Part 2 NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND SANDBURG AND BYERS' CELL MONDAY, 2:37 P.M. Another day, another bland hallway, another bland door. Or maybe the same one again. Another escort of goons, too. Colonel Phoenix's men favored black. It made them look like over-aged, paramilitary Goths. Blair forced himself to try breaking through the drug-fog hangover to pay attention to his surroundings, to note small marks that might distinguish this particular corridor from all the others around. An anonymous door was opened and the goon who was more-or-less supporting him shoved him into the room beyond and locked the door. It was their original cell. Oh, good. He was back to square one, like Alice on the chessboard. Byers wasn't there, but on the bed were two paper plates with sandwiches. Were they both for him or was Byers going to be shoved in there soon? Was a new roommate going to be sent in? Were the sandwiches drugged? He examined them cautiously: pimento cheese with mustard. "Don't you guys know what this stuff *does* to your arteries?" He waved the sandwiches accusingly at the impartial eye of the monitor camera. Maybe they did, and that was the plan; to clog his arteries so he couldn't think. Or maybe one of their whacked-out nutritionists had done some sort of study and found that artificial cheezoid food substance supposedly enhanced Guide abilities. It was a depressing thought. He carefully split the sandwiches and set half of each on his own plate. If they were laced with drugs, he'd find out. If they were safe, he'd find that out, too. He picked up one of the paper cups and filled it with water from the sink. It was possible that whatever drug had ended up in his system had been in the water. If that was the case, Byers would be off somewhere, tripping around his own internal galaxy. He could hear the drums again, interlaced with occasional whispered words. Phoenix really believed in his brainwashing and bad subliminal message technology. He needed to convince them somehow that this would work on both him and Byers; to play head games with the Huxleyans until Byers got out of his dangerous situation with that psycho, Wilson. Until he could find a way to get both of them out of there. He took a bite of the sandwich and chewed, thinking. He was an anthropologist, and a shaman. Shamans were the ultimate tricksters; the ones who could take your games and turn them into the Shaman's Game. He would turn this little game into something else, once he figured out what was going on and who the players trusted. There would be a thread somewhere that he could tug; a thread that would unravel the whole social fabric of the compound and leave them in a better position to escape. He swished the water around in the paper cup and took a sip. A real power struggle was going on among the Huxleyans over who got Guides, so it was obvious they'd be kept alive for a while. The major players right now in the Guide Training Game were Phoenix and Wilson. But the judge had warned them both that if other 'Sentinels' proved more worthy, the Guides would be given to those compounds. He made a wry face. Not enough information to make any further deductions. He'd just have to lie low and be semi- cooperative enough to keep him from being killed or hurt while looking for a way to get himself and Byers out, provided he could find the man. It was a pity that he couldn't send Wolf loping off to Jim's Jaguar with a map and compass, and directions saying, "Here we are." That would have solved things rather neatly, once he found out where "here" was. But the distance was too much, and the drugs and attempts at brainwashing seemed to be weakening his bond with Jim. It worried him deeply. There was a face at the window of the cell and the sound of the door being unlocked. Blair picked up his cup and stepped toward the door. As it swung open, he threw the water into the guard's face and charged, knocking him into Byers, who fell against a second guard. He grabbed the first goon's arm and used an Aikido maneuver to throw him into the cell. The second one managed to get untangled from Byers and was lunging toward him. Bad move. Blair neatly sidestepped the charge and used the same technique to help the second man into the cell. He slammed the door and heard the bolts snick into the locked position. Byers, wearing only a padlocked collar and a pair of boxer shorts about two sizes too big, was struggling to his feet. Blair helped him up. "Sorry, man. I know it's bad for you right now, but we've got to get out of here. They got that on camera and the bad guys'll be here any second." Pale and shocky, Byers nodded gamely. "Lead on," he whispered. His lips were cracked and dry; he was showing a bunch of new bruises and fresh wounds. Thank whatever Gods might be that he wasn't handcuffed again. Blair draped Byers' arm around his own shoulders and they hurried forward. Byers was limping badly. There were two intersecting corridors ahead, and if they could get past the first to the second, they might be able to hide in one of the rooms in the second corridor for awhile. There was no way they were going to be able to outrun everyone in the compound -- not in their current condition, and certainly not with Byers dressed as he was. He could hear the thud of booted feet coming closer. There was no way they were going to make it to the corridors. There was another anonymous door to their right, and Blair grabbed the doorknob and yanked. Locked. He tried the one on the left, which opened with a loud squeal. Too late; far too late. Around the corner trotted a squad of khaki-clad militants, and from the trapdoor at the far end of the corridor came a squad wearing urban camos. Trapped. He pulled Byers against the wall and positioned himself in front of his friend. One against fourteen. Maybe they'd take it out on him and leave Byers alone. More boots, and this time it was Wilson's Redshirts, tailed by Washington and her 'Guide,' who came into view. Wilson's squad leader glared at the other two groups. "We'll take over now." Oho. Conflicts of power in progress, Blair thought to himself. A lovely example of primate territorial display. He could certainly up the ante here. He reached out a hand toward Washington. She was the one most likely to listen. "Please, get the judge," he pleaded. "We need protection." He stepped aside so they could all see Byers leaning against the wall nearly naked, pale and cold with shock. Cuts, bruises and blood patterned his body. He showed them Byers' bloody shoulder where Wilson had carved the Enterprise insignia into it. Washington paled. "Sweet baby Jesus," she breathed. "That bastard Wilson's got no authority to treat his Guide this way. It's not part of the Program." Washington handed her 'Guide' his leash. "Andy, go get the judge. There's no way this man was willing when Wilson did this to him." Andy hurried down the corridor. "No true Sentinel would harm a Guide like this," Blair said, pointing at Byers' wounds. There was a growl from the first group and someone said, "Colonel Loudin needs to see this." "And Colonel Moksha," said the squad leader of the urban camo commandos. The tension in the crossroads grew. It wouldn't do to be stuck in the middle of a firefight. Time to see about getting out of Dodge. Blair took refuge in numbers. "Please," he said to the khaki-wearing group, "could we be taken somewhere safe and have my friend's wounds tended to? He's cold and in shock, and he needs clothes and water and food. The judge will want to talk to him." The khaki squad surrounded them. "They'll be in holding room three," the leader said. "Our medic will be there shortly," the camo commander said. The Redshirts milled in confusion until one suggested they go tell Wilson. Blair nodded, satisfied, as they were led away. It was the Shaman's Game now. TYEE TEEPEE MOTEL ROOM 210 6:30 P.M. Jim bit down hard on the antacid tablet, crushing it. Fake mint exploded on his tongue, blowing his focus entirely. He forced himself back to awareness at Doggett's touch and the sound of his voice. It was so damned hard without Blair there. His jaw ached. He'd been grinding his teeth for days now, and had developed a massive headache and toothache from the stress. A full day's worth of the best monitoring on the compound had turned up exactly zero. Again. The meeting had come and gone, and they'd learned nothing new. He tasted bile, felt the weariness of defeat. Frohike had finally managed to convince him to leave the stakeout after the Gunmen put in some sort of electronic listening devices near the compound, but sleep was impossible. He'd shaved and showered, and went into the station at 0400, working the empty leads until there was nothing left and he was turning back over the old material again. Now he was back at the motel with Doggett, having come full circle. He leaned forward, pressing his burning eyes into the palms of his hands, feeling a lump forming in his throat. Damn, he needed his partner. Things just got worse the longer they were separated. He heard Doggett sigh and begin pacing again. "If those idiots don't get here in five minutes, I'm going to fry their asses," Doggett muttered as he twitched the curtain aside. They both jumped as the phone rang. Ellison reached it first. "Do you still have that note we left you?" It was Langly, his voice tight and urgent. "Do you have it there with you?" "Langly, what the hell is this about?" "Do you *have* it?" "What note? You want to tell me what this is all about?" "DamndamnFUCKdamn! God, don't you cop-types *ever* check the mail before you meet up?" "LANGLY!" Jim could almost hear the lanky blond flinch. There was a pause, a scuffle, and then Frohike spoke. "We left a note for you in your mailbox. There's some stuff in our hotel room for you guys -- unless Doggett's lost the key." "I *have* the key," Doggett said. "He's got the key. Now what's this all about?" "Wagner. Earlier today, he went to see his buddies at the coffee shop so he could whine about his treatment from the big, nasty cops and missing the meeting. While they were having a nice pity party, we bugged their cars--" "You what?" "You heard me. Investigative reporting. We recorded some nice evidence while we were tailing him--" "*You what?!*" "You know, Ellison, you're gonna give yourself a coronary if you keep that up." "I'm gonna give *you* a coronary, Frohike, if you--" "Just shut up, Ellison," Frohike said, his voice low and urgent. "Shut up and listen. We taped one side of this conversation and you guys really need to hear it. We left the tape in our room along with the little GPS unit. They're using GPS coordinates to give the locations of meeting places. I wrote down the numbers on a piece of paper. Get the paper, and get your butts out here. Call when you get in range." The phone went dead. He could hear the pounding of Doggett's feet as the FBI agent ran for the other motel room. "Get the truck! I'll get the tape!" By the time Jim got to his truck, Doggett was there, note, GPS and tape player in hand. They scrambled in and Jim roared the truck out of the parking lot, breaking a few speed limits on the way. Doggett punched the button on the tape player and turned the sound up to manageable levels. The voice was unfamiliar; one side of a phone conversation. "Helly?... Yeah, it's Mescal. Uh huh... Yeah, I saw that... No, they changed the place. It's at 121.40 and... ah... 47.13. Got that?" Doggett looked at the note. The numbers matched. There was the sound of laughter. "Oh yeah, Phoenix. That yuppie asshole. Him and his cult deprogramming techniques. Hell, he was lucky to slip the lawsuit over that deprogramming thingy back in '98." Jim flicked his eyes toward the recorder and then focused on the road again. A light mist was falling. He could hear every fucking droplet hitting the truck. Focus -- he had to stay focused. There was another hoot of laughter from the tape recorder. "Oh yeah... Nah... He's a police profiler." Jim went cold. They were talking about Blair. "Breathe. Focus." That was Doggett, a hand on his shoulder. He took a gulp of air and nodded, negotiating a curve along the pass. The road was a dark, wet ribbon in the late evening light. "Yeah... Hey, I saw the guy on TV last year after there was some sort of standoff that he helped solve. Yeah... He'll just eat Phoenix alive and spit him out... Yeah, *heh.