Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many; the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden. ~Phaedrus

Five days the search crews continued to scour the mountains for a trace of the other two men. Finding Andrew had invigorated them, but that determination and vigor wore down as day after day passed without a hair. Each day the two men's wives would call the detective and ask for news and each day she had to let them down.

Darcy had hoped perhaps deciphering Andrew's last words would give her some clue to a new lead, but 'must' and 'monst' weren't giving her a thing. Must do what, save the other two men? She would in a heartbeat if only she knew where to look for them. And what was a monst? A monster? That didn't tell her anything either; except maybe he meant some animal. Except this was Andrew, he had encounter stories for every species in the north, he wouldn't call them monsters. A human responsible for his injuries would certainly be a monster, but why take the energy to say something other than a name, or gender, or looks? So what then? An animal uncommon or unknown about? The hell could that be, Bigfoot?

She snorted at her own thoughts. This was a real crime in the real world, this wasn't a bad sci-fi flick.

Head pounding as she tried and failed to understand what must and monst were possibly supposed to mean and why they would be important enough to be a man's last words, Darcy sighed. It was entirely probable that Andrew had been so out of his mind from morphine or blood loss or panic that the words were gibberish and meant absolutely nothing. Her best lead could be a goose chase.

It was January 17th that broke the proverbial camel's back.

"Blake, head down to the Ranger Station on Tronson, they've got a case for you," the chief greeted her as he strolled past her desk. She bit her lip, barely holding back the temptation to say 'I told you so' if it was another person missing from a trip to the woods.

Pushing away from her desk in bitter silence, she headed out to the station as the dark and dreary clouds belayed the midday time. Maybe, just maybe, the rangers' case was involved with one of hers; perhaps they'd found one of her victims, or a clue about who took them or where. It was enough to give her a small flash of hope.

The atmosphere of the ranger station when she walked in was enough to dash that hope before anyone spoke a word. Whatever they had for her was not about to make her job easier.

"Detective Blake?" A middle aged man stepped through the handful of rangers. "Kallen Goodman, let's talk in my office."

Leading her through the somber little crowd, he let out a burdened sigh the second his door was closed behind them.

"What do you have for me, Ranger Goodman?" she asked as gently as possible.

Instead of answering right away, he moved to his desk, grabbing a small file folder and handing it over to her.

"One of my rangers missed his check-in. Tom Felton." Flipping the file open revealed the photograph of a cheerful young man that made her heart sink to the deepest recesses of her gut. "He went up to investigate a bad smell some hikers have been reporting. He was only supposed to be up there for a week, it's been two."

Darcy raised her brows in surprise. "He's been missing a full week?"

Goodman nodded and her heart dropped to her toes. "At first we didn't think much of it. Tom's always been the sort to stay out an extra day or two. But after four days we realized something was wrong. We tried raising him on the radio and everyone has spent the last three days looking for him. When we couldn't find him last night I knew I had to call you."

The detective digested the new information as she read the general details in his file, taking note of his assigned work truck. Another man was missing, the rangers had done the ground search, and the M.O. was exactly the same as the others. There was no doubt in her mind it was connected. "Did you find his vehicle?"

"Yeah, at the end of an abandoned logging road eight miles from where he was supposed to head out from. We didn't touch it."

She frowned as she made a quick note of it on the file. Either Tom had discovered something else...or his car had been moved. It would be a huge break in M.O. to move the personal vehicle and a possible break in the case. "Did he report in the source of the smell before he disappeared?"

Kallen shook his head. "No, and I haven't sent anyone else after it. The cold is dampening it anyways and it was probably an animal carcass; those things stink to high heaven, especially if the animal was sick. It's what these kinds of reports always turn out to be."

"Where exactly was this smell located?" It was probably coincidence. Most likely Tom found the smelly body of a moose or elk just as he expected before getting his attention caught by something that drew him away from his starting point and into trouble. But she was a detective, she wasn't allowed to believe in coincidence. Perhaps the source of this bad smell was related.

