A/N: This story has been rolling around in my head since fall of 2006. I have written it as part three of a series, but it also works as a stand-alone story. If you want the full effect, go back and read Marked and Marked Epilogue before starting this one. If not, however, feel free to dive in - I tried to make it self-explanatory. In fact, this was originally a completely separate story idea, which I almost wrote before I wrote Marked.

I took a few liberties with the series characters - I promoted Bob Tompkins to Director and gave him a family. I gave Liz a sister. I gave Bradford an ex-wife. There are quite a few OC's in this fic – and of course, some whumping – Don, Charlie, Edgerton, whoever I could get my hands on. Yes, Edgerton's back. You can imagine how Don feels about that.

Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters. I do claim rights to the original story line. This disclaimer applies to every chapter in this story.

Credits: Kudos as always to my faithful beta, Alice I. Her insights and feedback are invaluable, and so much appreciated.

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Traitor Chapter 1

Don sighed and rubbed his throbbing temple. "Let me guess. Highland Park again."

David nodded. "Yeah, but it wasn't a hooker this time. Victim's an actress, relatively small time, but a rising star. The Latino community's making an issue of this one."

Don ran a hand through his hair and looked across the desk at Megan. She looked tired; they all did these days. They had been inundated with cases lately, many of which Charlie normally would have helped with, but although he had been back on a few cases, Don had resisted getting him involved.

"We've got a series of four murders," Colby said quietly, and Don knew what he was insinuating. They had not had a case yet with a series of crimes where Charlie had not been able to help them out; inevitably he found some pattern, some connection; that led them somewhere. Somewhere, anywhere was definitely better than where they were with this case now.

No one had seen the brutal slayings; there was no apparent connection between the victims other than that they were young Latino women. The first ones had been prostitutes, but the latest case was a middle class actress, the darling of her neighborhood. Don didn't need David to tell him who she was. He had already gotten a call from the mayor, who was concerned about his Latino constituency. The case was heating up fast, and the media would have a field day with the latest victim.

"I know you've been trying to give him some slack," Megan said. She didn't have to refer to Charlie by name; they all knew where the conversation was leading.

"Yeah, well, it's not like I haven't asked him to consult lately," Don replied. It was true, after Charlie's struggle with post-traumatic stress because of the events at Los Padres, and his resulting terrifying break, that Don had refused to go to him for months. Charlie had recovered well enough over the summer to go back to teaching that fall; although Millie had temporarily removed any extra-curricular responsibilities and assignments from him that first semester.

He had done well, though, so well that in November, Don had grudgingly given him a small assignment, and through December two more had followed; full-blown cases both. Charlie had seemed eager to help, maybe too eager. Don was uncomfortably reminded of his brother's push to heal himself after Los Padres; Charlie had tried to move too fast, and the results had been disastrous. Don himself had had a hard time dealing with Charlie's return to consulting. His mind drifted back to the first case.

It was the second week in November, and Charlie had been hinting for a couple of weeks that he felt ready to come back, that he was interested in taking a case. Don finally, reluctantly had called him in on a relatively bland tax evasion scheme. As soon as his brother had shown up in the FBI offices that afternoon, Don wished he hadn't. There was something uncomfortable gnawing at his gut; and he spent the afternoon glowering as Charlie eagerly plowed through the data. That night, Don had his first nightmare; one to rival the terrible dreams that Charlie had after Los Padres.

After two more restless, terrifying, dream-filled nights, all of which involved his brother being cut to pieces before his eyes, Don had made an appointment with William Bradford. As Don thought back to his conversation with the therapist, he felt a bit of irritation return.

"So, what do you think triggered the dreams?" Bradford had asked him.

Don frowned and rubbed his forehead, then dropped his hand. "Well, obviously it has something to do with Charlie coming back to consult," he said, his voice tinged with impatience. Bradford was belaboring something blatantly apparent.

"Why did you ask him?"

"To consult? Well, he was hinting around that he wanted to start again, and I guess I just finally gave in."

"Gave in," Bradford repeated. "So the idea was his, not yours."

Don shrugged. "Yeah."

"And you don't think it's a good idea. Why is that?"

Don sighed. "I don't know. It's just that, after Los Padres, well, maybe he shouldn't be working with me. It's not necessary to expose him to that kind of risk."

"You're afraid that he will be put in a dangerous situation again."

Don answered, a little impatiently again. "Well, yeah." Bradford's bad habit of stating the obvious was annoying him.

