by K Ryn
The concern in his Sentinel's voice surged through the phone line. A wave of fierce protectiveness followed in its wake. Nothing was lost in the transmission.
"Then hear me, Jim," the Guide said quietly, sending every ounce of his trust and confidence in his Sentinel back across the miles that separated them. "I'm okay. I'm safe. I promise you I'll stay that way. As much as it scares me, I understand what you have to do and why you have to do it. And you will. You'll get these guys. Just do me a favor and don't forget to duck when the bullets start flying."
Before Jim could respond, Blair heard the faint sound of the loft phone ringing in the background. "That's your call, man. Go get those assholes."
//"Blair, wait..."//
"Watch your back, Jim," Blair whispered as he cut the connection.
Slightly dazed, Jim stared at the now silent handset. Blair's last words rang in his ears, a fitting compliment to the annoying trill of the other phone. He set the cell down on the table next to his guns and crossed the room.
"Ellison," he growled, picking up the phone before the answering machine could grab the call.
The voice on the other end was Gordon's. The message was nearly as brief as the one he'd delivered earlier in the day.
//"Third and Lexington. Twenty minutes."//
Jim waited for more, but there was only a sharp click followed by the annoying buzz of the dial tone. Cursing under his breath, he spun on his heel and picked up the cell phone again. He punched in Simon's pre-programmed number and reached for his weapons, sliding them into their respective holsters at his back and ankle while he waited for the call to go through.
"I've got a location," Jim announced tersely, giving his captain the coordinates he'd received.
//Jim are you sure? There's nothing there. The city's been razing the buildings on both sides of Lexington for weeks to make way for the new revitalization project."//
Jim walked toward the front door and grabbed his jacket off the rack, shirking into it as he talked. "I know, Simon. My guess is that the actual meet's going to take place somewhere else."
//"Which means you could end up anywhere."//
"I think we can safely rule out the three precincts as possible options, sir," Jim quipped weakly as he grabbed his keys out of the basket by the door.
//"Damn it, Jim. This is no time for jokes."//
"Sorry, Simon. Must be Sandburg's evil influence," Jim responded. "Have you got a copy of the real estate listings that Blair put together from the insurance records?"
//"I've got it. What do you want to know?"//
"Check and see if there are any properties near that intersection."
The Sentinel heard the rustle of papers being shuffled and after only a few seconds, Banks was back on the line.
//"No such luck, Jim. At least nothing in what we've unearthed so far.//
"Sandburg was still digging through that mess. He's probably got the printouts with him. Have him look for anything in proximity to the meet site. Maybe he can come up with something by the time I get there."
//"Once he knows there's trouble, the kid's not going to want to sit still and wait this out, Jim."//
"I know Simon," the Sentinel sighed, remembering the disturbing conversation he'd just had with his Guide. He hadn't managed to determine the source of his friend's distress, or pinpoint the danger that he'd sensed, but he knew what part of the problem was. The younger man's protective instincts were just as strong as his and being forced to sit on the sidelines was frustrating the hell out of him. Giving him some way to contribute would alleviate some of that stress. Unfortunately, the solution to one dilemma would generate another. "But Blair knows that material better than anyone. If the answer's there, he'll find it. If he tries to pull a Houdini on Joel, have Taggert remind him that he promised to keep himself safe."
//"You think that'll stop him? Sandburg tends to forget about self-preservation when your safety is on the line."//
"Then I guess Taggert will have to sit on him," Jim replied grimly.
//"I still don't like it, Jim. With Joel minding the kid, I'm the only backup you're going to have. I'm not going to do you any good if I don't know where you are. What about bringing Brown and Rafe into this? We could alternate tailing you from the pickup point."//
"I agree that it's time to bring them into the game, sir, but there's no time to get them in place. I'm going to have to push it to make the rendezvous as it is. Besides, Jenson's not stupid. Gordon may have acquisition duty, but you can bet that there will be others watching to make sure that no one follows us. I think our best option is to put Brown and Rafe onto setting a trace on this phone. I'm going to wipe all the programming so nothing will lead back to you, then I'll reactivate contact. I'll keep this line open as long as I can."
