Author's Note: This is a revised version of a story I posted a few years ago. I'm gearing up for a sequel, so I thought I'd rework the previous draft. Some things have changed quite a bit.

This is set in early season four, but it works whenever the team is fit, the brothers are happy, and Liz is Don's girlfriend, though she won't be appearing.

NUMB3RS

The number nine bus to Los Angeles was making its daily trip from Albuquerque. There were fifteen people on board – a driver and fourteen passengers, all of them more or less a cross section of the general population of the American Southwest. The driver was male, in his late fifties, with a slight paunch to his stomach, attesting to his many years of physical inactivity. He was a good-natured fellow, though, more than happy to answer the questions of the young couple sitting behind him on the right. They were unmarried, but obviously in love. Passengers Three, Four, and Five were three teenaged girls, possibly on a visit to UCLA or just out for some fun. Passenger Six was an older man sitting next to Passenger Seven, a male no more than twelve years old. They weren't speaking, probably the result of the argument they'd had back in Albuquerque – despite it being several hours later. Passengers Eight and Nine were a little more interesting – two women who had never met, but opted to sit next to one another following a chance discovery that they were reading books by the same author. Passenger Ten was sleeping, his head resting against the window. Passengers Eleven and Twelve, an older couple, were playing a card game.

It was Passenger Thirteen that held the most interest for Passenger Fourteen, however. Thirteen (and the designation was most definitely made on purpose) was male, 34 years of age, and definitely not a native of the United States. He was trying hard to fit in, though, leafing through a golf magazine and humming quietly along with Bon Jovi on his iPod.

Had Fourteen been anyone else, there would have been no reason to suspect the man of being anything other than what he appeared – just another citizen. Fourteen was not, however, someone else. She had appeared to be sleeping for most of the trip, but in reality had been watching her quarry through half-lidded eyes. Her name was Hawk (at least, that's all she admitted to), and she knew that 'Thirteen' was actually Armand Grayson, known terrorist informant and supplier.

But only for twenty more minutes.

"All right, folks," announced the bus driver, "we're going to be making our stop in Blythe for a fifteen minute layover. Take a few to stretch your legs."

Hawk gave a cursory glance at the space around her, fully aware that she had left nothing behind that would indicate she had ever been anywhere near this bus – including fingerprints. It would hardly have mattered either way, but she was a professional, and took a certain amount of pride in her ability to remain under the radar. She ran her fingers through her shoulder-length black hair and stretched, her joints popping loudly after nine hours in the same position. She shrugged into her black leather jacket, making sure her sidearm remained invisible. She pulled her shoulder bag over her neck and stood, walking up the aisle until she was standing next to Grayson.

"Mind if I sit?"

Grayson pulled an ear bud away from his head as Bon Jovi sang about his life, and looked up. "Um … I guess."

Hawk slid in next to him, smiling widely. "Sweet! Of course, I would have done it anyway, Grayson."

Busted. Grayson went very still and found something interesting to look at out the window. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else."

Hawk shrugged. "Really? I could have sworn it was you. But maybe I've got it wrong. Let's see, your name is Armand Grayson. You work for Malech Hassan, who sent you to the United States to gather intel for his next terrorist strike. You were born in France, but moved to Saudi Arabia at the age of twenty, where you met Hassan and embarked on your life of crime. You supplied the explosives for at least seven suicide bombings in Israel, and you're directly responsible for the deaths of twenty-three United States military personnel. Did I miss anything?"

Grayson dropped the act and smiled sardonically. "Closer to thirty, but points for trying. What do you plan to do with this information?"

"I'm not gonna kill you, Grayson." Hawk laughed softly. "But we are getting off this bus in Barstow."

"And if I refuse?"

Hawk opened her jacket, and Grayson's eyes fell on the Glock she was sporting. "That's not an option. And don't think this is my only weapon."

"I can pay you a lot more than whoever put you on my trail."