"And if he is, you think that it would be your fault."

Don frowned at him. "Of course it would be. I'm the one who let him take the case."

"Let him take the case," repeated Bradford, emphasizing each word. "So Charlie has no say in the decision, no responsibility?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it. As much as you would like to control your brother's actions, you can't. He is requesting to work on cases with full knowledge that things could go wrong. After Los Padres, I would say that no one knows that better than him. As much as you appear to want to, you can't take responsibility for his decisions."

Don shook his head and looked at the ceiling, with barely disguised irritation. Bradford eyed him for a moment, and continued. "So, why stop with the FBI? He consults for other agencies. Are you going to tell him to stop that activity?"

"No," growled Don. "It's not my decision."

"Precisely," said Bradford. "And neither is his consulting work with the FBI. It's his. It just happens to be a decision that you have the power to influence. I suggest you spend some time thinking about why you feel the need to do that."

"Because he's my brother," Don thought stubbornly. "Because I don't care what you say, if I can protect him, I will…

In the weeks that followed, Don had resisted giving Charlie any more cases. He found himself spending long hours at work, just to have an excuse not go over to his brother's house, and face the inevitable questions about what was going on at the office, to have a reason for dodging Charlie's incessant hints.

When he did show up, he tended to immerse himself in something safe, like a game, so he wouldn't have to talk. Conversation inevitably led to discussion of what was going on at work. He could see the disappointment in his brother's eyes, and it made him feel guilty, but he wasn't about to give in on this. He even found an excuse to spend Thanksgiving away from home, by going with Liz to her sister's house.

In spite of his best efforts, Charlie had wormed his way into another case a few weeks later. He had given up on asking Don, and had instead begun showing up at the office, on the pretext of making a visit, and casually starting conversations with the other agents. One thing led to another, and before Don knew it, Charlie was immersed in a case. He managed the maneuver again successfully on yet another case, before the holidays hit. Don had to admit, halfheartedly, that they had gone well, and that Charlie had seemed to manage them without a problem.

It was now the third week in January; and Charlie had started the second semester with a full load of committee assignments, research projects, grad student mentoring, and everything else he had juggled before Los Padres. He had only been balancing that load for a couple of weeks, and Don had been hesitant to add anything to it. He was afraid that right now, however, he didn't have a choice. They needed something to break on this case, and quickly.

He looked at his team and sighed resignedly. "Okay, maybe I'll go see him this afternoon. Start gathering the case files; get all you can on the victim's routines." They nodded and left the room, leaving Don alone with his misgivings.

About an hour later; he was striding down the hallway toward Charlie's office with the files. At the sound of a familiar voice, he turned. Millie was bustling up the hallway with her own arms full of files, a silk scarf around her neck fluttering in her wake. "Don," she said, beaming. "How nice to see you." She was smiling, but her eyes were sharp. "What brings you here?"

"Oh," said Don his voice noncommittal, falling into step beside her, "Just a question for Charlie on a case."

"A quick one, I hope," said Millie. Her voice and her smile were pleasant, but the meaning behind her words was clear. "We have a meeting to plan for the reception and presentations this Tuesday. Oh it's going to be tremendous – the biggest event of the last two years. We're presenting results on two major research projects to the backers, plus proposing five new ones to interested parties. We will have major corporation heads present, guest faculty, and even two Senators – both of them Presidential hopefuls. The reception is black tie, of course. A chamber orchestra, caviar and champagne…"

As she prattled on, Don felt his spirits rising. Charlie was going to be much too busy to take the case. Don could go back to his team and superiors in good faith, with the answer that yes, he had asked, and unfortunately, his brother was not able to help. They could find another consultant if they needed one; or perhaps something would break; some new clue would surface.

They approached the door of Charlie's office, and Millie swept in, but Don paused, leaning on the door jamb. Amita, Larry, and another faculty member were seated at a table, and Millie joined them. Charlie was standing by his desk, in an animated discussion with two graduate students. The room seemed charged with activity, with pent up energy, and it all centered about his brother.

Amita had been staring at Charlie when Millie entered, and after a quick greeting, Don noticed that her gaze drifted back toward his brother again. She had a gleam of interest in her eye, and Don suspected that it wasn't due to the subject matter. He frowned slightly, and tossed a quick look at Charlie, who seemed oblivious to her attention. That was good, Don thought. The last thing his brother needed right now was the stress of a relationship, particularly one with Amita. Charlie didn't need the stress of a case either, and Don felt that he probably didn't need the added pressure of Millie's presentations, but unfortunately, he didn't have a lot to say about that.