There was a long moment of silence before Simon spoke again.
//"All right. You're the man on the hot seat. I'll have to trust your judgment and instincts on this. I want your word though, that you'll take it one step at a time. You smell a trap and you get your butt out of there."//
"Thanks, Simon."
//You can thank me by not getting yourself killed. I don't want to be the one to tell Sandburg he's going to lose out on getting that doctorate."// Jim cut the connection and cleared the memory on the cell phone. He took one last glance around the loft and with a terse nod, headed out. By the time he slid behind the wheel of his truck, he'd wrapped his undercover persona around him like a cloak. He set the phone down on the seat next to him and cranked the Ford to life, flipping on headlights and letting the wipers swish once over the rain speckled windshield to clear it. The rain had finally stopped, but the skies were still overcast. The heavy cloud cover hung low, clinging to the rooftops like a false ceiling. Reflections from the streetlights and the signs of still open businesses shimmered in the standing puddles of water that littered the streets. Once he was moving, Jim picked up the phone and punched in the seven digits to reach Simon. He waited until he received an acknowledgment from the other end, then slipped the device carefully into his jacket pocket. Turning his attention completely to the road, he urged a little more speed out of the truck.
He pulled up to the intersection with only a minute to spare, scanning the street with his senses even as he turned off the engine and killed the lights. The fragmented remains of buildings and mountains of debris from the city's demolition efforts created an unearthly landscape of black-on-black shapes and shadows.
The faint sounds of a rough engine swung his gaze to the rearview mirror. A car had just turned onto Jefferson and was headed his way. Choosing to meet his contact in the open, he got out of the truck and closed the driver's door before leaning back against it. He took a good look at the oncoming vehicle and then averted his eyes so that the headlights wouldn't blind him. He didn't recognize the battered Pontiac, but the reddened glow of a burning cigarette tip gave off enough light for him to identify the driver.
Gordon tossed the lit butt out the driver's window before he pulled to a stop parallel to the truck. The vice cop reached across and opened the passenger door. Jim slid into the empty seat and closed the door with a firm tug. Gordon remained silent as he shifted the car into gear and turned left at the cross street, heading north on Third. Nose wrinkling from the lingering odor of the smoke that permeated the cab and the other detective's clothes, the Sentinel dialed down his sense of smell and taste a notch.
In such close proximity to the sweating man behind the wheel, it didn't take much effort to pick up the man's heavy breathing and racing heartbeat. Jim continued to monitor both their route and Gordon's movements while he considered the possible reason's behind the vice-cop's behavior. Granted, he'd shaken the man's composure by his actions at the bar, but the level of tension and fear he was detecting now seemed out of proportion to that incident.
Which can only mean that there's trouble waiting at the end of this ride.
Whether that meant that they'd caught on to the sting or that whoever
was waiting scared Gordon more than he did, Jim didn't know -- nor would further speculation give him the answers. That they hadn't insisted on a blindfold suggested that this game would be resolved tonight, one way or another. He forced himself to relax, keeping his muscles loose, his mouth shut and his eyes on the road.
As he'd suspected, they didn't go far. Less than ten minutes after Gordon had picked him up, the man made a sharp right and pulled into an alley. He slowed his speed, but didn't stop until he reached a cross street on the opposite side of the block. Turning right again, he drove about 50 yards and then spun the wheel to the left, easing the car up over a low curb and into an opening in the side of an older three-story brick building.
The Sentinel heard the whine of a motor, followed by the screel of metal scraping across metal. He glanced in the cracked side-mirror to his right and saw a heavy, segmented garage door closing behind them. Gordon let the car coast forward a few more feet before braking to a complete stop.
Jim opened the door and climbed out of the car, but stayed close to it. The interior of the building was dark. The headlight beams of the Pontiac brightened a space in front of the vehicle, revealing a stained and chipped concrete floor. The Sentinel's heightened vision penetrated the darkness another fifteen feet, but even he couldn't distinguish much beyond that. He cranked up his other senses and was rewarded with a wealth of sensory input, which he struggled to categorize.