* Serve him right. Can't wait to see that one." Blair was alive, Ellison reminded himself -- at least for now. The man's voice laughed again. "Nah. He should be easy... He's a publisher. Real pussy boy, if you know what I mean... Yeah, that Trekkie Wilson'll take him for a nice, hard ride." Ellison could hear Doggett's teeth grinding as his pulse went through the roof. He braked the truck, took a sharper bend, and looked at the map on the GPS. The location was still a couple of hours away. He looked over at Doggett, who was staring intently at the tape. It was still running. "Stay with me, John," Jim said. Doggett shook off the incipient zone. Damn, this had been a bitch on both of them. He was still worried about how Wolf had faded before him the other night. "We'll find them. They'll be all right." He kept telling himself that. If he repeated it often enough, he might even start to believe it. The man on the tape spoke abruptly. "No... *Really?* Using that shit on him? Huh. Well, yeah. That might work... dunno... I heard they used it on some of them Git-mo POWs and they had 'em all singing like canaries and eating out of their hands inside a week... Yeah, makes sense to use it on a cop. And if it fries his brain, what the hell -- he's just a pig, right? Oink oink! Oh, hey. Call you later, right? Oink oink!" Laughter, and silence, except for the tape hiss. Jim's hands clenched the steering wheel. Doggett turned it off. "That's the end of it," he said, strained but quiet. "If those coordinates pan out, I'll call Skinner and start getting the paperwork pushed through so we can do a raid ASAP." "And pray the Three Stooges don't decide to go play heroes," Jim added. "Amen to that." NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND MAIN GROUNDS 7:30 P.M. Another meal of chicken and biscuits, another round of somewhat inept doctoring by a young militiawoman with bad technique and worse bedside manner, a little rest, and then it was time for another trial. The break had lasted long enough for the drugs to leave his system, and Byers, with the help of some pain meds and a good cleanup, looked a bit healthier. Blair tiredly submitted his wrists for the standard handcuffing and then he and Byers were marched through another string of anonymous corridors by their khaki-clad protectors, back into the main yard of the compound. The sun had set over an hour ago, but the main yard was lit up enough to get a better sense of the scope of the place, and he looked around. They were in the middle of a large field near a barn, a Quonset hut, and some sort of a ranch-style house. A sign on the barn announced "Derek's Deer Hunts." The logo, a heavily antlered buck viewed through rifle scope crosshairs, seemed to stare accusingly at the humans gathered in the wide grassy field. He could see another building marked "Feed" and a shed marked "Processing." Deer hunting here probably had all the thrill of shooting fish in a barrel. The militia members were milling around in loosely-knit groups. Blair scanned the crowd, spotting Washington and the Kink Commandos off to his right. Each group seemed to have its own distinct uniform, from SWAT black to something that looked like it had been stolen from a gay musical revue about Canadian Mounties, but all of them bore the Huxleyan winged eye. It was a surreal scene, like something that had been hastily staged for theatric purposes. There was no logic to the types of uniforms or insignia, making it hard to judge who the major power players were. Byers stood next to him, dressed in neon orange prison pajamas, his hair still damp from showering, feet bare, face pale. He looked miserable and vulnerable in the near freezing drizzle. Blair stared at the ground, thinking. There had to be some way to change things for their benefit. Tinny music blared from a hidden speaker and the assembled units formed into orderly ranks. The door to the Quonset hut opened and an older man with shoulder-length white hair drawn into a ponytail, wearing a jungle camo uniform emerged with Wilson and his Redshirts in tow, and Phoenix and the SWAT Goths behind them. They stopped in front of Blair and Byers. Khaki Squad's leader, a short, willowy black-haired woman, stepped forward and saluted. "General Harmon," she said crisply. The white-haired man returned the salute. "Colonel Loudin," he acknowledged. "Status?" "The Guides have been examined by the medics, treated and fed, and allowed to rest," she reported. "Are they fit to resume duty?" The Colonel hesitated briefly. "They need additional time," she said carefully. "So do we all, Colonel, so do we all," the General said. He stared thoughtfully at Byers and Blair. "But we may not have that kind of luxury now." "They won't survive this continued treatment," she added. Washington stepped out of the crowd and stood beside Loudin. "With all due respect, sir," she said, "the conditioning these Guides are being subjected to has not followed Judge Hammer's recommendations. If Wilson and Phoenix continue like this, they'll die. These Guides' prior training and experience is invaluable, and essential to our success. They're known to have triggered Sentinels, and their ability to train others would put the Project ahead of schedule." "I agree with Colonel Washington, Sir," Loudin said. Harmon waved a hand dismissively. "Let's see just how they're progressing," he said. He stared speculatively at Byers, then waved Wilson forward. "Take him. Let's see how good you are." Wilson grinned triumphantly. Byers straightened himself, clear blue eyes blank, his expression bleak. He looked like a man facing the gallows. Blair eased closer to him, his body barely touching his friend's. "With all due respect, General, what the hell are you giving him to that psycho for? I thought everybody in the Program was supposed to be willing -- and there's no way he's willing!" Washington snapped. "We're here fighting for a cause, for human freedom from alien interference. That's why we started the Program in the first place! This kind of coercion is completely--" "You're out of line, Colonel," the General said. "It's Wilson's right to show us his effectiveness through the trials. If you'll recall, you took three months to fully establish your bond with your Guide." Wilson smiled, an ugly little sneer, grabbing her arm. "Back off, Uhura. You've got your Guide. It's my turn now and you have no right to interfere." She spun, snarling like a leopard. "You call me Uhura one more time, *Shal-lan,* and I'm gonna bitch-slap your stupid cracker ass into next week." She shook his arm off as the General watched. "Tracking collars are one thing, but that slave shit you're playin' at is way over the top. You *don't* harm your Guide. They're too damned rare. You are one psycho fucking freak, and you don't deserve that man to be your Guide. We've all read his newspaper. *He's on our side.*" "He sold out," Wilson insisted. "He's a traitor to his species. He was working with that government-created Sentinel, that FBI agent. And he's *mine* now. Once I've turned him, he'll be working for the cause by *my* side... Uhura." Washington lunged for Wilson. Two of Wilson's Redshirts grabbed Washington by the arms. She twisted free in a quick move and slammed her palm against the throat of the first one. He went down, choking. Andy, her Guide, leapt in with more enthusiasm than style and punched the other one, starting a general melee. The Kink Commandos unlimbered their automatic rifles, and the sound of safeties being thrown filled the air. "You will *all* stand down *immediately!*" the General bellowed. The Khaki squad, obviously under his command, moved in to surround the combatants. The action froze and the fighters separated. "Washington, you and your squad are *dismissed!*" "But--" "That's an order, soldier." The tone was soft and deadly. Washington looked around at the faces of the others in the compound, nodded, and saluted smartly. "Permission to depart for home base, sir!" she said. She had good control of her body language and her face, Blair noted. Her team shouldered their weapons and fell in behind her. "Granted. Dismissed," the General said, and turned back toward Phoenix, Wilson, and the two Guides. Washington gave Byers a pitying look, then turned and marched out with her troops. The crowd parted briefly and then swept back in, leaving no trace of her presence. "As you were!" the General snapped, and the crowd reformed into a vague semblance of order. "Bring the prisoner out!" A squad of six guards appeared, escorting a handcuffed man before him. The guy looked about 40, Hispanic, and frightened. General Harmon smiled a sinister smile. "Well. Let's have our demonstration, then," he said. "You first, Wilson," Harmon said. "You say your abilities have grown since you've started bonding with your Guide. The prisoner hasn't divulged any information since his capture. Show us what you can do." Wilson twisted his fingers in Byers' collar and pulled him sharply forward, unbalancing him. "Come, T'hy'la. It's time you began serving your species, and your Sentinel." Byers jerked away and Wilson casually backhanded him. "Perhaps you don't realize how serious this is, T'hy'la," he said, and his voice was flat, hard and dangerous. "This man has betrayed us to the aliens. We need to know what he knows. Give me your mind, T'hy'la, or I'll give you your death." There was a scatter of disturbed mutters from the assembly. Quite a few people glared at Wilson and more than one made aborted motions toward him. A sharp look from the General held them back. Byers stared briefly and Blair held his breath. Then the bearded man lowered his head slightly and stepped forward. Wilson smiled again and led him to the prisoner's side. "Give me your aid for my focus, T'hy'la." He closed his eyes and did the Vulcan Mind Meld gesture on the startled prisoner. "My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts. You will share what you know with us." Wilson leaned forward until his forehead touched the prisoner's. The man struggled briefly until one of the guards put him in a stranglehold. Several minutes later, Wilson stepped away from the prisoner and looked at the General. "He has information about a nearby Mothership," Wilson said solemnly. "He's seen it. He's working for the aliens." "Where?" Harmon said. "I saw a lake," Wilson replied. "There are half a dozen lakes nearby," Phoenix sneered. "He's making this up." "Baker Lake," Wilson said. "There was a sighting there last night," one of the Redshirts said, excited. "How many aliens?" Harmon asked. "At least a hundred," Wilson answered. The prisoner blinked. "This guy's insane," he said, incredulous. Phoenix took Blair by the shoulder and pulled him forward. "You're a fool, Wilson. You claim to be a Sentinel, yet you can't see what's right in front of your face." Wilson laughed. "Prove me wrong, Phoenix," he said. He took a step back, tugging Byers with him. Phoenix, still holding Blair by the shoulder, stared at the prisoner for what must have been well over a minute. With a sudden motion, he pulled his survival knife from his belt and stabbed the prisoner in the back of the neck and then leapt back quickly, yanking Blair with him. The prisoner jerked, and a foul green gas began spraying from his body with a loud, obscene hiss. Blair gasped and gagged at the acrid stench that suddenly filled the air. The guards screamed and writhed as the substance enveloped them, and people scattered, backing hurriedly away from the corpse. Phoenix released Blair's collar and stood at the edge of the crowd, shouting something derogatory at Wilson. Blair stood, frozen, watching in shock as the former prisoner started disintegrating. Byers suddenly appeared at his side. He grabbed Blair's shirt with both cuffed hands and yanked him away from the fallen man as the strange hissing sound split the air. "Get back! The thing's toxic!" Blair stared at Byers. "Oh, my God. What was that?" "It's an alien, or one of the hybrid clones. Their blood's toxic to humans," Byers hissed into his ear. "It burns, takes your skin off -- and it kills. It can gel your blood. I've seen it before. Whatever's going on here, we are in serious trouble. We've got to get out of here. Now!" People were looking at each other, stunned. They didn't notice Blair and Byers backing quickly away. It seemed their anti-alien propaganda had some astonishing and entirely unexpected basis in fact, but it was rapidly vanishing in a puddle of green ichor. The Redshirts stood in a cluster, muttering and staring at Wilson. No one was watching them. Byers and Blair ran. CAVE COMPOUND NEAR GRAND COULEE, WASHINGTON 8 P.M. Doggett leaned against a boulder, panting as Ellison slipped out of the darkness looking almost alien with his night vision equipment. The shadows were back, even with the goggles. Shapes, just shapes, but distracting. He really was losing his mind. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing his attention away from the zone-out. Ellison put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy," the cop advised. "The altitude here is higher than you think, and you're gonna make yourself sick if you forget that." "Never too sick to kick them from here to next Wednesday." He tried to make it a growl, but it sounded more like a wheeze. "I swear to God the Stooges are going to be the death of me yet." Ellison grinned, chuckling. "Y'know, I said the same thing about Blair. They do kind of grow on you after awhile, though." "Like barnac--" A shot echoed through the mountain ridges, followed by a scream. "Langly!" Exhaustion forgotten, he charged toward the distant sound. He heard a second shot, and focused his hearing forward. Running feet, thrashing leaves, harsh panting grunts -- the Gunmen and several others were running through the night forest. He veered toward the sounds. Ellison sprinted ahead, a greenish ghost in the night vision goggles, moving confidently along the uneven, trackless slopes. There was another shot and a Comanche-style war whoop, and the sounds of running feet and shouts grew closer. He saw Ellison freeze and slip behind a tree as a distant wavering glow became visible and resolved itself into the images of two people, hands linked, running. One was stumbling. A few seconds later he saw another pair of dots. One of this pair was weaving and he could hear uneven footsteps. Ellison had drawn his gun. The two men in the lead where running awkwardly, limbs flailing. One of them fell noisily and the other hauled him up, still linked by the hands. "Keep... going, I'll... wait... you take... goggles." That was Langly's voice, thin and wheezy. He sounded like he was having an asthma attack. "No." A younger voice, one he didn't recognize, panting. "Both or none." "Go. Please, man... get out..." Doggett moved forward carefully, his ears focused on the sounds ahead. More crashing and stumbling and the four images converged. He heard Jimmy Bond whisper quietly, "Shel, you help these guys to the van, okay? I'm gonna hide here and hit those goons with a rock. I'll be right behind you. Just get them out of here." "No." That was Frohike. "Look," Jimmy said, "Langly's gonna die if he doesn't get his inhaler, and Shel doesn't know where the van is. You're not in such good shape, either, Frohike. I'll be okay, but I need the three of you out of here." "We never leave a man behind," Frohike snapped. Doggett paused beside a tree some ten feet from the Gunmen. The last set of images had resolved to the figures of two men, one waving a rifle. They were about twenty yards away from the Gunmen, moving cautiously. He focused closer on their images; they seemed to have good night vision, though they weren't wearing goggles. One stumbled slightly and a branch snapped underfoot; a sound loud as gunfire. "No time ... to run... Jimmy." Langly's head was turned toward their pursuers. "One... for all, guys." Jimmy suddenly froze, then swung his arm in a powerful overhand motion; the star quarterback making the pass. There was a loud *whock* and one of the pursuers toppled. Doggett stepped out from behind cover. "How about all *against* one?" He grinned, and he and Ellison charged forward as Jimmy's next rock took the second pursuer in the gut. NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND WILSON'S QUARTERS 10:13 P.M. It had been a very bad day. After their second escape attempt, and the startling death of the alien -- or the clone, Byers still couldn't decide -- they'd been thrown into a new cell. It was tiny, without a sink or a toilet. There was no bed either, only a couple of blankets on the floor, and a bucket. No food, no water. Punishment for their escape attempts, no doubt. He wondered when it would be solitary confinement without even a blanket. He'd been seeing shapes and shadows again, uncertain whether they were the result of drugs or just hallucinations induced by sleep deprivation, pain, and exhaustion. Blair had been dragged away by Phoenix's men shortly afterward, and returned several hours later, looking much worse for wear. They'd taken his clothes away, and now he, too, was barefoot and wearing a set of neon orange pajamas. They had obviously drugged him as well, for his eyes were wild and unfocused and his balance was precarious. There was a large bruise on his cheek, but he grinned cheerfully at Byers and showed off his brightly colored outfit. "Hey, lookie! I've got county OR-annnge just like you! Man, that's so far out. Intense. You could hurt yourself on that stuff, you know!" He tugged at the brightly colored top and did a little pirouette before Byers caught him as he collapsed to the floor. Byers had tried to rouse him, but Blair was limp and cold, and his efforts were interrupted by the appearance of Wilson's guards, who declared it was time for his next lesson. Their savage amusement left little doubt about what was on the menu for the rest of the day. Now Byers was back in Wilson's quarters, naked again, hands bound behind him with rough rope that dug into his flesh. Time was blurred, irrelevant. He could have been there for an afternoon, or an hour, or an eternity. His only constants were pain, anger, and fear -- for himself, and for Blair. "You realize you must be punished, T'hy'la," Wilson said. "I have no wish to harm you, no choice but to punish you. Your resistance to the bond and your escape attempts are intolerable." Byers said nothing. He'd already been beaten bloody twice by the man. Wilson picked up a long, thin switch from the coffee table before him. "Rattan," he said reflectively, "is a vicious material for canes." He bent it in his hands and let it spring back. "It's tough but flexible. It stings." He flicked his wrist and it slashed through the air, landing on the design Wilson had carved into him. Byers flinched and cut off a hiss. "It can also cut a man open." *WHACK* The pain was too sharp and sudden to hold back the shout. Byers grit his teeth against the hot trail of blood, knowing he was in for another long, miserable session. Wilson lectured him about the evils of his "perverse resistance," interspersed with savage blows at random intervals. Some of them tore screams from him. It wasn't long before Byers had broken into a sweat from the pain. "You also know," Wilson reminded him, "that cooperation can bring rewards. You don't have to suffer like this, T'hy'la. Instead of pain, you could have the comfort of my arms, of my bed." He kissed Byers' mouth gently, licking at his closed lips. "The choice is yours." "No." Another cutting blow struck Byers, this one opening a gash on the back of one thigh. He could feel the trickle of blood as it inched toward his knee. "You can end this. Give yourself to me. Open your mind to the bond, aishaplakai." Byers shook his head, refusing. "No," he whispered again. "Then the pain will be exquisite. Damage, but not enough to kill; pain without death. A fire you pass through to free your true nature as my Guide. I'll burn away your dross." And the rattan came down until he could no longer count the blows, until he fell to his knees, until his mind screamed at every swish of the cane and his body flinched at even the shadows; until there was nothing but endless agony. And somewhere in there was a sweet voice that said, "Give yourself to me. I'll give you water. I know you're thirsty, T'hy'la. Your lips are cracked with it. I can soothe that ache. I can soothe all of your aches, answer all your desires." Did he sob that "no"? Wilson was kneeling next to him now, one hand caressing Byers softly, touching him in unwanted ways and places. He whispered in Byers' ear. "If you would only give up this foolish resistance, I could bathe and dress your wounds. You could have medicine for the pain. You don't want to feel this way, T'hy'la. I know you don't. I have no wish to see you suffer. You bring this on yourself. You could have comfort if you would just cooperate with me. Our bond and our joining could be so sweet." "I'm not... your T'hy'la," Byers rasped, eyes closed as he tried to focus past the pain and the cold sweat dripping from his body. "My name... is John Byers... and I do *not*... belong to you, or... anyone else." "Oh, no. You *are* mine," Wilson snarled. "I *will* have your obedience, your bond, and your body, my Guide, no matter what it takes. You'll be given adequate time to consider your options. Rest now. I have shown you the pleasure of pain. Later I will show you the rewards of duty." Byers lay there for a long time, floating in and out of his body. Eventually, a cup was put to his lips, and he drank. EASTERN EDGE NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND TUESDAY, 1:15 A.M. "'Once more into the breech, dear friends,'" Frohike quoted, as he took the high-powered night binoculars from Jimmy's backpack. "Agent Doggett's going to be *so* mad," Jimmy said. "They told us to go straight back to the motel." "Well, we did. We just took this stupid side trip to visit this lame deer farm Shel told us about, in the middle of the night, in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere," Langly groused. "God, can you believe that people pay good money to hunt something as tame as those stupid deer? You'd have more fun hunting cows." "I think Detective Ellison's probably checking up on us, too." Jimmy wasn't quick to let go of his idea. "Eh, they're busy with Shel, and trying to round up warrants for kidnapping so they can do a nice raid on that compound the kid was rescued from," Frohike said. "They're not going to notice we're missing for hours yet. And this place *was* on the way back to Cascade. Sorta." "Yeah, 200 miles out of the way is 'sorta' on the way back to Cascade," Langly snorted. "How many more do we have to check?" Langly consulted his GPS unit. "We already checked six houses and three compounds. One more compound and five more houses left on my master list." "Okay, so we'll watch here until noon and if nothing shows up, we go back to Cascade and start checking the other places out," Frohike said. He let his words trail into silence. They were all exhausted and even borrowing equipment from friends and Marconi, there was no way they could monitor every single compound in Washington. Jimmy turned and put a hand on Frohike's shoulder. "No man left behind. We'll find them. Somehow." "Yeah," Langly said bitterly. "It'd be nice if we found them before we were, like, dead of old age." Frohike lowered his binoculars. "Jimmy, you take the first watch. Wake Langly at 4 A.M. Wake me up at 7 A.M." "Why do *I* always get the sucky middle of the night watches?" Langly griped. "Because that way you can sleep till noon." "Oh." "Meanwhile, Jimmy, find a good spot and watch the compound -- and *don't* touch any of the sensitive recording equipment in the van!" CASCADE POLICE DEPARTMENT CAPTAIN BANKS' OFFICE 10:40 A.M. Doggett's phone rang as he was dialing. Damn it. "Doggett." "Hey, it's Frohike. Miss us?" Miss -- they'd been gone? Doggett blinked, thinking furiously. They had gotten the kid, Shel, down from the mountain along with the two militia goons. Shel had been checked into the hospital for treatment, and babbled for a couple of hours about the Huxleyans and their Sentinel SuperSoldier program and how he'd been trained to be a Guide. The goons had been invited to partake of police hospitality in the municipal holding cell. They tried to get a lawyer, but without money and local contacts, they ran straight into the bureaucratic legal maze. Justice would, of course, be done, but they were finding how hard it was to manipulate the system. When they'd asked for a lawyer, Captain Banks had obligingly called the Public Defender's office -- and left a message on the voice mail system. So the Huxleyans sat, unable to pass messages to anyone, while the cops and the FBI got a nice earful about their operations from Shel. "Hey, Doggett, you awake, there?" Frohike asked. He blinked, startled. When was the last time he'd seen the Lone Gunmen? "Dammit, not now, Frohike!" he snarled. "I was just dialing Skinner--" "Yes, now! We just saw Byers." "Byers! You saw -- where are you?" His heart skipped a beat and his gut tightened. Byers was alive! An almost overwhelming wave of relief hit him, threatening to buckle his knees. He put a hand down and leaned on the Captain's desk. Ellison and Banks turned to him. "We went to check out the site Shel described to us, and we turned up a live one. It's the location of one of those deer- farm hunting preserve things. It's been turned into a nice little training ground and the whole place is swarming with Huxleyans. It's out in the North Cascades, about three hours from the city. Byers is here, probably Sandburg too. Byers is in bad shape." Doggett could hear the stress and worry in Frohike's voice. Most of the relief he'd felt evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. There was a weight like a stone in his chest. "How bad?" Ellison asked. "How bad?" Doggett echoed, knowing Frohike wouldn't have heard it. "Looks like he's been pretty badly beaten, and probably drugged as well. He was bleeding. His face was all bruised, one eye swollen shut. They had him in prison orange. He was barefoot, and they were dragging him from one building to another. It's fucking *snowing* out here. You need to get out here *now.