The head ranger could only shrug. "Hard to tell, we had reports of it on several trails surrounding this area."

He grabbed a red pen, circling a section of land on the map in Tom's file. It covered several hundred acres of land, most of it inaccessible to vehicles.

Darcy spent the next two hours going over every detail she could think of to glean as much information as she could. Rangers were almost as good at cops at picking up on the little stuff, and they noticed far more out in the woods than the average person.

"Detective." Goodman stopped her as she moved to leave, a plea in his voice, "Find our boy."

The rangers were a brotherhood, a loss hurt them all. Darcy wouldn't make a promise that she couldn't keep, but she couldn't give him nothing either.

"I'll do my best." It was all she could guarantee and she hated it. She wanted to be able to swear she would find him, catch whoever was responsible and end it once and for all, but she couldn't. She couldn't swear it and she couldn't do it, not alone.

It was time for reinforcements.

Ivan knew those last few shots were a bad idea when they came out on the tray carried by the cute waitress; he knew they would come back to bite him and yet he had tossed them back anyway. The consequence of such a decision was currently beating away at his skull and causing the noonday sun to pierce his eyes like a thousand sharp needles. And instead of sleeping away this hangover like he so desperately wanted to, he was out on the road, dragging himself back home. Back home to the aunt that would be waiting for him. The thought alone was almost enough to make him turn the car around, but keeping her waiting would only prolong and enhance her wrath. Only silver lining here was that his uncle was deployed still, which meant he'd get a hell of a tongue lashing but would miss an ass-whooping in the form of torturous hours of manual labor on the farm.

He swore he would never drink again, just like he had last time...and the time before that. Well, this time he was going to stick to it. No more drinking, no more crazy parties. Never again…...so long as Angie wasn't going to be there, she was too hot to miss a chance at her.

Red and blue lit up his rearview mirror. Cursing, he pulled over, hoping the cop would continue on his way. No luck. The cruiser pulled in right behind him, lights and siren still going obnoxiously. Ivan couldn't believe his luck today. Coming home hours late with a hangover was one thing, getting a ticket or having to be picked up from jail was an entirely different and much worse thing. Aunt Marie was going to kill him.

It seemed to take a millenium for the cop to get out of his car, but when he finally did walk up to his window, what he said was not what Ivan had been expecting. "Ivan Burke? I need you to come with me; it's about your uncle."

In an instant the pounding headache was no longer the center of his focus. "What?"

"Please come with me, I will explain on the way." Ivan didn't hesitate, ripping off the seat belt and shoving himself out of his Dodge Neon to follow the officer to his cruiser. His thoughts filled with dread as a hundred terrible scenarios ran rampant through his mind. What happened to his uncle? He knew the military was dangerous, especially since his uncle joined an elite unit, but what happened that would warrant an officer tracking down and picking up his nephew?

Ivan hardly blinked as he climbed into the passenger side of the cruiser as the cop's direction, noting in passing the lack of rear doors. Was someone else picking up Aunt Marie? Oh lord, she was going to be a wreck. He cursed himself again for going out last night. He should have stayed home; she would need him there when the officer knocked on her door.

The vents of the idling cruiser sputtered as the door clicked shut. Ivan ignored them as he waited impatiently for the officer to return to the driver's seat and take him to his uncle. The cop climbed back in the car, locks latching down. He made no move to put the car in gear, didn't even twitch as the vents sputtered again, blasting to full force.

Smoke poured in, thick and white and effectively snapping Ivan into a totally different concern.

"Hey!" He reached over to grab the cop, eyes widening as his hand passed right through him. The man disappeared completely a second later, the smoke getting thicker. Ivan turned to pound on the window, the doors stuck tight as he began to cough and choke on the toxic air. It filled his lungs, made the world spin and his stomach roll. All his strength couldn't budge the window or the doors or even the gear shift to get the car moving. Throat burning, he tried to yell again as the energy in his bones zapped away. Hand falling limp against the glass, he fought to keep the creeping darkness at bay. His fight was in vain and his body slumped into the seat.

