A/N: I've had a hard time trying to decide how to finish this storyline off. It keeps wanting to go epic on me. But here we are a little Pride/LaSalle for your reading pleasure.

"What do you mean he's been moved from selective custody to the Parish lock-up?" Pride slammed down the phone. If one more person told him he needed to speak with the FBI he was going to shoot them, literally.

Wentworth was trying to manipulate him (them). If Pride found out that LaSalle was in the infirmary or hurt in anyway, god help the bastard FBI agent. There would be no place on this Earth he could hide if any type of harm had befallen Chris.

But really it was just a matter of time wasn't it? A federal agent stuck in the county lock-up? The odds weren't good and neither were Chris' chances of beating this. At least that was the way it seemed. Thus far, Loretta hadn't been able to find anything on Grace Devereux's body that would indicate anything except that the woman had been bleeding internally from the result of the seat belt snapping back harshly across her belly.

But she'd bled to death so quickly. It didn't make any sense.

Pride was pretty certain a good lawyer could get the DUI portion of the charges dropped if MADD didn't step in and start a public ruckus over the fact that LaSalle was a Federal Agent but as far as the rest of it he didn't know.

Ironically, a witness in another car showed up claiming that he saw Mrs. Grace Devereux, smooching on the agent as he tried to drive and with a sizable whelp on the side of Christopher's neck, well that only bolstered Wentworth's case.

Back to the problem at hand where exactly was his agent? Pride suspected that Wentworth had thrown Chris into the general population for the purpose of trying to threaten him, but why? What was it that the slimy two-headed snake wanted?

As much as he hated to do it, Dwayne needed to go straight to the source; Wentworth.

Pride tried to keep his cool as he walked beside the cocky agent down the pathways in the Garden District cemetery, both donning sunglasses as if they were there as would be mourners. It was ironic how the cemetery became a meeting place whenever crucial information needed to be exchanged. It didn't matter which agency was involved, what informant or what was happening, they all used it. But to be completely honest, the cemeteries of NOLA weren't the most discreet of places, they were gosh darn tourist attractions!

"How many tourists frequent this beautiful sanctuary each year? Would you say a hundred thousand or more? " Wentworth was on a roll, trying to mix malarkey as he paused to let an Asian family of four with stroller pass by them.

The agent was avoiding Pride's questions and it was getting darn right irritating. They'd been mulling around for almost 10 minutes and not one mention of Chris. The senior NCIS Agent's patients was wearing thing.

"Oh I don't know, I' d say it's probably closer to a million," Grabbing the smug man's shirt front, Pride hurled Wentworth into the cement door of some families sealed mausoleum, pinning him. Leaning in, Pride spoke slowly, punctuating his words. He wanted to make sure that the SOB heard him clearly.

"Where. Is. LaSalle? "

"Tell me now! Otherwise, I am going to find a way to open this vault and seal your ass inside of it. "

"Go for it. It still won't get your boy off the hook." Wentworth looked at the older agent amused. "But since our agencies have agreed to share information, I will tell you that he made a deal early this morning. He now works for me."

What?

Marshaling his bravado, Pride stepped back. He turned away, rubbing his nose. He needed a moment to make sure his emotions were in check.

"As-" he finally prompted.

"Bait, basically." Wentworth said smugly, smoothing out his wrinkled dress shirt. "In exchange, we're agreeing to drop the vehicular manslaughter charge with a good lawyer, he won't do time for the DUI."

Because technically there wasn't ground for a DUI, it was bogus, trumped up.

Pride bit his lip. What Wentworth really wanted was Gracie Devereux's husband, the Dixieland Mobster. "Christopher puts himself out there for killin' the wife. You grab the husband, hopin' tuh pull in a bigger fish." The thought was revolting. Not that they didn't from time to time put themselves in similar situations trying to solve a case. They did (which is what Wentworth was obviously trying to do).

But it was the way it had all come about. Dwayne Pride now firmly believed that his young friend had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, putting himself in a position to be used by the aggressive powers of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. One bad apple was all it took, and Wentworth was it.

"Sounds like a fair trade, considering I had plans to make Grace Devereux my star witness until your Southern version of Romeo came along." The FBI agent was all smiles to the look of realization on Pride's face. "Though I must say, I thought it would take a little longer than just a couple of nights playin' with them big boys in prison. Guess, he didn't care for his midnight visitors all that much, if ya know what I mean."

Pride curled his hand into a fist; he really wanted to deck this moron. But the agent had learned a long time ago that into today's world, physical violence wasn't an option. "You set him up and as soon as I can prove it I am takin' you down. Do you understand me?"

"Doesn't really matter what happens to me," Wentworth snorted, "All I want is Devereux and your buddy, Agent LaSalle, is going to help me get him."

"And if LaSalle dies?"

"Now that's not my concern is it?"

I-Phone 6S

One black leather wallet containing $47.00 in assorted bills.

One Louisiana driver's license

2 credit cards (Visa, MasterCard)

One set of NCIS credentials

1 prophylactic (Trojan)

1 keyless remote (Ford)

1 set of miscellaneous keys

56 cents in pocket change

And one bronze colored chain with a St. Christopher's metal attached.

"There you go, Mr. LaSalle, sign here and you are free to go" Free? Not really. The ankle monitor made sure of that. He guessed that Agent Wentworth didn't quite know the value of his word.

"It's Agent LaSalle," Chris said, shoving his belongings into his pocket before walking out the door, to meet up with Pride. The senior agent was standing at the edge of the concrete walkway, donning a pair of aviator sunshades, his arms crossed over his chest.