*" "We're--" Frohike was furious. "Damn it, Doggett, if you wanna be stupid and pig-headed about this, we can send you photos and video to get your head out of your ass. This is *not* the time to argue. You dawdle, and they may kill him before you get here! God knows what they've done to him already." "I wasn't arguing, " Doggett snarled. Ripping the head off whoever had beaten his Guide would make him feel a lot better, he decided savagely. "What's happening?" Banks said. "Who did that whacko friend of yours see?" "Byers," Doggett said. "That location Shel gave us, it's a deer farm of some sort. They're holding Byers there, and maybe Sandburg." Banks shoved his office door open and stormed out into the bullpen. "All right, everyone," he bellowed. Every head in the room turned. "Listen up: we've got the location! I want the warrants for this and I want God and everyone in on it -- SWAT, the Feds, the State Patrol, the County, the K-9 units - - I want a raid on that place, and I want it *yesterday!*" Conner, I want you, Rafe and Brown to coordinate... " Doggett didn't pay attention as Banks organized his men. "Frohike, how close did you see him?" He couldn't shake the thought of Byers, beaten bloody, disoriented, possibly dying. A hard chill ran through him. "Was he walking on his own?" "More like they were dragging him along. Trust me, John, it wasn't good." He could hear Frohike's heart pounding through the phone. "We're mobilizing the troops right now. You guys keep an eye on things, and for God's sake, stay out of sight. No playing hero, you got that? We don't need to be rescuing you three, too." "We've gotta get--" "*Stay where you are,* dammit. No raids, no funky poaching, no damned heroics! You just *wait* for us, you hear me? You go sneaking in there trying to get them out on your own and I'll hand you your ass on a sharp stick." No complications. Please, God, no complications. "Right, okay," Frohike said, reluctantly. "See you in a few hours." Ellison grabbed him by the shoulder as he broke the connection. "I thought you told me those geeks were back at the motel?" Doggett shook his head. "I thought they were. Apparently, they've been doing stupid shit like this for years. Since Mulder first met them. Why any of 'em are still alive and walking around is beyond me." "Simon," Ellison said, interrupting the Captain's tirade, "we're out of here." Banks paused in his series of orders. "I'll meet you out there. Be careful, Jim." NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND SANDBURG AND BYERS' CELL 1 P.M. Blair was pulled out of sleep, dragged to his feet and forced to stand, weaving and blinking in confusion. There were guards and several young 'Guides' in the cell, and one of the Guides was smiling at him and saying something about bathing and treatment. Byers was just being escorted in, dazed, more bruises on his face, one eye swollen completely closed. There were streaks of blood all over him, some soaking through his prison outfit, and they dumped him unceremoniously onto the blankets where Blair had just been lying. How had he missed them coming in for Byers in the first place? One of the Guides was tugging on his arm, saying something to him about how he and Byers would be put in with the new Guide group soon, and allowed privileges. Blair stared at the floor and tried to look drugged and subdued. This would be the part of the "thought reform" program where they give you new companions and start to make you feel loyal to your new buddies. That meant the "wear them down physically" phase was over. He wasn't sure how much more of that kind of treatment he or Byers could take. Now it would be "happy bonding experiences" and pressure to conform to 'Guide' standards. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and blinked at the rooms in the corridors. Why did the Huxleyans need so many cells? Was there that much dissent? The patterns on the wall reshaped themselves into demons and ghosts as they passed, indications that he was still tripping on some sort of psychoactive drug. A thick blue stripe on one wall turned itself into a frieze of fading jaguars and brightly colored wolves that danced and winked at him. No. He was going to play the Shaman's Game, and not give in to the drugs. So if the next move was to program him, then he would de-program the Guides that cared for him. The bonding experience could work both ways -- something that their brainwashing consultant probably hadn't thought about. He smiled weakly at the chatty Guide. "Lot of rooms. What are they for?" "Oh, they're for some of the new Guides. When we're brought in from the streets, they keep us there till we get the drugs and stuff out of our systems. It's strange at first, until you get used to it. Other trainee-Guides were in here this weekend, but I bet you didn't see 'em. Most of them have gone to the other bases with their new Sentinels already." "Really?" They must have been the kids who'd been the target of the judge's speech earlier. "Yeah. This place gets big on the weekends. New Guides come in through the week and then on the weekends they get assigned to their units. Colonel Wilson does a lot of the pre-training work. The last of them just headed out an hour or so ago." Oh God, Blair thought to himself. They were boosting their little army by taking in desperate street kids, giving them a safe place, and indoctrinating them into the Huxleyan way of thought. And since they were runaways, nobody would care -- or even notice -- if they vanished. The woods near the compounds might be full of the graves of 'Guides' who had resisted the training. Rage washed over him. Wilson and Phoenix were going to be fed to the justice system and he was going to personally make sure it happened. He glanced again at the Guide walking next to him. He needed to establish a bond to help these kids. Once he got out of there, the system would have to help put them back together again and undo what had been done to them. Smile, look stoned, look friendly. Play the Game. "What's your name?" "My Sentinel calls me Chookie." "Chookie? Is it short for something? Do you like it better than your given name? I always hated mine." "Yeah, I always thought Steve was kind of a dorky name." Chookie smiled at him. "But I like Chookie better. On the streets, I called myself Banner’ but that didn't work." "Banner. Huh. Yeah, but that kind of fits you, y'know?" Names were power. Names told you a lot about a person. The fact that these kids would accept being called by stupid pet names revealed just how far they had been beaten down by society and the Huxleyans. He turned to the other Guide, smiling, open, friendly. "So how long have you been here?" She grinned in response. The Shaman was awake and playing the Game, and the name of the game was Topple the Empire. EASTERN EDGE NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND 1:15P.M. "Bogey, this is Bacall!" Frohike snapped back a yelp and yanked the earphone out of his ear. "Damn it, Jimmy, *don't shout*!" he hissed into the tiny headset. "Blair! I saw Blair!" "Where?" Langly's voice, crisp and energized. "Coming down around the feed building. There's a tunnel entrance there. They should be at the field now." Frohike put the binoculars to his glasses and focused on the distant group. There was Blair Sandburg, brightly dressed in a prison jumpsuit, battered, but striding along as though he owned the entire compound and was there for just a visit. He looked thin and exhausted, his eyes slightly glassy, and there was a bruise on his cheek. His face had a heavy shadow of beard stubble, but he was smiling and tossing his head energetically. The pack of youths accompanying him were smiling and nodding. Sandburg said something, waving his expressive hands, and the others laughed. "Hang on, buddy, hang on," Frohike whispered to the distant figure. "We're comin' to get you soon." NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND UNDERGROUND ROOM 6:30 PM "So then he wraps his arms around what he *thinks* is me -- only it's like this fifty year old lady and she starts smacking him with her handbag." Gleeful whoops of laughter greeted Blair's much-embellished tale of taking Jim rollerblading for the first time. Stories had power, and for the whole afternoon he had been telling the young Guides stories about what life was like with Sentinels -- real Sentinels and their Guides. They were funny, they were real, and they all hammered home the things he wanted them to learn: Sentinels and Guides were equal. Sentinels and Guides took care of each other. Sentinels and Guides cared for each other. After a few hours, the young Guides relaxed and began to laugh and talk about themselves. Blair's stories about Jim wove through the chatter, reinforcing his strongest point: Sentinels and Guides never abused each other or anyone else. "But your new Sentinel will..." Columbia began. Blair stopped her by holding up his hand. "There is no 'new Sentinel.'" He ached like hell, but he smiled, maintaining his game face. He ruffled her short hair affectionately. "My *only* Sentinel is Jim Ellison -- my lover, my best friend." The door of the room slammed open, booming against the wall with a loud, echoing sound. The young Guides flinched as Phoenix appeared in the doorway, surrounded by his troops. He pointed an accusing finger at Blair. "*You*!" he screamed. Blair rose quietly. "Do what you need to survive," he said softly to the terrified teenagers. "Jim will come for me. I'll be okay." And then Phoenix was in front of him, striking his face, driving him to the ground. "You *lie*!" he bellowed at Blair. "You're filling their head with poison and *lies*!" Blair looked up at him and said calmly, "No Sentinel treats his Guide like this." A boot to the ribs drove the air from his lungs. NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND MAIN GROUNDS 7:30 P.M. Setting up a militia compound on a deer ranch had seemed like a clever idea to someone. It had a lot of defensive advantages, including square miles of heavy forest and almost vertical landscape. A light snow drifted down, melting as it landed. It had taken the units nearly three hours to get into position, and now it was time for the action to begin. The FBI agent in charge of the operations began speaking softly into a walkie-talkie as the Sentinels finished cutting the chain link fence. Dark shapes along the Quonset hut indicated that the SWAT teams were in position. Jim and Doggett slunk along the field, smelling humans, smelling the rot of shallow graves, smelling the stench of something acidic and unidentifiable, smelling blood. And Byers. And Blair. It was their blood. Jim stared into the darkness, his eyes burning, gut tight with worry. Doggett was a quiet, tense presence beside him, alert. "Anything?" And then he saw it; a wavering ghost of silvered gray, faint as fog against the building. He stiffened, moved forward. Doggett whispered questions, but he waved his hand at the man, focusing on the image of Blair's Wolf. It seemed to be standing on a segment of sidewalk, staring downward intently. The two Sentinels skirted the outlying buildings, keeping out of direct light. There was movement toward the structure they had identified as the office, and then a bullhorn sounded. "Federal Agents! Put down your arms!" It had begun -- too soon; far too soon. The militia must have spotted some of the teams. There was a chatter of weapons fire. Jim risked opening himself, taking advantage of sight and hearing as they ran forward to the spot where the ghostly creature stood. He hoped they'd both make it without zoning, or being stunned by the random explosion of a gas grenade, or a burst of automatic weapons fire. "Get