As the man stopped moving, the vents reversed flow and expelled the gas. Rolling forward, the cruiser nudged the empty Neon off the side of the road and into the ditch ten feet below.

The Police Interceptor blared its sirens and revved its engine as it blasted down the highway, the driver unconcerned, one hand barely on the wheel. Civilians pulled over to allow the speeding car to pass and those too slow where bumped and shoved out of the way.

The Mustang continued on, almost oblivious to every metal obstacle it rammed through and the trail of dents, broken glass, and totaled cars in its wake. The gleaming muscle car remained unscathed.

A helicopter screamed overhead as it followed the rampaging police car, the news crew hardly believing what they were seeing as they filmed and broadcast it live. An officer finally snapped or a stolen cruise? It was a headline the reporters were going with, since no one could yet track who the car belonged to or get an image of who was driving.

State Patrol quickly filed in behind, but their engines were no match for the Mustang, who left them in the dust to clean up the smoking mess it left behind.

Roadblocks were set up and spikes laid out several miles ahead. The Mustang had nowhere else to go; this crazy driving spree was about to be over and the news crew in the helicopter would be the first to get the story. The bird flew ahead of the Mustang, hanging over the road block and waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

Speeding muscle didn't slow or veer from course, as if the driver didn't see the spikes and police cars barring the way, or didn't care. The cameraman in the air wondered if he was about to witness a suicide by cop via car crash and pondered the possibility of an award for such footage, or a promotion.

Seconds ticked by as the speeding police car barreled towards the spikes, engine roaring as it gained speed. Less than a mile now, less than a minute and it would be over.

Still the car refused to slow and the cops at the block quickly vacated the blacktop for the safety of the surrounding trees. There was no telling where a runaway Mustang would flip and end up. Better safe behind a thousand-year old tree than a relatively light-weight vehicle.

Quarter of a mile and the Mustang screamed on, the driver still unfazed by what lay spikes were directly ahead, ready to shred his tires. He made no attempts to slow or get around them. Instead the engine revved again and the car impossibly increased its speed, going faster than even a suped up interceptor had a right to.

It was over in less time that it took to blink.

The Mustang hit the spikes, flung them into the air and continued undeterred through the barricade, smashing cars out of its way, tossing them like a child's toy into the trees and lifting one completely off the ground as it was struck broadside. By the time the air-borne cruiser hit the ground and stopped rolling, the muscle car was down the road and nearly out of sight.

The news helicopter tried to keep up with the action, caught stunned by the unbelievable turn of events and struggling to gain ground on their quarry. With the roar of mighty horses, the muscle car left the bird behind and vanished.

Prowl rumbled to himself as he watched the news footage for a second time, this time in the presence of both Prime and NEST officials on a video line. Here was the proof they had wanted and he had told them so. It was a miracle no one was killed, but sixteen people were in the hospital and it all could have been prevented if they had just listened to him.

"You're sure this is a Decepticon?" one of the NEST commanders Prowl hadn't cared to learn the name of questioned.

The tactician had to try very hard to remain respectful like Optimus ordered, but honestly, these humans were idiots. "It is Barricade. No human car is immune to spikes and can breach two hundred-thirty miles per hour."

General Morshower-one of the few capable of sense and the only one of NEST command that Prowl didn't completely despise-broke in before the others could. "If Prowl says he's a 'Con, then I'm inclined to believe him. Ironhide is only a few states away; if Optimus Prime agrees, I'll send word to put him in pursuit."

Prowl snorted but stayed silent as Optimus broke in. "While Ironhide is a formidable warrior, Barricade possesses a speed he does not. I believe it would be best to send another that can match that speed."

The NEST commanders and liaisons muttered briefly to each other before one asked, "You're suggesting we send Sideswipe and Sunstreaker instead? Neither has shown much consideration for our laws."