"That's what I'm counting on." Hawk could see the wheels start spinning as Grayson calculated exactly how much would be required to get him out of his current predicament. She didn't really care what figure he came up with, as long as he cooperated.

The bus pulled into the station at Blythe, and Hawk pulled Grayson to his feet. She draped an arm around his shoulders, keeping a firm grip on him as she pushed him toward the front of the bus. She smiled saucily at the driver and winked. "Thanks for the ride, Joe, but we've got some business to take care of here."

The driver chuckled and gave a wave. "Have fun!"

Hawk looped her arm through Grayson's and directed him toward the car park. Control had a car waiting for her, and she situated Grayson in the passenger seat, cuffing him to the OS handle before getting behind the wheel.

"Where are you taking me?"

Hawk didn't bother answering. There was no need to make Grayson more nervous than he already was, so she just gave him a wink and pulled into traffic.

They were a good fifteen minutes out of the city before she pulled off to the side of the dirt road and enabled the safety locks. She sat quietly, staring at Grayson as he looked around in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Here's the thing," Hawk said, taking a deep breath. "I may have lied before."

Grayson stared at her, mentally running through their conversation. His eyes widened as he realized what she meant.

"Yeah, see, keeping you alive isn't really an option."

Hawk was prepared for sudden struggle and struck out with her fist, punching Grayson in the throat. As he gasped for air, Hawk shook her head sadly. "Why do they always make this so difficult?" Grayson tried to pull away from her, kicking his feet. Hawk ignored the kick to her thigh and put an arm against Grayson's neck, increasing the pressure as he tried to get away. His struggles became feebler, and he eventually passed out from lack of oxygen, collapsing against the seat.

Hawk held on for a few more seconds to be sure, and then she released the locks and got out of the car. Hers was the only vehicle in sight, but she worked quickly, pulling Grayson from the passenger side and dragging him about thirty feet into the desert.

She zip-tied his hands behind his back, leaning him against some brush so he was facing her. She checked her phone messages, smiling at the text she'd received five minutes before.

After a few minutes, Grayson drew in a sharp breath and began to stir. Hawk pulled her Glock from its holster and pointed it at his head. He stopped moving and stared at her.

"I thought you said we could come to an arrangement," he coughed out. "I have money."

"I know exactly where that money came from, and I know where it's headed." Hawk smiled. "You're done, Grayson. Your death is the beginning of the end of Malech Hassan."

Grayson shook his head, stuttering in fear. "B-b-but I have information. I know things! Things the American government could use!"

Hawk rolled her eyes. "Look, buddy, it was the American government who hired me to put a bullet in your brain. So that's what I'm gonna do."

Grayson's eyes widened in shock, but before he could take a step forward, Hawk fired. A neat hole appeared in his forehead, and he slumped down on his knees. For good measure, Hawk put another two in his chest, and Grayson fell back into the scrub.

"And another one bites the dust." Hawk holstered her gun and trekked back to the car, checking to make sure she was still the only presence on the road. The coast was clear, so she got back in her car and pulled out her cell phone. Control got annoyed if she delayed calling in.

The call connected a few minutes later. "Brer Rabbit Industries."

"I'm calling about the Briar Patch."

"Product number?"

"Hawk One Three Seven Niner Alpha Two."

"Verified. Report."

"Target neutralized. SOB kicked me."

"You should be more careful."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, the package is about fifteen miles east of Blythe on a dirt road off of Ox Bowl. You should take a reading. God know there's nothing but sand out here."

"Is the body visible?"

"Only if you're looking. You want something a little cleaner?"

"Don't bother."

"I got your message. We're on schedule?"

"Affirmative. In fact, we just received a special request for L.A."

"Special request? What are the parameters?"

"Whiskey Tango."

"Damn. That's way ahead of schedule. Anyone else in the area?"

"Pinch is headed East. Sinbad is still in pursuit. The client requested the best. And he wants to speak to you personally."

