A/N: This is a tie-in to Twelve Days Late if you squint

"Hello, Yoko"

I found Ranger at a bar off Broad Street called the Pub. As bars were concerned, it was somewhere in the middle. Not trashy, but not all that respectable, either. I parked the black Ford Explorer at the curb behind his Ford F-150, and ran my hand over the back of my head as I made my way to the entrance.

God only knows what I would find in there.

I had been lucky that Hal had seen Ranger's truck parked on the street. He hadn't been answering his cell. The GPS on the truck had been disengaged. His inoffice calls were being diverted to voicemail. All were red flags that he didn't want to be found. Except that when Ranger doesn't want to be found, he usually isn't.

I crossed the threshold and spotted him at the bar. A gaggle of women were perched to the right of him, vying for his attention, while he hung his head low over a shot of something I was sure he'd regret tomorrow. I took a seat on a stool to his left, and ordered another round.

"You gonna drink that, or stare it to death?"

Ranger knocked back the shot without so much as a grimace, added the shot glass to the pyramid in front of him, and motioned for another.

I shook my head and took one of my own. "Don't even try to outdo me," I said. "We both know you can't hold your drink. Never could."

Ranger glared in my direction. Then he plucked the fresh shot off the counter and threw it back.

"This about Bombshell?" Another glare. "I thought so."

"I'm not up for talking, Tank."

"Then you're more sober than I thought. Have a few more, and we'll get down to business."

Ranger shook his head. He took in a few more rounds, and his eyes started to glaze over. That was my cue.

"You talk to her?" He dipped his chin a fraction of an inch. "She working with Morelli?"

Ranger sucked in some air at the mention of Morelli's name. Joe Morelli was a plain-clothes cop. He worked crimes against persons. Lately, he seemed to have a peculiar interest in the goings at one of the Rangeman offices. Stephanie Plum – aka the Bombshell Bounty Hunter – had recently come to work at Rangeman as a researcher. She and Morelli had an on-again, off-again relationship that was hard to pinpoint on any given day. Though if the bra left in the elevator a few weeks ago was any indication, they were definitely off-again.

"No," came the answer finally.

Thank god.

"Didn't think so," I said, eyes focused on the shot in front of me. "She didn't have access to the kind of information Morelli was looking for. Doubt she'd tell him if she did."

Ranger shrugged.

"That still don't explain why you're trying your damnedest to get drunk off your ass six hours before you're due in Miami."

"I have my reasons." Ranger ran a hand down his face as he picked up another shot. He put it to his lips and said almost inaudibly, "She's pregnant."

He emptied the shot down his throat, and I motioned for the bartender to keep 'em coming. "Morelli's?"

Another sharp inhale. "No."

"You sure?"

Ranger nodded, and reached for the glass. "She seems to thinks so." He was starting to slur a bit. This was a good sign. It'd be easier to get him out of her if he didn't have sense enough to try and stop me.

I shook my head and indulged in another drink. "You gotta be the single largest dumb-ass I ever met," I said, ignoring the death-look he was trying to give me through his stupor. "You ever hear of a condom?"

"She was on the pill."

I let out a bark of laughter and slapped a fist down on the bar. "You gotta be kidding. How long you known her? Couple of years, at least. And she's blown up how many cars? Ten? Fifteen?"

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen cars. Blown 'em up. And how many times've you told her to keep her gun loaded? Half the time you gotta remind her to carry the damn thing, and even then you gotta have the guys make sure she don't drop it somewhere. And you trusted her to remember a pill? Jesus Christ. That's dumb-ass, plain and simple."

I knocked back a third and final shot, dropped enough on the counter to cover our tab and then some, and nudged Ranger in the shoulder. Best if we leave before he passes out cold, I thought. Or worse: remembers his Glock and decides to shoot the place up, like that time in Vegas. Ranger downed one more for the road, and slid of the stool, wobbling slightly on his feet. He blinked a few times, and began to sway. I threw his arm over my shoulder and half-carried him to the curb. He angled into the SUV, and sunk low into the seat. Ram and Junior were idling in a black Ford Range Rover at the curb.

"Take the truck back to office," I said, tossing Ram the keys. Ram nodded. I climbed behind the wheel of the Explorer, and pulled out onto Broad, toward Hamilton Avenue. Ranger had his head perched on his hand, staring out the window.

"Turn here," he said.

"Negative."

"Turn here."

I shook my head. "No."

Ranger pulled out his Glock and rested it on his thigh. So much for him forgetting about the gun.