Prowl was getting increasingly tempted to partake in the human habit of rolling his optics as Optimus shook his head.

"Sideswipe and Sunstreaker will learn," he strongly doubted that, "but they have just arrived at their new post in Italy…"

"Bumblebee then," another interrupted and Prowl's doors flexed in irritation at the blatant disrespect towards Prime.

"Bumblebee has his commitment to Sam."

Yet another jumped in before Optimus could present his option. "Then who do you suggest we send to deal with this if all of your fast Autobots are busy?"

Prowl scrutinized the screen, recognizing the one who spoke as one often seen in the presence of Galloway. Really now, the answer was literally right in front of them and if they hadn't found it necessary to interject every other word, Prowl could have been on a plane already.

"Prowl is best suited to handle Barricade, he knows his tricks and has dealt with him in the past. His alternative mode may also help rectify some of the damage Barricade has done."

"Or worsen it." Prowl couldn't stop his engine from revving a bit as he recognized that voice. Theodore Galloway had arrived and was making his way onto the catwalk between the Autobots and the video screens. "And if he's dealt with the Decepticon in the past, why is he still alive then? Surely a tactician could outsmart a scout."

Prowl's engine snarled before Optimus placed a hand on his shoulder.

"And how do we know this is an unprovoked attack?" the politician continued, his hand gesturing towards the black and white. "He's the one who was begging to leave Diego Garcia. I say the timing is just a little too good."

It was only Prime's presence that kept Prowl from stepping forward and showing them all exactly what he thought about that particular insinuation.

"None of my Autobots would purposefully endanger human lives or encourage Decepticon destruction for any reason," Optimus' voice was hard, a clear warning that that kind of accusation would not be tolerated.

"That's enough, Galloway," Morshower cut in before the liaison to the White House could continue. "I'll authorize a small operation. Prowl, you fly out A.S.A.P.. Ironhide will be sent to meet you en route once you land. I want this quick and quiet."

The feed cut before Galloway could say anything else against the Autobots and the group dispersed. Prowl got his direct orders from Prime-he may respect Morshower but he was not about to subject himself to the human's rule-and headed out to the runway.

Twenty minutes later the C-17 was ready and Prowl rolled up the ramp, parking smack center of the cargo bay to perfectly distribute his weight over the wings. While flying itself did not bother him, the thought of being trapped in the large contraption being flown by humans, a naturally grounded species, made him impatient for the trip to be over. Like every time he was forced to fly, he hacked the plane's systems and settled into a light recharge as the plane took off, part of his processor monitoring the system data and ready to alert the rest of him of any anomalies.

It was a small blessing nothing substantial came up during the flight and the moment the ramp was lowered and his tires hit the pavement, he was off. The landing strip was only six miles from the failed blockade. Blaring his sirens, he was pleased by how quickly the humans scrambled to get out of his way. Probably due more to a fear of a Mustang repeat than respect for the red and blue lights, but that mattered little currently. It took less than half an hour to catch up to Ironhide and the NEST soldiers. Neither were moving particularly fast, though Prowl knew even the weapons specialist could leave the Earth vehicles in the dust. Why the humans insisted on coming and why Prime allowed it was illogical, but if there was one thing he'd learned was consistent on this rock, it was that humans rarely followed logic.

No matter how shielded Barricade may currently be, a Cybertronian always left a temporary trail, it was just up to those with the right sensors to find and follow it. Prowl had such sensors. Not as powerful as Hound's, but he was acquainted with Barricade's signal enough to know exactly what to look for.

But even to his sensors the trail was fading fast. At this pace they would lose it in a few miles.

"Prime's orders to stay with the humans," Ironhide responded over the comm. link when the tactician told him as much.

"Then stay with the humans." He revved and blasted down the highway, leaving the surprised humans and a resigned Ironhide behind.