"What happened to your hand?" Pride asked, noting the ace bandage on his friend's left hand.

"Nuthin, cut it trying to shave, is all," A poor excuse but he had been trying to shave when it happened.

Pride pulled down his sunglasses, his eye brows knitted. "Not telling me everything is only going to get you into more trouble. After 11 years you should know that by now."

"All right, someone tried to shank me in the bathroom. I grabbed at the weapon, cut my hand."

"Someone who knew you were a federal agent?" Pride inquired.

Chris kept looking straight forward. "Frank Wheatley we busted him a couple of years back for assault with a deadly weapon." Go figure, the ass wipe was still making the same mistakes. Not that LaSalle hadn't just made one, he'd made a really big one (though not one he was likely to repeat).

"I got a bad feelin' about all of this." Pride let out a sigh as they reached the Expedition. "I wish you would have called me before making a deal with Wentworth." Years of experience and having watched several good law enforcement officers, go down the wrong path told the senior agent that his young friend was about to be used for some ulterior purpose, he just couldn't figure why.

Chris tugged on the door handle. "This ain't got nuth'n tuh do with you, King. This is all on me." If there was some way, he could manage to atone for his sins, by bringing a little more justice into the world he had to try.

Pride pulled himself into the driver's seat and started the vehicle. "It's never all on you, Chris."

Chris gave the older man a half grin. "I appreciate that King, I do. But I can't have you involved in this."

Couldn't have him involved in this? Pride felt one of their father/son type arguments about to come on and killed the engine. "Can't have me? You're up on a murder charge here, Son. Right now, I'm the only one who's standing in your corner."

"I-I-know…" Chris started to stammer. Pride was absolutely right about that. But there was something King didn't understand. He needed to do this on his own, without further risk to anyone else.

"There are smarter ways to go about this, Christopher. You of all people should know that." Pride scolded, still mystified. Chris had 15 years on the job as a Federal Agent and was ex Vice and Homicide to the boot. He should know better than to take a punk ass deal that would only foreseeable land his ass in more hot water, if not get him killed.

Nope, there was something else, going on here. King was sure of it.

"So ya want me tuh just set here and do what exactly?" Chris countered, "King, I killed somebody. That ain't going away by itself. I gotta do somethin' tuh make this right!"

"And you think helpin' Wentworth catch the husband is gonna make it any better? The man is going to want to kill you, son!" Pride loved Chris for his wholesomeness and strong sense of justice, he really did, in fact he applauded him often for it but there were times, that same sense of always needing to do the right thing without thought to consequence, well, sometimes it clouded his judgement.

This was definitely one of those times.

Chris made his fed up face and let out a sigh, "look, if it makes feel any better, I'll be wearing a wire the entire time, plus, I've got this handy-dandy ankle monitor and that ain't comin' off. Wentworth will know where I am the entire time. There ain't no escapin' him and his merry band of FBI agents."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Pride said sardonically, before dropping the third degree. The rest of the ride back to the field office was silent each man attending to his own thoughts until they turned down St. Anne street.

"What's the matter?" Chris asked when he saw his friend's brow furrow.

"The remote to the gate quit workin' again." Meaning, Pride would have to park on the street. Conveniently, there was an open space right across from the main entrance to the office.

LaSalle frowned as he watched Pride attempt to wedge the Explorer into the small space. There was a space but it seemed a little snug for the size of the SUV. "Ya need me tuh help ya parallel park?"

"No, Christopher, I don't." Pride made an angry face right before accidently clipping the car in front of him with the bumper.

Needless to say that didn't go over well. But LaSalle knew to keep his mouth shut. The damage to the other vehicle wasn't bad, a small dent where the bumpers had caught one another. Pride knelt down to inspect the damage while LaSalle panned the mostly empty street.

"The owner could be anywhere around here, King. It's probably best if ya just leave a note."

Neither one of them paid any attention to the classic black GMC van until it was almost on top of them. Before they were able to react the side door opened with two men wielding guns.

Automatic weapons.

Talk about getting caught with your pants down! LaSalle was unarmed and with Pride being crouched down with his back to them, they were in an impossible position to fight back.

"Get in!" One of the men growled, brandishing his weapon. "Or Grandpa, gets one to the back of the head."

Pride put his hands up, glancing at LaSalle. The idiots would be stupid to shoot them in the street in front of the NCIS office. Cameras were everywhere. "Christopher, don't move."

LaSalle watched the non-verbal eye contact between the two men and knew what they were planning to do. The second guy looked like he had an itchy trigger finger. They were in a no win situation.

Briefly, he shifted his gaze to Pride. "You'll find a way to get me back."

"Christopher!" Before Pride could react, the second gunman jumped out the van, ramming the butt plate of the weapon into the back of his skull. The gunman hopped back into the van, closing the door as it sped off, their captive pressed up against the driver's side wall.

"Did ya haf'ta hit him?" LaSalle glared as the first man, started to work the monitor at his right ankle.

"The ol' geezer has a tough skull. I'm sure your precious King as you like to call him will be just fine." The lock popped releasing the tracker, enabling the gunman to hand it to the driver who promptly chucked it out the window into the street.

Chris sank his teeth into his bottom lip, swallowing back his rage. Within minutes, there would be a barrage of squad cars gathering at the field office prompting an all out man hunt. "He'd better be or you can tell your boss, I'm done."

A/N: Oh LaSalle! What are you doing? Bonus points for anyone who can tell me who Frank Wheatley is.