down!" Doggett tackled him and they both hit the ground as bullets flew over their heads, striking the earth far too close. Doggett rolled onto one side and took aim with his handgun, blowing out the shooter's left knee, and the militiaman fell, screaming. Then they were up again, darting quickly from cover to cover, until they reached the sidewalk. Wolf had been staring at the entry door for an underground bunker. "They're in here," Jim said. Doggett threw the door open, pistol in hand before him. "What are we waiting for?" NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND SANDBURG AND BYERS' CELL 8 P.M. There was noise in the corridor. Byers looked up, feeling his gut clench. Who were they coming for this time? Blair, striped with blood and barely conscious, pawed weakly at the air. "Water?" he whispered. "No water yet. I hear someone. Maybe it's the medic." The door slammed open and Byers felt his heart sink. Phoenix strutted in, followed by a couple of his GothGoons. "How is he?" he asked, looking down at Blair. "Not good," Byers said. He was barely holding on himself. Dizzy and weak from pain, lack of food, and thirst, he'd been seriously contemplating passing out. Phoenix knelt beside Blair, looking closely at his face. Blair gave him a gentle smile and then closed his eyes. Phoenix bristled. "Damn you, Sandburg, how *dare* you fuck with my head like that, how *dare* you try those tricks on my unit's Guides?" Blair opened his eyes again for a moment and simply smiled. Phoenix grabbed his collar and shook him. The smaller man's head wobbled limply; his eyes slipped closed and there was no reaction. "Leave him alone! Damn you, he's hurt -- he's not even conscious!" Byers shouted angrily. The next thing he knew, one of the guards had yanked him to his feet. The cold pressure under his jaw told him a pistol had been shoved there. His heart slammed against his ribs. "Listen, you little faggot," the GothGoon growled, "if I had my choice, you and all your kind would be splattered across the landscape. You so much as twitch and I'll blow your fuckin' head off, Wilson or no Wilson." "Garvey!" Phoenix shouted. "Shut your mouth. Just keep him there, and keep your bigoted bullshit to yourself." He turned his attention back to Blair. "What the hell did you *do* to Chookie and the others?" Phoenix backhanded him across the face, dragging a sharp moan from him and bloodying his nose. Blair's eyes opened, brilliant blue, his dotted black pupils stark in their depths. He smiled a terrifying, blissful smile. "Do? I did nothing. You were the one who broke the bonds you created in the first place, Phoenix. It's game and set and match." Still smiling, he closed his eyes again. His hands twitched against his chest and then were still, his face going slack. Byers held his breath, watching to see if his friend was still breathing. Phoenix rose, still clutching Blair by the collar, and signaled his guards. "Look at him," Byers said, mindful of the barrel of the pistol pressing under his chin. "He's still tripping. You're not going to influence him, not going to get any answers this way. He needs water and rest. He needs to have his wounds treated. He hasn't even been coherent since your men brought him back." Garvey pistol-whipped him, and he fell to the ground, stunned, splitting his lip and driving a tooth into his tongue. The pain and the taste of blood in his mouth kept him focused, but he had to shake his head to clear it. He reached out and took Blair's hand. It was ice cold. There were shadows in the room now and it felt as if they were brushing against him. He shivered and spat the blood from his mouth. His head had been hit too damned hard. Everyone but Blair jerked alert at the sound of the bunker door slamming open. "What the hell is that?" Phoenix snapped. He dropped Blair back on the blanket and shot to his feet. "Come on." He gestured to his men, and the three of them ran for the trapdoor, slamming the cell door behind them. "Blair? Blair, can you hear me?" Byers cradled his friend carefully in his arms, stroking his face gently. Blair's eyes fluttered open and focused on Byers. He gave a weak, bloody grin. "Hey there." "Thank God," Byers whispered, voice cracking. "I was sure you were gone this time." Blair sat, weaving, and they held each other for a long moment, careful of their injuries. Then Blair groped in the blankets for his glasses. Byers handed them to him. "Something's happening. I think it's something big." Blair's hands trembled as he put his glasses on. "Seems that way, doesn't it?" he said, his voice unnaturally calm and cheerful. "I hear screams. Shouts. Gunshots. Running feet." He wiped his nose on his sleeve, staining it red. There was a loud *whump* nearby, and the sound of more shouts and screaming. "And that, I think, was an explosion." He tilted his head for a moment then looked back at Byers. "Yep, definitely an explosion. I can almost smell the tear gas. Either World War III has started, or the cavalry showed up. I'm betting on the cavalry. World War III would be quieter." He chuckled suddenly, his eyes following shadows on the wall. "Hey, Big Guy," he whispered to the ghosts and the dreams. "'Bout time you showed up. I've been looking all over for you." Byers jerked around at the sound of nearby gunfire, and Blair seemed to snap out of whatever drug trance he was in. He struggled to his knees and Byers slipped a steadying arm around him. "I hope you're right," he said, trying to draw strength from that hope. If the noise only signaled a firefight between the factions, things could get worse very quickly for them. Dying in the crossfire was the least of their worries. He had to start looking for another chance to escape, no matter what it cost them. They wouldn't survive another week of this kind of treatment. Blair pushed his glasses up on his nose and blinked solemnly. "Okay. Now, listen. What usually happens next," he said with exaggerated precision, "is that one of the goons -- that would be the Huxleyans -- gets the bright idea that taking a hostage will be a Good Idea. That would be us. This is a Bad Idea. So we need a plan." He paused, panting, and then lunged to his feet. Byers rose with him and steadied him. "Why don't you get back under the blankets, Blair," Byers suggested, pointing toward the rumpled and now bloody pile that served as their bed. "I'm okay. I'll try to lead them away if they come for us. I can outrun them." It was a lie and he knew it. He doubted he'd make it fifty feet, but Blair probably couldn't take any more physical stress, and he had to try. "No. Let's do the Butch and whassisface thing." Blair lurched back toward the door, his arm waving for balance. "Bolivia, man. Let's go out in a hail of bullets." Byers steered him back toward the blankets again, both of them staggering. "I don't think running out into the middle of a firefight is a good idea," he explained. "I'm allergic to bullets. Lead poisoning isn't really my idea of a great way to go." Blair nodded owlishly. "Oh. Okay. So we hide behind the door and jump whoever comes in." "What if it's Jim and John?" Footsteps thundered down the hall. Blair gave him a stoned- out grin. "Oh yeah. Jump the Sentinel. Wooooonnnderful idea." NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND MAIN GROUNDS 8:20 P.M. Jim stepped back as Byers tried to throw a blanket over his head. There was fresh blood on his face -- his lip was split and still bleeding. He was spattered with dried blood, one eye swollen shut, and his clothes were marked with it as well. Jim could smell terror on the man, but there was grim determination on his face. "Hey, hey, it's us," Jim said, holding out empty hands. Byers' eye widened as Doggett shoved his way through the door and wrapped his arms around the wounded, exhausted man, keeping him from falling on his face. Jim pushed forward and saw Blair on the floor, struggling weakly with the blankets, and his focus slammed shut until his lover was the only thing that existed for him. "Chief -- Oh god, Blair..." He took Blair in his arms and cradled him. His lover was cold, so cold, and he smelled of blood and adrenaline, trembling in shock, exhaustion and pain. "Oh, Chief," he whispered. There was a small sound from Blair that could have been a whimper. He folded Blair closer to his chest, encompassing his Guide's short, compact frame with his entire being. It was like merging. Jim could feel something in Blair reaching out to him, reaching into him. If their bodies could have melted into each other's, they would have. "Yes," he whispered, kissing the dark curls, "take what you need." And Blair's arms tightened around him and they sank into the bond until there was nothing in their reality but each other. A few moments later, Blair stirred and looked around. Jim's eyes followed his. Doggett was kneeling on the floor with Byers cradled in his arms. The agent was rocking his shuddering Guide gently back and forth, both of them oblivious to the world. "It's okay, John, it's okay," he was whispering. "You're safe now; I've got you. You're gonna be okay." He stroked Byers' hair gently away from his face as a few silent tears streaked it. Blair looked up at Jim. "Jags tickets... mine..." His voice was Sentinel-soft, his grin bright in spite of the blood and bruises and the heavy growth of stubble. Jim chuckled. He could pick up the almost subliminal level of arousal in Doggett's scent as the man held Byers against him, and the way Doggett's breathing caught subtly. He remembered fighting those same feelings after he met Blair. It didn't, however, mean the apparently not-quite-entirely-straight agent was going to be throwing himself into bed with Byers any time soon. "Not yet," he whispered. Blair reached out and touched Doggett's arm. Doggett looked up, startled. "Need to go home," Blair said quietly. NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND MAIN GROUNDS 8:37 P.M. The raid was going like clockwork, Jim thought. There hadn't been too many shots fired so far -- surprising for a raid on a heavily armed compound like this one. Tear gas was being deployed, and it appeared that there was a good bit of dissent among the ranks, though none of the prisoners were talking. Cascade's K-9 units were making a brilliant showing. Several shallow graves had been discovered along one of the perimeter fences, two of them very recent. That had sobered everyone. There had been a number of injuries, but no law enforcement fatalities so far. All in all, it was an operation a former Special Ops officer like himself could be proud of. Jim could see the shock in the faces of the Gunmen when they returned to the vehicles. Banks shouted for medics, and Frohike, Langly, and Jimmy crowded around, trying to help ease Byers and Blair down onto some blankets. At least the snow had stopped. Langly had a hollow look of disbelief in his eyes. "Are they gonna be okay?" "I think so," Doggett said. He looked up at Langly. "Keep an eye on him. Make sure he stays warm." He took off, and Jim listened as he ran to find the medics. "The EMTs will take care of them, Langly," Frohike said. "They're gonna be all right." He handed Jim an extra blanket to wrap around Blair. Jimmy just watched, stunned. He looked like he wasn't sure who needed the most help, and couldn't decide who to go to. Langly slid to the ground next to Byers and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Oh damn, John. What did they do to you?" Byers moaned, wincing as the other man touched him, then leaned into Langly. "They're in shock," Jim said. "Dehydrated. Blair's been drugged very recently, and it looks to me like Byers has lost some blood. I don't think either of them is in serious danger, but Byers is flushed. He has a fever. Somebody should get him some water, right now." He remembered when Blair had been overdosed with Golden, and the days he'd spent in the hospital afterwards, detoxing. It had nearly killed his partner. He prayed it wouldn't be like that again. Jimmy hurried away, calling for a water bottle. "You can tell that from where you are?" Frohike asked. "I was trained as a combat medic," Jim said. "I know what to look for. Doggett's on his way back with the medical unit." He knelt beside the Guides. "These collars have to come off." "I can do it," Frohike said, starting at the collar on Byers. "That locksmith course was one of the best investments I ever made." Jim was already working the lock on Blair's collar. It popped open with no real effort. He took the collar off and handed it to one of the uniforms, then Frohike handed the other one over. "Get