AN: This story was originally cooked up in my head as, like, oh a nice little two parter. Ha. HA.

The whole fic is complete and to date, it's the longest I've ever written, aside from my original work. Insanity. It definitely took on a life of its own. This series is ordered chronologically, not in written order. So it's set just after Always but totally not necessary to read the others first.

Bon apetit!

'There are thieves, who rob us blind
and kings, who kill us fine;
but steady, the rights and the wrongs
invade us, in innocent song.'

"Weight Of Us" ~ Sanders Bohlke

Greg knows the instant something is wrong.

He's out on the field with some rookies, doing shield drills. Wax bullets, 'squibs,' ping off metal and into the grass, wet from last night's autumn shower. Teachers holler encouragement and correction in equal measure. Across the lawn, one of the lanky rookies who has struggled all week finally makes it over the climbing wall.

Without warning, all of that noise dies.

He freezes.

The sensation washes over him in one huge splash:

He knows something is wrong down to the very tug at his marrow. In the gullies of his bpm. Around every strained breath. His bullet scar aches with a sudden, sharp pain.

Greg can't even put a hand on it to quell the fire, too statue-still trying to decipher the source of his body's distress.

It's a completely new experience. He's used to a parent's intuition of course, when he'd taken Dean to the park as a toddler. That radar flash in the back of his mind. The push to alertness, prompting him to scan the play structure and find Dean, usually clutching a scraped elbow with a wobbly bottom lip.

This is worlds away. Something of such abject difference that he's dizzy.

In the time it takes for the shield drill to finish, not even thirty seconds, Greg knows.

He knows.

All the air escapes from his chest, a balloon stabbed and popped. His eyes widen, pupils huge, and he staggers back a half step.

Years later, they'll laugh it off. Say it was subconscious cues—the student on his phone with a frown and hushed whisper to his friend. Sirens in the distance. That Greg can't possibly have just…known.

But he does.

Greg knows it with unfailing certainty.

And his gut roars.

"Travers!" Greg just manages—barely—to get his quivering voice under control. "Take over, please."

The older sergeant, dark cheeks lined in contrast with his white scruff of hair, jogs across the field to do a once-over of Greg. "You okay, chief? Something I should know about?"

"There's only three drills left before they're done tactical for the day," Greg rambles, already shoving a file folder, his lesson plan, at the man. He can't seem to get his hands to stop shaking.

Soft, he thinks. I've gone soft. Lost my cool under pressure.

"Thanks for covering."

By the time Travers catches all his papers, Greg is running off. Actually running, courtesy of what feels like a generous gallon of adrenaline. His leg screams but not nearly as loud as that sheer panic inside his body.

"And where are you going?" Travers hollers after Greg's retreating form.

Greg stops.

He turns just enough to look Travers dead in the eye—

"Home."

Fifteen minutes earlier…

"We'll talk to the husband while you check it out. You guys need any help?"

"No, but thank you kindly, Jules." Ed swerves, lights on, and Spike steadies the laptop around a sharp turn. He squints at GPS mapping of the industrial district. "Spike, you find the hideout address?"

"If the PI was right," Spike appeases. "He says our friendly neighbourhood gambling ring likes to run out of the tailor shop three blocks down."

The firm set of Ed's features doesn't change, but lines around his eyes crinkle.

Spike does a double take when glancing up from the screen. "What?"

"Nothing."

Sometimes Spike can get away with wheedling Ed. Sometimes not. He tries anyway. "Doesn't look like nothing. Want to share with the class?"

Ed doesn't shrug, but he juts his chin, which is basically the same thing for the man. "The tailor's shop front made me think of suits."

"O…kay." Spike aims his squint at Ed, bracing himself on the window this time while they weave through five o'clock traffic. "Did that tackle yesterday mess with your head or…?"

Ed looks over at Spike. His mouth finally joins the amused expression before he slides on his aviators. They hide the playful spark in his eyes.

"Suits," is all he says. "For fancy, memorable occasions."

"Yes." Spike wishes he could read Ed's eyes, the most expressive part of him. Hates that Ed knows this and manipulates it. "That's what most people wear said suits for."

"Mmm."

The urge to badger Ed for baiting him like that flares inside Spike but he just shakes his head.

They've all been in a funny mood around him since Kyle Hurley. This isn't the strangest conversation he's had with a member of the team in the last few months. Not by a long shot.

At least they've stopped bringing him 'a taste of home' Italian food.

Spike shudders. Those had been dark days.

"Just up ahead," he says.

With a nod, Ed squeals to a stop. He already has his rifle clipped to his vest, preferring to drive with it on, and Spike follows his lead. They park and Ed keeps watch, barrel up, while Spike retrieves the battering ram from the trunk.

"Ready?"

Spike flicks his head. "As ever. Let's do it."

"Guys, we just got new intel."

Ed halts them with a raised fist. "Go ahead, Leah."

"She's there to threaten the casino 'house' into paying up. Guess last week she played big and won big."

"How big?" asks Ed.