Iron, zinc... more metals... damp wood and cardboard... This was some kind of a factory at one point... The odors are faint ... residual traces more than anything else... and the air itself is musty, so it's been empty for a while... generator hum, so there's still power enough to operate lights and the garage door...
Casually, Jim shut the passenger door with a hard shove, trying to judge the size and layout of the building from the resulting echoes.
Mostly open space on this level at least... the floor plan's deeper than it is wide... roughly the size of the precinct parking garage...
Aware of the danger of being lured toward a zone-out by the seductive reverberations, he filtered out those sounds and searched for those that would be distinctly human.
Swish of cloth against skin... scuff of leather against concrete... heartbeats...
Sentinel senses augmented years of military training and the instincts of a cop who'd managed to survive more than a few close calls. Ignoring Gordon's frantically beating pulse, Jim concentrated on pinpointing the locations and relative positions of the enemy.
The closest was the man roughly two car lengths behind him. The one who'd closed the outer door. Smithson.
Several more were waiting some thirty feet ahead of the car.
... four, five,... Smithson's six, Gordon makes seven... where's number eight?
He felt a warning prickle that raised the hair on the back of his neck. He stiffened. There was another man, off to Gordon's left -- near what the Sentinel had determined was the far wall.
Full house... not good odds, but not impossible either...
He pivoted slightly to face the waiting men and closed his eyes until they were bare slits, dialing down his vision at the same time. Lights flared a split-second later. He blinked and pretended to wince, using the action to cover another quick scan as he confirmed what his senses had already told him.
Ranged ahead of him were five men. Jenson stood a few feet in front of the others, his arms crossed over his chest. In contrast to his partner Archie Gordon, who looked like the stereotypical vice-cop, Phil Jenson dressed and acted like he'd just stepped off the pages of GQ. In his early fifties, Jenson was still a man in superb physical condition. An inch taller than Ellison, he held himself like the ex-Major that he was. The tell-tale wrinkles of age hadn't yet touched the hard angled planes of his face and the close-cropped auburn hair showed no trace of gray. If Gordon was the 'dealer', then Jenson ran the action -- smooth, sophisticated, dangerous.
Martin Randolph and Mark Harris stood to his left, carbon copies of Gordon. Jim didn't recognize either of the two men to Jenson's right, but they stood at what could only be described as 'parade rest' -- an indication that they'd also been connected to Jenson through the military. The man leaning against the wall near a bank of light switches, however, was vaguely familiar. Jim searched his memory and came up with a name -- Robert Allen. Not a cop, but a man of influence.
You wondered how deep this went, Simon? Try all the way to the Mayor's office, Jim thought grimly.
Of the six they'd originally identified as being involved, only Jeff Rogers was unaccounted for. Where was he?
He dropped his shoulders a fraction of an inch to ease the tension that had gathered there and met Jenson's piercing gaze with a level one of his own. Their eyes locked -- pale blue ice and steel gray. Measuring. Calculating. A battle joined without physical contact.
Jenson blinked first. "Ellison." A small nod accompanied that greeting.
"Jenson." Jim parroted the man's actions.
A small, humorless smile hovered on Jenson's lips. "A man of few words, but many questions. You gave my partner a pretty hard time."
Jim's own smile was a mirror image of the vice-cop's. "Maybe you should have chosen a different messenger. One who knew the answers."
"Perhaps, although I doubt that anything less than this little get-together would have satisfied you."
"I'm far from satisfied, yet," Jim responded.
Jenson nodded again. "Down to business then. If you'll be so good as to hand Mr. Smithson your weapon, we can get started."
The Sentinel's eyes narrowed, fixing his adversary with a deadly glare.
"I understand your reticence, Detective," Jenson remarked casually. "Certainly you can appreciate ours as well. Your reputation precedes you."