those things out of my sight," Jim snarled. The EMTs and Doggett arrived, and there was a swirl of activity around the Guides as Banks coordinated the Cascade PD contingent of the raid. The Gunmen were pushed back out of the way, and Doggett and Jim stepped back too. Jim could hear Doggett's pulse racing. He was agitated and angry, looking at everything but Byers. "We need to find the guys that did this." He locked eyes with Jim, speaking so only Jim could hear. Jim nodded. "We will. And he'll be all right." "What do we do now?" "You need to stay calm, focused." "I'm calm." Doggett's voice was like ice but his eyes burned. Jim stepped to stand next to Doggett and watched the medics working as he spoke. "When you were close to Byers, did you get a strong scent of someone else on him?" Doggett closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Looking up at Jim, he nodded. "I'd know it anywhere. I'm gonna pound that bastard into the dirt." Jim could feel the cold fury in the other Sentinel. He understood the sentiment perfectly. Jim turned to Banks. "Simon, Agent Doggett and I are going to continue the search." Banks looked over at him, still shouting into a radio, and nodded. He waved them away, pausing from his orders long enough to say, "I'm gonna call in a MedEvac chopper for them. Good luck, Jim." The few minutes he'd spent deep in his bond with his Guide had been enough to steady him, and he felt more focused than he had since the two had been taken. They were wounded, but safe. They'd be all right. One last deep breath that brought him Blair's scent -- mingled with that of the man who'd tried to take his Guide from him -- and he set off into the dark. Doggett trotted behind him, both of them at full alert as they moved through the continuing battle for the installation. "He's this way," Doggett said, pointing. Jim nodded. "We'll find them." Doggett stayed low, scrambling through the underbrush, Jim close behind. It didn't take long to locate the hiding place; a grotto-like entrance built in the rock face of one of the hillsides. He could smell the hidden man's fear. It was the man whose scent had been on Blair. The other man wasn't in the same bolthole, but he was nearby; he smelled of adrenaline, Byers' blood, and fear. He signaled to Doggett and pointed toward a small rocky slab that seemed to be another trap door. "Is that your perp?" he asked. Doggett sniffed and growled low in his throat. He reached for the rock-like slab that concealed the opening and Jim put a hand on the agent's arm. "Wait," he said quietly, and pulled his radio from his belt. "Cascade PD Unit One, this is Ellison. I need a couple of K-9 units to come check this out. I think we've got two suspects cornered at this location." "You're callin' in the dogs?" Doggett scowled. It was obvious he wanted them himself. Jim smiled as he gave their location, all cherubic innocence. After a moment, he looked back up at Doggett. "Well, you know, I'm just *guessing* somebody went into those shelters. Only a dog could tell for sure. Those dogs are damned good at finding perps in hiding -- won a few medals in competition, in fact. And if some idiot just happens to get bitten by Ralph the Wonder Dog while trying to get away, well, damn, judge, the dog was just doing his duty. No police brutality. None at all." "I'd rather kill the bastard with my bare hands." Doggett had a hint of grim, unbalanced hate in his eyes as the K-9 officers and their dogs came out of the darkness. Jim pointed to the rocky opening and the trap door and smiled savagely. The dogs' handlers grinned back, and gave a thumbs up. "I know." Jim shook Doggett by the shoulder. "C'mon, John. We'd both rather do this ourselves, but that's not going to help Byers right now. He needs you more than you need to beat the shit out of the guy who hurt him. Let's go, we've got some people to look after." They turned and started walking back toward the waiting cluster of vehicles, Doggett turning to look behind them every few steps. Behind them were shouts and furious barking, then the sweet sound of frantic screaming. Doggett's face split with a dangerous grin. They hurried back toward the staging area. Nope, judge, no police brutality going on around here. Maybe there'd been a little resisting arrest by some holdouts at the end of the raid, but there was no unusual use of force by the minions of the law. No sir, not one little bit. NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND MAIN GROUNDS 8:55 P.M. They walked on in silence for a few minutes. As they passed the gates of the deer farm and stepped into the staging area, Jim looked over at his companion. Doggett was scowling angrily at the ground again. "It's over," Jim said quietly. "What's happening in your head, John?" "Nothing." "Don't give me that shit. You know I can tell you're lying. You're still freaked out about Byers, aren't you?" He put a hand on Doggett's shoulder, but it was brushed off with a sharp motion. "I don't want to *talk* about Byers. He should never have been involved. This would never have happened if Scully was my Guide," Doggett growled. "*She's* my partner, and she was trained for this kind of shit. *She's* the one who's supposed to be watching my back in the field. John --" he choked but shook it off, "--would never have gotten hurt if this stupid Sentinel shit hadn't happened. I would never have had to come back out here in the first place." "I don't think you've got it yet, Einstein. You don't get to pick your Guide. They are who they are. If you just work on this, it can be good for both of you. You know the Brotherhood line -- every cop does. You don't let your partner down; you take care of him like a brother. From here on out, you've got a Guide as your partner, and whether or not he's civilian, or purple with blue tattoos, or whatever, you've got to work with him just like you do with your own partner at the Bureau." "Listen--" Jim didn't let him continue. "And the first thing you better get used to is treating your Guide as well as or better than you treat your partner at the FBI." With that, he turned and stalked away, heading for the staging area and his Guide. *** He found Blair in the back seat of a squad car, leaning wearily against Byers. Both of them were wrapped in blankets and trembling with exhaustion. The other Gunmen stood vigil outside the car in the near-freezing cold, silent but watchful. "What happened to the MedEvac chopper Simon called?" he asked, reaching for Blair. Blair, still half out of it, shook his head. "'S not that bad, Big Guy. Gave our seats t' some shot up officers." Jim helped him gently out of the vehicle. His Guide's heartbeat was steady, if a little fast, but there was still the disturbing scent of blood and disinfectant on him. "Come on, Chief, let's get you guys away from here. You both need a hospital." The smaller man wobbled to his feet with a little help. Everything about Blair's movement only confirmed that he was still in a great deal of pain, despite the medications he'd been given -- he could feel it himself through their bond. "Easy now," Jim said, kissing his forehead. Banks strode toward them from near the vehicles. "I'm driving you guys back to Cascade and leaving Taggart in charge here. Can't trust anybody else with you two assholes." "Thanks, Simon," Jim said. He watched as Doggett helped Byers out of the car. It was, to say the least, an awkward moment between them. Neither spoke, but Doggett was gentle as he made sure Byers stayed wrapped in the blankets. "Van's this way," Banks said, gesturing. He started for the nearby cluster of vehicles. Jim followed him. "You still cold?" he asked, tightening his arm around Blair's waist protectively. Blair nodded. "Yeah. Cold. Side effect of psychoactives dosage..." Jim could feel him shivering slightly and tugged the blankets up closer about Blair's shoulders. He could hear Doggett moving slowly behind them, helping Byers stay upright. He had to give it to Byers; the guy was a lot tougher and more determined than he would ever have expected. Not unlike Blair, in fact. When Banks opened the side door of the big passenger van, Jim stepped in and helped Blair up. He chose the back bench seat, then helped Blair settle in. He eased his wounded Guide down next to him. Doggett looked in a moment later. He took the middle seat, right in front of them, helping Byers in, then kept a slight distance between them. Byers sat uncomfortably, still silent. Jim could hear his erratic pulse and breathing and knew his welts and open wounds were making it all the harder for him, since the pain meds hadn't really kicked in yet. He was in worse shape than Blair, despite the fact he hadn't been drugged as recently. Banks slid into the driver's seat and, after the doors were all shut, they started off. It was going to take about three hours to get back home. Jim yawned, sleepy with the end of his adrenaline rush, and worked his shoulders around to try to find a comfortable position for a nap. He heard a soft moan from Byers and looked forward. Byers was still sitting alone, slumped into himself in the seat, his eyes closed, huddled into the blankets. He was shaking, and it didn't take a Sentinel to see how badly. Doggett just stared at the man, uncertainty clearly inscribed on his face. It didn't look like anything Jim had said to the Fed had gotten through. He poked the back of Doggett's seat with one foot, and Doggett looked back at him. Sheesh. Had he really been this hard-headed? It was a wonder that Blair and the guys in Major Crimes hadn't shot him accidentally-on-purpose. He gave the FBI agent a hard stare and pulled Blair gently back against his chest, enveloping him in his arms. Blair curled into him with a quiet little groan and closed his eyes. Doggett scowled. "Wait," Jim mouthed silently, as Blair's body relaxed into his. He felt his lover's heartbeat become slower and steadier and could smell how Blair's scent changed as the stress eased from his body and he slipped into a peaceful sleep. He kissed the soft curls of his Guide, his lover, his second self, lying safe in his arms. Only then, when he could feel the healing starting, did he look back up. He glanced at Byers, and then stared pointedly at Doggett. The contrast between the condition of the two Guides was staggering. "You owe him," Jim whispered, Sentinel-soft. Doggett blinked. He nodded and settled himself against the side of the van, resting his back for support. He reached out and tugged gently at Byers' sleeve. Byers looked over at him. "C'mon," he said softly. "Lie down here on my lap. You need rest." Byers hesitated, and Doggett squeezed his shoulder gently. Byers flinched in pain. "Sorry, John. I didn't mean to hurt you. Jim's going to kill me if I don't start taking care of my Guide. C'mere. I... I missed you." It was as though the word Guide was magic; an acceptance and a kind of permission. The bearded man's shoulders sagged with relief and he slowly, carefully eased his body down until he could rest his head in his Sentinel's lap. Jim could hear the warm, whispery sounds of skin brushing against cloth as Doggett began gently rubbing Byers' shoulder. There was a long, shuddering sigh. Doggett leaned down toward him, whispering, "I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry I wasn't there sooner--" "It's okay. You came." It was a benediction; a blessing. Jim leaned back against the van's window and closed his eyes, smiling. After a few minutes, Byers' scent shifted as Blair's had, body chemistry changing with his falling stress level. Like Blair, it wasn't long before Byers sank into sleep. He peered over at them again. Doggett's eyes stayed on his injured, sleeping Guide for a long time. Jim shifted his partner slightly, pulling him to a more comfortable position, feeling his body respond to the pressure of his Guide's. God, it felt good to have his lover back in his arms, that pernicious emptiness filled again. He buried his face in the long, curly hair and inhaled deeply, feeling a lazy surge of arousal burning along his body. When he looked up, Doggett was staring at him. Apparently the FBI agent had noticed the change in his pheromones and wasn't sure what to make of it. Jim raised an eyebrow and smiled, then turned his attention back to the man in his arms. The van lurched along the rutted road for a long time. A slight rise in Doggett's temperature, and a small, rough edge to his breathing caught Jim's attention through his focus on Blair. He sniffed discreetly and then grinned. Doggett's scent had changed. Getting just a tad bit aroused again, were