She twisted in her seat and offered her hand. "Rachel Pike."

Her hand was as small and delicate as the rest of her. "Edward Stanover," he introduced himself, his alias slipping over his lips like water.

So they talked. And Rachel ordered a second cocktail, and then a third. Ezra ordered himself a second whiskey, this time a single, on the rocks, that he mostly watched dilute as the ice slowly melted. Regardless of if he thought Wiggins would call him tonight, he needed his faculties about him, just in case. Rachel didn't seem to notice. But it was nice, to talk, to be flirted with as Edward Stanover, without any of the pressures or baggage of being Agent Ezra Standish. And it was pleasant conversation. He let her steer it, listening more than speaking. She was well to do, a literary editor in a publishing house in New York, on holiday with a girlfriend from college.

As Rachel talked, and drank, the flirting became more pronounced. A touch on his hand. Her laugh of tinkling bells. The brush of her knee into his. The way her lips pursed between thoughts. It was nice in a way he could hardly remember.

Eventually the bartender told them he was closing up. Rachel paid first, rising from her seat with admirably little wobble. "It was lovely talking with you Edward."

"The sentiment is returned in kind," he said.

She bent closer, left hand on his shoulder as she leaned in to kiss his cheek, her right pressing something into his hand. "In case you feel like helping me stay warm tonight," she murmured, lips brushing over the skin beneath his ear, "I'd hate to let the chill set in now." She straightened, smiled, and left, her hand brushing across his chest as she departed. He watched her go, then looked down at what she'd pushed into his hand. A cocktail napkin. With a phone and a room number. #687.

Pocketing the napkin, Ezra paid his tab. Then he sauntered out of the bar to the elevator banks. He was on the 18th floor. He pushed the up button. Still, his mind lingered. The invitation was clear. And it had been a long time. What reason did he have not to? The elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside, and pushed 6.

Ezra hovered outside the door of room #687 long enough he felt conspicuous. Twice he raised his fist to knock, only to let it fall at his side. Ridiculous. She was gorgeous. He had no strings in Denver to stop him. So why not? Why not enjoy being Edward Stanover for one night? He knocked.

Rachel answered. She'd traded the high necked wool and fur for low cut silk. She smiled when she saw him. "Wasn't sure you'd come," she greeted.

"Wasn't sure I was going to," he answered. Truth. Always more potent. Her smile became a grin as she took hold of his jacket by the collar and pulled him across the threshold and into her. He pushed the door shut with his foot, hands finding her waist. He just wanted to feel good for a while. This felt good. He dipped his head to kiss her, and her hand went from his collar to behind his neck, pulling him in. Unbidden, the memory of his last kiss flashed through his mind. It had been a spectacle, in the middle of a ballroom dance floor, with hundreds of eyes, and in the moment the only ones that had mattered to him were the intense hazel ones on the other side of the kiss. The world had ground to a halt then. He'd had to actively think about how to breathe. This wasn't that.

But it didn't matter. This was the best he could ask for. A pleasant distraction. He'd decided a long time ago that what he wanted didn't matter, it wasn't in the cards. Still, he stiffened slightly as the memory crossed his mind, and Rachel pulled out of the kiss, a question in her eyes he couldn't answer. Because the man having those thoughts wasn't the man standing in front of her.

"Nightcap?" she asked, her hands sliding away from his neck and onto his chest.

"Wonderful."

Rachel walked away from him with an exaggerated saunter in her hips. Which might have been more alluring had she not been unsteadily weaving on the way to the mini bar. Her admirable non wobble from the Z Bar had deteriorated as the alcohol caught up with her. With a sigh, Ezra followed her across the room. When she turned back from the mini bar, tiny bottle of bourbon in her grip, Ezra gently closed his hand around hers.

"You're inebriated," he told her.

She laughed. "That's the general idea."

Ezra sighed again, his free hand lifting to touch her cheek. She leaned into the caress. "You're a little too inebriated," he elaborated. He was many things, a cad not among them. He preferred not to bed women who might not remember it the next day.

"I'm fine." She stood up on her toes to kiss him again. Part of him, a rather large part, wanted to ignore his better sensibilities. Why shouldn't he? Didn't he deserve this, some comfort? Company? What was there to stop him? Drunk as she was, she was making her intentions perfectly clear. So really, it wouldn't cross the line on his personal moral code, would it? His arms slid around her, pulling her against him as he deepened the kiss. She felt good curving against him. He wanted to escape. To lose himself into something that felt good. But she tasted…. wrong. He pushed the thought aside. Her teeth nipped at his lower lip. And again hazel eyes flashed before him, the quirk of her lip, the stubborn set of her chin. And the way she tasted, like juniper and grapefruit. God, sense memory, what a bitch. He ducked his chin, pulling out of the kiss and held Rachel at arms length as he attempted to gather his faculties.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, releasing her and stepping back. He passed a hand over his jaw. What the hell was wrong with him?