Ignoring Smithson, whose soft tread he could hear behind him, Jim stepped forward, slowly closing the distance until he was within arm's reach of Jenson. Randolph and Harris had both pulled their own guns to cover him, but their leader never moved, his gaze still locked with the Sentinel's. "If that's the case, you should know better than to ask me to turn over my weapon to someone other than another officer," the ex-ranger said softly.
Deliberately, so that his movements wouldn't be misinterpreted, Jim reached back with his left hand and pulled his gun from the holster at his waist. He held the piece by the grip for a moment, pointed at the older man and then hooked his finger in the trigger guard and let the barrel drop. The weapon's handle rotated up and toward Jenson. "Of course," Jenson acknowledged, accepting the proffered weapon.
Without taking his eyes off of the older man, Jim reached down and pulled his backup piece from the holster strapped to his right ankle. He rose and handed off that gun too. "Consider this one a gesture of good faith."
Jenson tucked the weapons into the front of his belt. "Thank you, Captain," he replied, the use of Jim's old military rank a verbal salute between them. "Now if you'll remove your jacket and indulge me one more minor precaution, we can move on to the subject at hand."
With an indifferent shrug, Jim slipped out of his coat. In the process he pressed the inside of his left forearm against the phone in his pocket. The click as the connection was cut off was inaudible to anyone except him. He tossed the jacket to one of the men he didn't know and stood waiting.
Harris holstered his gun and stepped forward with a hand-held electronic detector. He walked a quick circuit around the Sentinel, sweeping the unit over the ex-ranger from head to toe.
"No wire, sir, but I am picking up metal," Harris reported.
Randolph's finger tightened on the trigger of his gun, and Smithson, who had come up behind Jim, pulled his as well. Jenson simply smiled and waved the other detectives off. "At ease, gentlemen. I think we'll let Mr. Ellison keep his other toys. As a gesture of our good faith." He met the Sentinel's gaze once more and gestured with a lift of his chin. "We might as well be comfortable while we talk."
Jenson turned and the others parted ranks to let him through. They tra
iled behind him like a royal honor guard. Jim followed, flanked by Smithson and Gordon. Ellison experienced a flash of deja vu when he saw what Jenson was leading them toward. In the middle of the empty factory floor stood a long table with seating for five. A single straightback chair occupied the space in front of the table. Jenson's idea of 'comfortable' reminded the Sentinel of the set up for a military board of inquiry. He'd sweated out interviews in a similar setting, justifying his actions in front of a panel of high ranking officers and CIA agents several times after he'd returned from Peru.
A subtle power dance took place as the players arranged themselves. Jenson commanded the center position, with Randolph and Allen, the Mayor's aide, taking the seats immediately to his left and right. Smithson slid into the chair on one end and Harris took the other. The two, as of yet unknown men, took up positions behind Jenson. Gordon, who Jim assumed had been demoted to bottom end of the odd little hierarchy, stood nervously near the empty chair.
"I'm assuming you know everyone here, with the possible exception of Mr. Hiller and Mr. Barnes," Jenson said, gesturing sketchily to the men who stood behind him.
Jim's gaze slid over the two as he seated himself in the waiting chair. He'd never seen them before, but he recognized the names. Both were uniformed cops, assigned to the neighborhood where the fires and murders had taken place.
He hid his chilled reaction and met Jenson's speculative gaze. "If you're finished playing host, perhaps we could move on to why I'm here," the Sentinel said brusquely.
"You're here because we have an interest in you," Jenson responded. "My associates and I have embarked on a rather interesting business venture. You'll pardon the military analogy, but like the marines, we're looking for a few good men to fill in some select positions. You certainly have the right qualifications, and we're eager to make you a bona fide offer, however there remain some questions that need to be answered."
"You don't trust me," Ellison said flatly.
"Quite so. You're an enigma, Ellison. A paradox that's both intriguing and unsettling at the same time. You were a loner for years, then you suddenly team up with a wet-behind-the-ears college kid. Your track record as a cop had been good, but it suddenly became impressive. Decorated veteran, top of your class at the academy, lead detective in Major Crimes, Officer of the Year... very clean slate. The Boy Scouts could have drafted you as their poster child."