we, Agent Doggett? Doggett glanced over at Jim, a peculiar expression on his face. Oh, yeah. They both knew what was going on. Jim gave him a small nod, then returned his attention completely to his lover. Doggett would just have to cope with that one on his own. TYEE TEEPEE MOTEL ROOM 210 WEDNESDAY, 10 A.M. Byers surfaced slowly, confused. He didn't recognize where he was, and his memories of how he'd gotten there were fuzzy at best. He knew he was in a motel room, and not in the tiny cell where he and Blair had passed several days of hell. A brief look to one side told him he wasn't in the motel room with the guys. He was partly dressed in a pair of sweats. He didn't own any sweats. And there was... someone beside him. That startled him to full awareness, his heart pounding in alarm. "Hey. It's okay." The quiet voice in his ear was Doggett. He turned his head and looked into the man's eyes. The previous night returned with unfortunate clarity. Byers was lying under the covers, snuggled close to Doggett's body. Doggett himself was lying on top of the covers, wrapped in a blanket. Byers gave him a shy, slightly awkward smile, and Doggett returned it with an equal measure of discomfort. "How you feelin', John?" Doggett's voice was soft and hesitant, and there was a look of concern in his eyes. He slipped an arm around Byers and held him for a long moment. It felt good; better than it should have. "The doc wasn't so sure last night about letting you go. They were considering keeping you for observation. We didn't get out of there until after 3 A.M." "A lot of it's still vague." Byers still ached, but not nearly as much as he would have expected. "I'm... not that bad, I guess. Achy. Sore." He tried stretching a little. "Stiff. Still exhausted." Doggett nodded. "Let me take a look at you, okay? Just lie there and rest. You don't need to be moving around much yet." Byers nodded. Doggett pulled the covers carefully away from him. Byers shivered slightly as the cooler air in the room struck his bare skin. When Doggett's hand met his flesh, he shivered again, but for an entirely different reason. His Sentinel's fingers were soft and terribly gentle as he moved them over the cuts and bruises on Byers' face and body. He fought the unexpected and awkward stirring of interest and need he felt, slamming the lid down hard on those feelings. Doggett paused a moment and lay the palm of his hand over Byers' heart. "I missed you," he said quietly. After a moment, he whispered, "I... I can hear your heart beating," and withdrew his hand. The admissions had an unnerving intimacy to them. Byers' heart pounded like the hooves of a racehorse, and he made a noncommittal sound. He was relieved when Doggett asked him to roll over onto his stomach. The almost tender examination continued for a few more minutes. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, wondering if Doggett could tell that he was feeling the beginnings of arousal as his fingers curled and clenched at the sheet beneath him. He hoped not. As far as he knew, Doggett was straight. This was the last thing either of them needed, and all it could ever do was complicate things to an impossible level. It would be just another reason for his Sentinel to reject him, to push him away, and despite all that had happened, he found he didn't want that. He wondered if it was some twisted psychosomatic reaction to being touched so gently by the man who had rescued him from Wilson and his terrifying, nauseating attentions. Byers wondered if he was having reactions generated by the obedience-centered abuse he'd been subjected to. The thought curdled his stomach. "What's this?" Doggett asked, touching the slightly healed cuts on his shoulder. "Wilson put it there," Byers whispered. "Oh, God." Doggett took his hands from Byers' body and backed away slightly. "It's okay, John. I swear, I'm not gonna hurt you. You're safe with me, I promise." Byers breathed a small sigh of relief. "Thanks." One warm hand found his cheek, and he opened his eyes to Doggett's concerned face. "I don't want you to be afraid of me. Last night, you just... you needed..." Doggett didn't finish the sentence. "I would never think you'd... um..." Byers sat up, pulling a blanket around his shoulders for the moment. "What about you?" he asked. "How are you doing? Your senses?" Doggett sat next to him and crossed his legs. He was dressed in a pair of pajama bottoms and an old Marine Corps tee- shirt. "Better. I -- you know, I actually feel pretty good this morning." He closed his eyes for a moment and focused. "Everything seems steady. Under control." "Good." "I... I started feelin' better last night when you were close by. Everything's changing," Doggett whispered. "I don't know what to do now." "We'll think of something," Byers said. "I'm so damned sorry, John. I've been a total ass about this. I never thought you'd get hurt." The pain in Doggett's eyes was unmistakable. Byers just nodded. "How hard to I have to try before you'll accept this? Accept me?" Doggett flinched. "This is my fault. If I'd listened to them -- listened to you -- we'd never have ended up out here. I hate what this did to you." It was a start. Byers was a lot calmer than he thought he would be. Touching some of his wounds, they felt more healed than they should. He was able to open his black eye. That should have taken another day or two. Was this part of the bond that Sandburg had talked about, he wondered? "You came for me," Byers said. "It makes up for a lot." Doggett nodded. "From now on, I'm listening. I was supposed to protect you. I did a lousy job. I won't make that mistake again, I promise you that. You need me, I'm there." "And how were you supposed to predict a kidnapping?" Byers asked. He felt lighter, like the air was a little more clear. "But I will say this -- you need to tell me what's going on with you, what's happening. You have to let me know when you need me, too." "That's a hard thing to ask." "I know." Byers looked into Doggett's light blue eyes. Doggett didn't look away. "I'll do my best, okay?" "So will I," Byers promised. The shadows were back, moving slowly around them. It was all strange, but... right. Reassuring. It felt like approval, and Byers sighed, relaxing a bit. Doggett shifted his weight. "What the hell are we gonna tell Scully? When I get back to work, I mean." "What are you going to tell Skinner?" "I'm not so sure we should tell anybody." Byers reached out cautiously and rested a hand on Doggett's knee. "But how are you going to hide this at work? You know Scully'll notice. If she thinks you've been having petit mal seizures, she's already figured out that something's happening. She's not blind, or stupid." Doggett looked down at Byers' hand, then reached out and caressed the back of it briefly with his fingertips before drawing his own hand back. It burned where he'd touched, and Byers shoved back a wave of instinctive need. "We'll work something out," Doggett said. Byers sighed to himself and moved his hand away. There was just too much going on beneath the surface. He wasn't sure how he felt, how he wanted to feel. "Maybe we can find some sort of technological solution," he suggested. "Some way to stay in closer touch while you're at work." "What? Borging? Over my dead body!" Doggett's body language was as emphatic as his voice. One thing about being a Guide was that you were very in tune with your Sentinel. You knew when you were on the losing end of an argument. "I'm not suggesting anything that drastic." "Listen, Byers, the guys are awake." "How--" Doggett smiled wryly. "I can hear 'em moving around next door. They've been up for a while now. Frohike and Langly are arguing about where to eat. Jimmy's in the shower. He's doing an Elvis imitation. 'Hound Dog.'" Even knowing they were there, the senses still surprised him. "As long as he's not wearing the wig." Byers chuckled, then picked up the phone and dialed their room. Langly answered. "'Morning." Langly's voice was a relief, a slice of something normal after his life had been turned on its head. "Hi, Langly." "Oh, hey, John. Uh, how... how are you? You okay?" Byers nodded. "Yeah. I'm doing better, thanks." "Dude, me and Fro, we're talking about where to brunch out. You and Dogbert wanna come?" "I *heard* that, Langly," Doggett growled into the phone, and was rewarded by a startled gasp. "Brunch sounds really, really good," Byers said. His stomach snarled at him, reminding him he hadn't eaten much in the last several days. "When do you want us ready?" Doggett looked over at him and smiled. ELLISON-SANDBURG RESIDENCE 852 PROSPECT STREET #307 11:50 A.M. "Sleep okay, Chief?" A hand moved slowly along the curve of Blair's jaw. "Mmmm..." Blair didn't bother to open his eyes, but reached out and wrapped himself around the warm body of his lover. Solid. Strong. Yes. "Jim," he whispered. He nuzzled Jim's chest. Lips touched his cheek, then trailed along to his ear and up into his hair. They sent tickling tremors down his spine. "Mmmmmm." Jim chuckled. "Glad you like it, Romeo." Blair's body started to follow his mind into the day. God, he was sporting wood like crazy. Hard. Horny. He held his lover tighter and rubbed his groin against Jim's hairy thigh. "Mmmm. Jim. Wanna fuck you." "You'd still hump a table leg, wouldn't you?" The words didn't conceal Jim's own erection. Blair snorted and let his eyes slip open. "You're not a table." He thrust against Jim's leg again. "Much nicer than a table." A few more thrusts, and his cuts and bruises convinced him this was not going to be a happening thing. "Ow. Shit." "Chief? You okay?" The aroused humor was gone, replaced with concern. Blair growled. "Yeah, yeah, dammit. I just had my heart set on doing you, and all the achy places are giving me shit. Man, I hate it when that happens." It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been frustrated by injuries. He huffed and rolled gently onto his back. Jim grinned. "Oh. Well, if that's all it is, I can suggest a compromise." "Oh?" Blair arched an eyebrow at him. "Mmmhm. Just lie right there, and I'll take care of everything." His eyes glittered with a truly frightening combination of lust and mischief. Blair echoed his grin. "Whatever you're thinking, I love it already." He reached up and pulled his lover's face down, kissing him hard. He slipped his tongue between Jim's lips and shivered at the moan it produced. God, he'd missed this. Missed Jim -- his presence, his arms, the solid heat of his body in the night. Curling up with Byers at night while they were prisoners had helped save his sanity, and God knew the man was a gentle, tempting armful, but Jim was the man Blair loved beyond all others. Friend, partner, lover, soul. He put it all into his kiss, tongues slick and moving, bodies tight together. He lost the capacity to breathe. Panting, he drew back and looked at his lover. "About this... plan of yours..." Jim said nothing, but started kissing his way down Blair's body. Hot, wet lips on his throat, and Blair's head arched back, begging for more. "Oh, yeah. Missed you. Need you." Jim groaned and kissed harder, nipping gently now, sucking at Blair's needy flesh as he slipped to the base of his throat and the hollow there. Blair didn't know if it was Jim groaning, or if it was his own voice. It didn't matter as Jim's teeth took the silver ring in his nipple and tugged gently. The sensation shot straight through him, making his hard shaft leap with clear, impeccable want. "Unnnh..." He held Jim's head to his chest as his lover suckled at his pierced nipple, teasing the other between strong fingers. "Love you," Jim whispered. "Love to hear you like this." A nip, and Blair moaned again, deep in his chest, voice rumbling like the earthquake brewing within him. Jim knew him, knew his body so well. Blair knew that every touch, every taste and scent of him had been catalogued and memorized by his beloved Sentinel, saved for moments like this. Gentle hands stroked him, carefully avoiding his wounds, yet drawing out incredible sensation. It drowned out the pain in his body, and he floated in it like a warm pool. He gasped. "Yes," he hissed. His fingers moved through short, dark hair, unable to find purchase. He didn't care. The sensation of it brushing under his hands took him further from his pain, down into sensual pleasure. Jim's hands slid down his body, caressing his hips, moving softly across his bruised abdomen. His lips and the scratch of his stubble followed. "Suck me," Blair whispered. His hands trailed down Jim's face, thumbs caressing his cheeks. Jim kissed one thumb