"She's lucky, you know?" Rachel offered softly, her arms curling reflexively around her body.

"Who?"

"Whoever it is that you're thinking about right now." It wasn't angry, not even accusatory. Maybe a little sad.

Ezra let out a small grunt, shoving his hands in his pockets. "And he's stupid."

"Who?" Rachel asked.

Ezra managed a wan smile. "Whoever it is you're trying to forget."

She barked a short laugh. "Well aren't we the pair?"

Ezra reached for her hand, and raised it to his lips. "it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance Rachel Pike."

She blushed a little. "You too, Edward Stanover. Maybe, in some different world."

"A different world," he agreed with a nod. Then he left. The soft click of the door behind him ringing with a sort of finality. Different name, different history. Didn't matter. He couldn't outrun the things in him that were broken. So alone, he headed for his room.

-/-

Ezra left a note for Wiggins on the windshield of his car just before the man left for his lunch break. Or rather, Vin did, an inconspicuous pass as he walked by the man's Volvo. The message directed Wiggins to a meeting at Humboldt park later that afternoon. It was out in the open, across the lagoon from the old field house, with it's green capped spires. In the warmer months the inland beach drew a great number of Chicago residents, but it was March, and snow began to fall just before the meeting time. It would be a quiet place to meet, and easy to spot anyone paying them too much mind. Chris and the others wouldn't be too close, but he'd be wired.

Ezra waited in his rental car until JD's voice in his ear told him Wiggins had arrived. Then he hiked up the collar of his coat as far as he could stretch it and made the trek into the Park. He spotted Buck and Chris having a 'conversation' on the field house promontory. As he made his way down the trail Vin passed him, a jogger in nondescript gray sweats. Wiggins sat on a bench overlooking the lagoon.

Ezra sat down next to the Alderman. "Well?"

The doughy, pale man fidgeted in his seat. "I tried," he said in a rush. "You can't hold it against me if I tried and he won't go for it."

"Explain," Ezra said cooly.

"I talked to Alaveri last night, told him again that I thought this business partnership was a bad idea. Told him if he went through with it I couldn't protect him anymore." Wiggins shook his head, a smattering of snowflakes shedding loose from his cap. "He wouldn't listen. Said it was too late anyway. That his first shipment was already set up. He said it was too late to back out." The man's face hardened. "Look, whatever Carlo is into, whatever it is you want to be into? It's bad news. And I don't want it in my city. I might be a lot of things, but I love Chicago."

"Much as I appreciate your civic pride," Ezra drawled, "I also don't care. When is this shipment due to arrive?"

The man's eyes darted away from Ezra's face. "I don't know."

"You're lying," Ezra hissed. "When is the shipment? I assure you, I will make it my business to ruin you Mr. Wiggins. And I'll enjoy it."

The pudgy man's tongue darted out over his lips. "Two days. Shipment comes in Tuesday."

"What route?" Ezra questioned.

"I don't know," Wiggins answered, then yelled when he saw the look on Ezra's face. "I don't! Told me he didn't need me to ensure highway patrol wouldn't stop him, so he didn't tell me. And he's got two other trucks scheduled for Tuesday. So I don't know."

Ezra's lips thinned. So it was a shell game. Great. "You've been most helpful Mr. Wiggins," he said as he rose.

"That's it?"

Ezra arced an eyebrow. "You want there to be more?"

"No, just, we had a deal right? You're gonna leave me alone?"

"As I said Mr. Wiggins, I do not care about Chicago politics. Our association is complete." With that, Ezra shoved his hands into his coat and walked out of Humboldt park.

-/-

Ezra rendezvoused with the others once again at Chris and Vin's hotel room an hour later. No one looked particularly happy. And for good reason, Erikson was making moves, and they were two steps behind the ball.

"Any word from Nathan and Josiah?" Vin asked.

Chris grunted. "Nothing good. Someone's leaking information along for sure, but they're covering their tracks but good. They've got no leads."

"We could at least bust them for this shipment right?" JD queried. "I know it's not the bust we wanted, but it would keep those guns off the market."

"And then Alaveri takes the fall," Ezra said, "and we're no closer to Erikson. Likely Alaveri's the only one who knows the intricate details of the arrangement, and he's a career criminal. He won't flip."

Buck removed the toothpick he'd been chewing on from his mouth. "All right, say that's true. So what's our play then?"

Ezra grinned, the gold from his tooth glinting. "Any of you boys ever feel like a stagecoach robbery?" At the rather bewildered expression on the other's faces, Ezra's grin widened. He was a cheshire cat. "We're gonna make Erikson sit up and take notice," he said, "we're gonna steal his guns."

-/-

Chapter 3

Thanks everyone for reading. Always grateful if you care to drop a line.

I originally intended for the scene at the bar to be Ezra alone, but his interaction with Rachel just seemed organic as I was writing it. Next chapter coming soon.