Evidence of Barricade's passing was still scattered over the roadway. While most of the still-functioning cars had left, black skid marks, shattered glass, and totaled vehicles pointed the way he had gone. Soon even that damage became less until all that was left was the faintest remnant of his signal. Evidently the 'Con had started to become more deliberate in avoiding traffic, blending in to pass unnoticed. Moving as fast as he could, Prowl noted in distaste that the signal was fading faster than he could keep up with it. It was too old, it had taken too long to respond.

Fifty miles ahead of Ironhide, Prowl skid to a halt on the shoulder with a Cybertronian curse. The signal had faded beyond his ability to track. The Decepticon speedster had given him the slip and left no clues to his heading.

"Take the humans back to the base, he's gone." Cutting off the line, Prowl sent off a data burst of what happened to Prime. "Permission to stay behind to follow a lead?"

It didn't matter to him that the lead Prime may think he was following had to do with the Decepticon when it didn't. He wasn't about to divulge the information that could possibly get him anything less than the affirmative he needed. And if the humans had a problem with it, Prime would have plausible deniability to knowing what the tactician was up to.

"Granted."

With that taken care of, Prowl gunned back onto the road, skidding off of the next exit that would take him to the interstate. It was time to head north and start a little investigating of his own.

Darcy knew it would be a death sentence on her career. The second the case was closed-if she was that lucky-she'd be out of a job. But she refused to sit by any longer and wait for the Chief to pull his head out of his ass and see what was going on. Not if it meant more people were going to suffer.

Career be-damned, they needed help and she was going to be the one to make the call if no one else would. Not just to collaborate with other departments, no, she was calling in the big guns, she was going federal.

Glancing around the bullpen, she quickly looked up the number for the field office in the state, jotting it down on a post-it before grabbing her jacket; no way could she make this call from inside the building, she couldn't afford the chance of someone interfering.

It took less than ten minutes. All she had to give was a basic report of what was going on and the man on the other end assured her that an agent was en-route to provide assistance. Help was finally on the way.

Returning to her desk, it was a fight to keep her leg from impatiently bouncing as she eyed the windows, keeping a watch for a government-issued vehicle that didn't belong. There was no way the agent would get there so fast, but she couldn't help but check.

"Everything alright there, Blake?" John asked as he tossed some of his personal items haphazardly in a box. Retirement was just two days away and he was as ready for it as he was afraid of all the free time about to be on his hands.

"Everything's fine, just anxious to get a useful lead on this case." It wasn't a lie, just a vague truth.

"Don't worry, something will turn up. You'll be fine as long as you cool your heels and don't do anything rash." Stiffening slightly as she glanced out the window, she wondered if he would classify her move as 'rash'. John paused in packing his desk to look at her, eyes narrowing. He knew her just a little too well to get away with anything less than perfect control of her microexpressions. "What did you do?"

She bit her lower lip, eyes fixating on a paper in front of her without really seeing it. "I called someone, okay? Fresh eyes might find something I'm missing. A little help can't hurt."

He hardly relaxed, and by the look on his face she could tell he didn't really want the answer to the question he was going to ask anyway. "Darcy, what kind of help did you call?"

There was no way he was going to take silence as an answer, so she'd give him an honest one. "Federal."

"Damn it, Blake," he swore to himself, running a hand through his greying hair. "What did I say about cooling that hot head of yours? The chief is going to have your ass for this."

"You also said to follow my gut," she defended sharply. Now that it was done, she knew that it was the right thing to do, there wasn't a part of her that doubted it.

"Not when it goes directly against the chief's orders," he growled, pointing at her. "That was not your call to make."

She clenched her jaw; of all people, she thought John would be the one to back her choices. She really was on her own this time.

"It was my call, John, because no one else would make it." She knew it was petty, knew it was her temper talking and that she'd regret it later, but she opened her mouth and said it anyway. "Enjoy your retirement, I know the chief will miss his loyal dog."

Snatching her keys, she headed for the door. There were copies of the case files at home, she could work with the FBI agent there. Not the most standard practice but at least then she wouldn't have to wonder about loyalties.