There's a stifled sound that Spike belatedly realizes is Jules trying not to snicker. He can't wait to hear the whole story later.

"Oh, around $35,000, give or take," Jules blurts out, apparently unable to wait for Leah's sketched out explanation.

The two men exchange looks. Spike's brows go up. "Let me get this straight: A bored housewife, who's never gambled before this year, is going to walk in there with an antique pistol to demand her five figure winnings under the nose of her accountant husband? Right in front of security?"

Leah laughs this time. "That's about the half of it, yup."

"Gotta admit—and we can so rarely say it—this is a first."

Ed's lips twitch again. "At least you can put the husband's mind at ease. She's not cheating with another man."

"She must be good," says Spike. He loads the rifle clip quietly, shoving the heel of his palm down on it. "Wish I had a poker face like that."

Ed puts a hand to his ear. "Thanks for the intel. Keep on him. Now that we have a motive, we might be able to talk her down."

"Anytime, gentlemen." The smile is broadcasted in Jules' voice. "Good luck with your disgruntled gambler."

Ed rolls his eyes but he's grinning too. He leads them, both men ducked out of view of the windows, to the back door. The tailor's shop front reads 'CLOSED' but dim lights shine from some back room.

"Spike, breach in three."

Spike shifts ahead of Ed and faces the door, battering ram reared back. He looks to their team leader, who removes his aviators and tucks them away. It gives Spike a crystal clear shot of dilated blue eyes, matching the hard set of Ed's mouth.

That look is as familiar as Spike's own name.

He stiffens, in preparation for the fingers ticking down on Ed's right hand.

When they disappear, Spike slams the door with all the power he can muster. It's a metal thing, graffiti-ed to high heaven. But the latch is a cheap stainless steel, braced with a piece of wood where the door frame has bent over time.

It crumbles like a matchstick when the ram top hits wood.

Ed hustles inside before Spike can even drop the ram. "SRU! Let's see some hands!"

Five men around a rickety poker table already have their arms up. White faced. Quaking. The sight hits Spike as wrong somehow but Ed doesn't seem to notice.

"Where'd she go?"

"She?" asks the lead man, their game master.

Ed's jaw works. "Mrs. Matheson. We know she came here to demand the thirty grand you owe her."

"I paid Mrs. Matheson last week. I swear on my Niha's grave."

"Uh huh." Ed's voice is wry. "Sure you did."

"Look," says the game master, speaking to Spike for some reason. "We just gave all the cash we had. The man said two of his workers, dressed as cops, were going to come in here and kill us if we didn't."

Spike physically recoils at that. Why would someone have used them as a fear tactic? That doesn't fit the profile. Nor did Mrs. Matheson know they were coming. So how…?

Ed jolts too, but he rocks forward instead of back. "Where?"

None of the men say a word. Ed glowers at each face in turn, chips hopping at unsteady elbows and knees against the table.

Then one, a young construction worker, points over his shoulder into the tailor's shop.

"I'm on it!" Ed leaps clear across the table. "Spike, stay here and watch them! I want statements!"

"Copy that." Spike realizes they might have a more pressing question. "When did this man threaten and rob you? Even an estimate time?"

The game master stares at Spike like he's crazy. A fearful expression for Spike's sanity. "Not even three minutes ago, bro."

Spike's head whips up. He gazes at Ed's profile shrinking out of sight and then it disappears around a turn altogether.

"What did he look like?" Spike's voice turns urgent. "Did he have an accent? Anything identifiable?"

One of the men appears to be a nurse, complete with blue scrubs, and he speaks up. "Brown hair. Tall. Mid thirties, maybe? No accent, but he really stuck out because of that tattoo on his neck."

"Tattoo?" Spike perks up. He doesn't bother writing any of this down, knowing the transcription will record it.

"Yeah," says the game master. "I remember that too. A big bumble bee or something. Had a crown on its head."

Spike's voice turns dry. "A bumble bee? Really? You think that story is going to work on a cop?"

The nurse's eyes bug. "I'm serious, man! It was some sort of crawling thing with stripes and—"

Though the man keeps talking, Spike tunes into a strange noise in his ear. It's clearly Ed. Spike, however, has never heard that odd, exhaling wheeze before.

The sound is so foreign that he jolts again. "Ed?"

No response. Not even a grunt. The poker players look frightened too, and all conversation dies to listen in on Spike's buzzing tone.

"Boss, please respond."

A voice does slowly fade to life in Spike's ear, distant enough that it's impossible to make out words, but it's not Ed. Spike's pulse seizes.

"Ed, I'm coming!"

Spike leaves his post, which he feels bad about for a millisecond before the need to get to Ed commandeers everything else.

He too leaps across the table, spilling chips everywhere. He thinks he hears a "good luck!" from one of their gamblers but Spike can barely process anything over the sound of his own heartbeat.

The tailor shop is empty. So is the storeroom.

Spike goes through the front door, left unlocked. Huh.

Then he's back in the alleyway. Spike hears a clanking sound, one that halts his movements immediately.

That—and the man standing over Ed's body with a bloody pipe.