gently, sucking at it, and Blair gasped. "Ohhhh, yeah." "Want you." Jim nipped his thumb. "Was going crazy without you. Need you in me." Blair shuddered, his cock leaping at the words. "Up here," he said, tugging at Jim's hip. Jim shifted himself, turning so that his hips were at Blair's head. He blew on the hot, sensitive head of Blair's shaft and Blair shivered from his bones, letting out a horny whimper. "Touch me," Jim said as he bent to lick at the dripping flesh. The touch of his tongue made Blair shout wordlessly. With a rumble of pleasure, Blair ran his tongue down the length of Jim's shaft, from tip to balls, and Jim groaned. "Oh, God, Chief, yeah." A moment later, they were sucking each other in deep, licking and swirling tongues around hard, thick shafts. They groaned and pulled at each other's hips, and Blair thrust into Jim's mouth, treasuring the wet heat. Jim shuddered and pulled Blair tight to his body. "I thought I was going to lose you," Jim whispered. Blair sucked hard, making Jim gasp, then replied, "Never. I'm yours, Big Guy. You're my life." He applied his tongue to Jim's balls, licking back toward his opening. Jim moaned again. They shifted and rolled, and Blair lay atop Jim, caressing his strong thighs and nibbling at the tender flesh where thigh met groin. "Mmm..." "Turn up your touch," Blair said, running a finger slowly along the cleft of Jim's ass. His answering groan told Blair the Sentinel had done as he'd asked. "Ohhh, God. Want you in me." Jim's cock jerked as Blair's finger moved softly back and forth over his opening, and Blair smiled. He blew on the pucker and Jim bit back a howl. "You are so fucking hot," Blair whispered. "So hot. So mine." When Jim swallowed his cock, Blair almost came. Holding back was an effort, but he wanted to be in Jim as much as Jim wanted him inside. "Shit, don't tease like that," he gasped, "if you want me to fuck you." Jim pulled back and chuckled. "You're young. You'll get hard again." "That's likely, but I'm not sure the rest of me would hold out for it. Now grab the lube for me, you sneaky bastard." They laughed as their bodies moved together; Jim reached for the bedside drawer, while Blair played with his balls. A moment later, Blair was warming lube in his hand and nipping Jim's ass, beneath his lover again. "Quit teasing and hurry up," Jim growled. Blair slipped a lubed finger inside him, and Jim groaned loudly. "Tease? Me?" Blair snorted. He twisted his finger and Jim pushed back against it. "You'd better be good or this is all you're getting." "Make me wait, and you won't be getting any for a week." Blair grinned. "And who'd suffer most from that, horn-dog?" "So speaks the man who humps table legs." Blair shoved another finger in and Jim yelped. "Oh, God!" "Want more?" Jim whimpered and nodded. "Behave yourself!" Jim started sucking Blair in earnest, hot, damp tongue moving along every delicate line and curve of his hardness. Blair moaned and lifted his hips, thrusting at the maddening mouth. The sensation shot through him, vibrating through their bond, and they both shook with the resonance of their mutual pleasure. Blair slipped a third finger gently into his lover's body and Jim shivered, clutching Blair tight as he moaned. The sound echoed in Blair's body and he thrust once more, hard, into Jim's mouth. He stroked Jim's cheek with his other hand. "Just let me play with you a little longer, then you can climb on top of me. Wanna feel my cock slipping into you." That drew another moan from the big man, echoed again and again as Blair's fingers opened him. Blair licked at Jim's cock as he thrust slowly in and out, then sucked it hard as he withdrew his fingers. Jim lifted his head. "Ahhhhhhhh." "Oh yeah, come here," Blair said, directing Jim's body to bring them face to face again. "On me, Jim. Sit on my cock. Wanna watch it slip into you." They moaned together, kissing as Jim got to his knees, guiding Blair's shaft to his opening. Blair held Jim's cock and balls up so he could watch as his lover sank down on him. It felt so good; hot, tight, and so delicious. He forced himself to stillness, panting as Jim's weight joined them more and more deeply. He could feel Jim's pleasure and his keen need through their bond. Unable to wait any longer, Blair thrust slowly up into Jim, caressing his lover's body with both hands. Jim groaned and wrapped his hands in Blair's hair, leaning down to breathe in his scent, to kiss and touch Blair's face with his tongue. His tongue touched Blair's eyelids lightly, warm breath on his face like the stroke of feathers, and Blair nearly wept as they moved together. "Dial your touch up more," he whispered, and their deep, gentle dance grew more intense. Jim was gasping and moaning, rubbing his chest against Blair's. Blair kissed and sucked at Jim's neck, moving slow and careful in his lover's body. They trembled in each others' arms, and Blair could feel how close to the edge Jim was. Jim's eyes were closed, his face a mask of ecstasy as he rode Blair's shaft. "Love you," he whispered, "Oh, God, need you, Blair." "Take it," Blair moaned. "Ride me hard!" Jim bucked on him, and Blair was in him to his balls, the tight muscles of Jim's opening dragging his orgasm from him as Jim rode him hard and fast. He shot into his lover, shouting his name, clinging to him with arms and legs, tears streaming down his face. He'd been afraid -- afraid of never being with Jim again, afraid he and Byers would die before they could escape or be found, afraid of anyone seeing his fear. The wave of passion sweeping through him cleansed him of it and he threw his head back again and shouted wordlessly. Jim joined him in the brilliant depths of that passion, coming hard, his seed splashing between them, hot and sticky. Gasping, he found his breath and devoured Blair's mouth, ravaging with his tongue. The echoes of their ecstatic release reverberated between them, and they collapsed together, limbs tangled. After a moment, Jim rolled and pulled Blair atop him. He gazed into Blair's face, a look of adoration in his eyes, and stroked Blair's cheek softly. "Love you, Jim," he whispered, breathless. Jim grinned. HARRY'S SPORTS BAR AND GRILL CASCADE, WASHINGTON THURSDAY, 7:30 P.M. "Twenty-five Huxleyans are sitting in cells today," Blair said, "keeping their lawyers busy and off the streets with appeals and motions and protestations of innocence and complaints of police brutality." He chuckled and hoped that at least some of them were going to be seeing the inside of a Federal prison for some time to come. Byers nodded, looking pleased. "It looks like John's doing a lot better," he said. "He seems to have things pretty well under control, at least for the moment." Blair watched Langly, Jimmy and Frohike trying their talents on the local pool sharks while the primal antler-dancing game of dominance between Jim and Doggett seemed to be playing itself out over a foosball game in a corner of the bar. "There's something that puzzles me," Byers said, staring off at the Sentinels. "I've been healing more quickly than usual. It's... strange. It's only been a couple of days, but some of the bruises are entirely gone. Some of the cuts aren't even sore now. I'm not aching nearly as much as I usually do after I get the crap kicked out of me. John said the... the mark Wilson cut into my shoulder is healing fast." He touched his lip where he'd split it. There was no evidence of that wound. "Yeah," Blair said. He smiled at Byers who was nursing a club soda. "You remember asking me what the Guides get out of this arrangement?" Byers nodded. "This is part of it." Byers blinked. His reply was a whispered, astonished, "Oh." Blair leaned against the vinyl of the seat back and sipped his beer. "You're acting like you've got something on your mind. Worried about the trip home?" Byers toyed with his drink. "A bit. We didn't talk much about what happens when we get back. Did you and Jim put him up to getting the plane ticket for me?" "Nope. That was his idea. Said he thought you deserved better than a four day road trip, after all you'd been through. When you get back -- well, Jim and I, we found that things were a bit awkward for a while at first. Having separate living quarters may work out in your case." It was a nice little obfuscation. It wouldn't help much when the pheromone-driven bonding imperative kicked in, but there was no point in spooking either Byers or Doggett with that bit of information at this point. Byers looked up at him. "Tell me something, Blair. Phoenix accused you of turning his Guides against him, and you told him he defeated himself. We looked up his real name and found out he was a cult deprogrammer at one time, and knew how to get people to change their beliefs and attitudes." Blair smiled mildly. "I know." "Did you really turn the Guides against him?" "Yes." "*How*? How could anyone do that?" "Ah, Grasshopper, you forget what Phoenix forgot: first and foremost, I'm an anthropologist. Phoenix trusted what he knew; methods of deprogramming and reprogramming people. But his theory was stuck in the June Cleaver era and he didn't move forward to the MTV generation." Byers looked at him blankly and he took pity on the man. "He was having the kids show me companionship to make me bond with them. He didn't think about it working both ways; that they would have some affection and trust for me if I started treating them as responsible and intelligent human beings instead of as objects of convenience." "I don't see how that would cause a big change in just a day." "When he discovered what I was doing, he did the most logical thing of all: he had the kids themselves punish me." Blair rolled the bottom of his mug against the table, making patterns of water. "It was a perfect strategy. It should have worked -- it would have worked on him. But these kids didn't grow up in the same culture he grew up in. When he gave that order, they obeyed it and hated him for it." Byers looked horrified. "The kids were the ones who beat you?" "Yes," Blair said quietly. "And I didn't resist. And that's when his team went from eighteen men with eighteen 'Guides' to eighteen men trying to deal with a pack of snarky teens with a propensity for running away. Teens who had already run away. Teens who were, in fact, very good at running away from adults and juvie homes." "But how could you know it would work?" "I did the one thing Phoenix and his men didn't do -- I listened to their stories. Most of them had been beaten. One told about seeing a friend beaten to death by druggies, another had his ribs broken when his stepfather found he was gay. On and on... a litany of abuse and their only hope of getting out alive was to run. So they were predisposed to run rather than to turn into the same kind of monsters who had hurt them in the first place. Byers stared at him, open-mouthed. "Phoenix had a perfect strategy for brainwashing people. It should have worked -- it would have worked on him. But these kids didn't grow up in the same culture he grew up in. When he gave that order, they obeyed it and hated him for it, and they deserted. Most had left the compound by the time the raid started. Game, set, and match." "I... don't know what to say," Byers said finally. "It's all about culture." Byers smiled wryly and toyed with his glass rim. "Maybe I should take some anthropology courses." Blair set down his mug and leaned forward. "Culture is a powerful force, John, but it's a changeable thing. You and Doggett, you're trying to form a new bond while you're stuck in your old cultures. That's part of where the conflict comes in. But our society isn't a rigid box and you're not some pre-programmed planarian, plodding along in a maze. Don't think about where your cultural identities clash. Start where they mesh. That's the place to start making your situation into something comfortable for both of you." Byers closed his mouth and stared thoughtfully at Doggett. Blair smiled to himself. Maybe he should make Anthropology 101 a prerequisite for newly-bonded Guides and Sentinels. The foosball game disintegrated into Doggett's whoops of joy, and gleeful finger-pointing and taunting. Blair could see Marco winding his way through the crowded room with a tray of food -- spaghetti and pizza for their table. The pool match broke up as the food passed by and the Gunmen trailed the waiter like a trio of scruffy alley cats, intent on edibles. He drained the last of his beer and smiled across the table at Byers. It wasn't a perfect world, but it was as good as it got for now -- and that was perfectly fine with Blair Sandburg. TBC...