"Awww, hell." Hawk ran a hand through her hair and sighed. "Fuck. I know I'm going to regret this, but go ahead and patch it through."

"Wilco. Standby." The line clicked and popped, and then a new voice, male this time, was heard.

"Am I speaking with the Hawk?"

"Possibly. What's your verification?"

"I already gave it to your Director. I was told that would be enough."

"You were misinformed. Code in, or the job is off."

"I can find someone else."

"No, you can't. I suspect you contacted us for a reason. This is probably your first time requesting a personal hit, so I'll clue you in on the protocol. I make the rules, you follow them. Code in. Now." Hawk held her breath. She was making a lot of assumptions about her contact, but risks were usually rewarded.

Thirty seconds passed in silence, until the client responded in a clipped tone. "Zed Five Alpha Six Roma." Hawk immediately straightened in shock. Roma designations didn't come lightly.

This was worse than she'd thought.

"Thank you. Now, what can I do for you?" She refused to be more polite than that, regardless of who she now knew her employer to be.

"I have a particularly vexing problem in Los Angeles that needs to be taken care of within the next few days."

"Well, I'm headed in the right direction. Open or secret?"

"It can be open, but I can't have this getting back to me."

"I'm very discreet."

"And that's why I requested the best."

"The prize at the end?"

"Five hundred, held in escrow until the job is done."

Hawk swore softly. "Let's say I'm interested. What exactly do you want?"

"Kill him slowly, and take pictures. I don't want a body left to bury."

"Any message you want passed along?"

"Just tell him he should have kept his nose out of other people's business."

"Sure thing. Who's the target?"

"I need to make sure you're on board before I give the name. He's an FBI agent."

Hawk said a very bad word. "I'm not killing a Fed!"

"He is a traitor to his country and a threat to national security! I can increase your fee if that makes you feel better."

It didn't, but Hawk bit back a scathing reply. This was, after all, the business she was in. She scanned her surroundings in the growing darkness, thinking through her options. There really was no choice. "All right. Briar Patch will set up an account and forward the details. What's the time frame?"

"The sooner the better. No more than four days."

"You'll be informed once the target has been neutralized."

"Excellent. I'll send the name with the account information." He paused, but Hawk kept quiet, sensing he had more to say. "Ms. Hawk, you know who I am. And I know who you are. I trust you know what that means."

The line disconnected and Hawk waited a full fifteen seconds before speaking.

"You get all that?" Her voice quavered slightly, and she gave herself a mental slap.

"Yeah. What do you want me to do?"

"Did you get the name?"

"Information is coming through now."

"Text it to me. Get me background and service records on the target and all associates. Tell Conrad I need a set-up in L.A. with full surveillance kit. I also need a 40, a Heckler with Laps, armor-piercing and standard hollow points and a variety of small arms. I doubt I'll need more than my Glock, but I like to be prepared."

"No boom-booms?"

"Blinders, but that's it. This is gonna be up close and personal." Hawk bit her lip, thinking over what else she might need. "Oh yeah, I'll need some transportation."

"You killed him in the car?!"

"Don't be stupid! You saw Wolf after Top got through with him. I'm just covering my bases."

"Fine. The Tumbler will be waiting for you in the LAX lot."

"Damn. How'd you swing that?"

"You're going after the leader of the team with the highest success rate in the FBI. Thought you could use a little extra firepower."

Hawk couldn't argue with that. She hesitated, realized she had no choice, and spoke again. "Rabbit, I also want a full work-up on our friend Roma."

She counted to thirty-six before she got a reply. "Are you sure?"

"He just told me to murder a federal agent. I, for one, would like to know why."

"Copy that."

Hawk waited until her phone beeped with at least part of the requested information before turning the car around and heading for the 10. She had a long drive ahead of her; plenty of time to plan the fate of the man whose name winked up at her from the screen of her phone.

Special Agent Don Eppes