There will be a sequel to the story, tentatively title Accipitral. Here's a small teaser.

NUMB3RS

The figure who stumbled through the door that night was very different from the one who had left that morning. He was disheveled, his clothing ripped in several places. He sported a black eye, finger-shaped bruises around his wrists, and he favored his left leg when he walked. He was also grinning dopily, whereas fifteen hours before, he'd been frowning heavily. Granted, the grin was due in part to the pain meds they'd forced on him at the hospital, but it was also as much of a victory dance as one Special Agent Don Eppes could handle at the moment.

Don shuffled to the fridge, pulling out a beer, and an ice pack from the freezer. He briefly considered the walk to the bedroom, decided it was too far, and limped into the living room. A blinking light caught his eye on the way, and he sighed as he hit the button on the answering machine. He was only rarely in his apartment, preferring to catch meals at Charlie's house, and often spending the night either in his old room, or at the office on a couch if he was in the middle of a case.

Both options were out for the evening. David had refused to drive him back to the office, and Don had refused to be dropped off at Charlie's. Fortune had favored him in that Charlie hadn't been working on his most recent case, so he wouldn't be able to tattle to Alan about any injuries. It was best to lay low until the bruises had faded and the limp was minor enough that he could brush aside any questions his father would inevitably ask. The last thing he wanted to do was worry his small family.

His answering machine kicked in, cutting off that train of thought.

"You have four new messages," the mechanical voice intoned.

"Don, I tried your cell, but it keeps going to voicemail. I left a message, but God knows when you'll get it." Don frowned, his mind flashing back to the moment when his cell phone had been smashed against a wall. He'd be issued a replacement the next day. "Anyway, I can't do dinner tonight." Well, that was lucky. Don had completely forgotten about dinner with Robin, and now she wouldn't be expecting an explanation for why he'd never met her at the restaurant. "I'm off to New York tomorrow to depose a witness, but I'll be back on Friday, and we can catch dinner then. Give me a call when you get this."

Beeeep.

"Donnie, you'd better have a good reason for not answering my calls. Or Robin's. She called about dinner tonight. Since you're not going out with her, are you coming here? I'm grilling steaks. Seriously, where are you? Okay, I'm going to try calling David now." Yet another bullet dodged, this time through the quick thinking of one David Sinclair. He had explained that Don was busy with a case, and that it would probably take most of the evening. The fact that Don had been the back of an ambulance at the time was tactfully avoided. Don had called his father back at the hospital once he was more coherent, promising to stop by for dinner later in the week. Don had also promised David a very nice bottle of Scotch as a thank you.

Beeeep.

"Hey Don, Dad said you were busy with a case, but when I tried your cell, I couldn't get through, and the office said you were in the field. Anyway, give me a call when you get this." Charlie's call completed the trifecta of people who called his apartment for personal reasons. Don checked his watch. 12:30. He'd wait until the morning to call his brother.

Beeeep.

Probably his dad again. Who else would have called him?

"Hello, Don." He sat up. That voice, the even tone, the slight hint of an accent. It all added up to – "I know you've had a bitch of a day," of course she knew, "so I'll try not to add to it. I'm in town for a few days – purely innocent, very little business this time – and I was wondering if we could meet and discuss old times." Old times? The time she tried to kill him? The time she had threatened his family? The other time she tried to kill him? "There's a small café just down the street from your apartment building. Tomorrow night, 7:30. Out of deference to you, I left parking garages out of the picture." Don winced as his fisted hands forced fingernails into his palms. "Oh yeah, that new girlfriend – well, old girlfriend – is pretty. Does she go to New York often?"

Beeeep.

"End of final message."

Don sat for a moment in the sudden silence, forcing his fists to uncurl. There were no words to articulate his exact feelings at the moment, but he had always been more of an action man, anyway.

It may have been his imagination, but he was fairly certain that the stain left by the beer bottle on the wall took the form of a hawk.