"Jesus H. Christ," I said, making a left into the small lot at the back of a small, square building. A small fire escape rested on one end, leading up to the Bombshell's second-floor apartment. The bedroom and living room lights were on.

"You're a real prick when you're drunk, you know that? Give me the gun."

"Fuck off."

"Shit. You're not gonna shoot me. Couldn't even if you tried. Look at you, you're drunk as fuck. Probably won't even make it back to the office. I tell you what," I said, taking the gun by the barrel and stowing it under the seat, "you really wanna shoot me, you can do it when we get back. I'll even hold still. Not gonna make a difference, though. Doubt you even know where your ass is right now, let

alone the fucking trigger."

Ranger sighed and leaned forward, turning his attention to the living room window. There she was, five-feet-seven-inches of brass and neuroticism. She was wearing T-shirt and cartoon pajama-bottoms. Her hair was nothing short of frightening. And even in the dark, from far away, you could tell she wasn't wearing any makeup. She was on the phone, pacing back and forth. She seemed agitated.

Ranger's head moved side to side as he watched her.

"You 'member Marie?" he asked.

I let out a slow whistle and nodded. I remembered Marie, alright. Marie was a stripper at the Lizard Lounge in Las Vegas. Never knew her real name, only that Ranger had called her Marie, and she hadn't objected. Then again, it's not every day a man like Ranger slaps down five grand for a lap dance. I figure she would have been anyone or anything for that kind of tip. She and Ranger hit it off right up to the part where her husband came in. The rest is a blur of yelling, fighting, and gunfire.

Somewhere between the first punch and the last round, Marie had taken her money and disappeared, the Lizard Lounge was out twenty thousand in repairs, and Ranger was well on his way to being banned from Sin City.

"I loved" hiccup "Marie."

"No you didn't. You wanted to fuck her, maybe, but you didn't love her."

Ranger conceded with a nod. "But I thought I did."

"You think a lot of things where your dick is concerned." I glanced toward the window. "You telling me she's like Marie?"

Ranger shook his head. "No."

"That 'cause you know her name, or 'cause you're not paying her?"

Ranger made a sour face and swallowed. "Both."

He cracked a window to get some air, and my cell phone buzzed.

"Yo."

"You're loitering." It was Stephanie. She was standing at the window with her face pressed against the glass. "Ranger put you up to this?"

"You could say that."

I saw her shake her head. "Tell him to call off his watchdogs. I got fired, remember? I'd do it, myself, but I'm not getting through on his cell." There was a pause. "Don't suppose you'd know where he was, would you?"

Getting ready to hurl on the hydrangeas, was my bet. "No, don't suppose I would."

She sighed. "Go home, Tank."

She disconnected, and I pealed out of the lot, hoping to make it home before the inevitable puke-fest ensued. The underground lot was quiet and empty. I parked in a slot against the far wall, and watched in a mixture of revulsion and awe as Ranger fought with the door handle. After a minute of watching his increased consternation, I took pity and flipped the switch so the doors unlocked. The door opened, and Ranger fell onto the concrete with a smack.

"That's just pathetic, Manoso." I offered him my hand and pulled him to his feet. He shrugged it off and shuffled toward the elevator. He made it only as far as his Porsche before lurching forward and showering it with a vile mixture of partially digested granola and too much Johnny Walker Black for a man with the alcohol tolerance of a snail.

"Fuck me," he said, delivering a swift kick to the left front tire. His foot missed, causing him to fall flat on his back.

The elevator doors opened and two men stepped out. They took one look at Ranger, splayed out like an overturned turtle, and nearly doubled over in laughter. I threw them a sharp look and the laughing stifled to a couple of tight smirks. I took Ranger by the collar and jerked him to his feet, propping him up against the wall near the elevator before turning back toward them. "Miguel. Sanchez. Glad you're here."

"He okay?" asked Sanchez.

I looked over at Ranger and nodded. "I've seen worse. You on garage duty tonight?"

Sanchez nodded.

"Good. Take care of the Porsche. Two coats of wax this time." Their smirks faded into grimaces as they took in the mess. "And not a word of this to anyone."

I pushed Ranger into the elevator and used his key fob to access the apartment on seven. The doors opened, and I half-dragged him inside, dropping his dead weight onto the couch. I found some aspirin in the cabinet over the sink, and a bottle of water in the fridge, and handed him both. He washed the aspirin down, and wiped his mouth with the bank of his hand. His eyes settled onto the coffee table, where a red lace bra had been discarded. He reached for it, and ran his fingers over the edges.

"I love her, man."