As Charlie gave the grad students some final tips, waving his hands enthusiastically, Don had to admit, that although his brother looked a little wired, his gestures a bit frenetic, he looked alive, fully immersed in the moment. He was busy, but he seemed to be enjoying it. Don felt the tension in his gut relax a bit, and stepped aside as the students moved toward the doorway.

Charlie noticed him at that moment, and at the same time, Millie said a bit impatiently, "Charlie, we need to get going here."

Charlie held up a hand towards her, his eyes still on Don, and almost darted around the desk toward him. "Just a minute," he said. "Don, what can I do for you?"

Don felt a little twinge of guilt at the look on his brother's face; it was filled with eagerness and an almost childlike hopefulness, and Don suspected that his avoidance of Charlie in the past weeks was a big reason for the reaction. He glanced at Millie over Charlie's shoulder, and noted the slight look of disapproval, then resignation, pass over her face.

"Oh, hey, Charlie," he said. "You look pretty busy. I can come back-"

"No, nonsense," replied Charlie quickly. "What do you need?"

Don lowered his voice, with a glance at the group behind his brother. "Well, we've got this case – multiple homicides, same M.O., all in Highland Park, Latino women…you know; you really look too busy for this. Just forget it." He paused expectantly, waiting for Charlie to take the out he had just given him.

"No, it's fine," said Charlie, reaching for the files. "I can take a look."

Don held on to them, instigating a minor tug of war. "No, it's not a big deal – you've got a lot going-"

"No, really," insisted Charlie, pulling on the files with a surprisingly strong grip and wrenching them out of Don's hands. "It's fine. This is data? I'll look it over as soon as I'm done with this meeting." He lowered his voice and rolled his eyes, grinning. "Millie and her black tie receptions…" His eyes found Don's and he searched them for a moment; then smiled uncertainly. "Okay, then-"

"Yeah, okay," said Don uneasily. This had not gone the way he planned. "Well, if you decide after looking at it that you don't have time, just let me know."

Charlie turned with the files in one arm, waving him off. "It's fine. See you later."

Don stood in the doorway for a moment, and watched Charlie take a seat next to Amita. She shifted ever so slightly until her elbow rubbed Charlie's and he looked at her with a smile. Don sighed and shook his head, and headed back down the hallway. Too much. Charlie was taking on way too much.

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As Charlie sat down, Larry was deep in a discussion with Dr. Grayson, a colleague in the Physics department. Charlie's eyes rested on his friend for a moment. Larry had been off on a guest teaching assignment at M.I.T. during the spring semester and also for the summer session; he had been gone during the events of Los Padres, and Charlie had missed him more than he cared to admit. Larry had returned; Charlie was back in full swing at school; things seemed normal again. He even had an assignment from Don. His spirits rose, and he smiled at Amita, who held his eye and smiled back. His good mood was short-lived.

"Before we begin," said Millie, "I do have some news – sad news, I'm afraid. Larry and Charlie, you knew Harold Staunton, right?"

Charlie sobered, and his face registered confusion. He exchanged an uneasy glance with Larry. Knew. She said knew. "Dr. Staunton was at Princeton when Larry and I were there – he was my professor for Applied Differential Equations. He's at M.I.T. now." He looked at Amita and Dr. Grayson, who sat on Amita's right. "He's one of the most brilliant mathematicians of our generation."

Millie nodded. "I thought perhaps you knew him. He passed away yesterday – apparent heart attack."

Larry's hand crept toward the top of his head. "Oh, my. I saw him regularly at M.I.T. – in fact I worked with him in August on a teaching demo before I left…" He trailed off, a distraught look on his face.

Charlie felt his heart drop. "Heart attack? But he couldn't have been more than – what?" He looked at Larry for help. "Early fifties, maybe?"

"Fifty-two," said Millie softly. "A tremendous loss." She paused for a moment to let them process the news, and then spoke briskly. "All right, we have a lot to cover here. Anything we don't get done today we will have to cover tomorrow afternoon."

"What – what time?" asked Charlie distractedly, his mind still on the disturbing news.

"Tomorrow? One o'clock."

"Well, let's review my presentations first and get them out of the way," suggested Charlie. "I can't be here tomorrow at one."

Millie raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

Charlie met her eye squarely. "I have an appointment," he said quietly but firmly. "I can't miss it."

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End Chapter 1