OUTNUMB3RED: The Brotherhood

*A Sentinel-Numb3rs Crossover by Freya-Kendra, with chapters by Crowswork and Katfairy1

Re-edited with thanks to Bardicfaerie, Bonnie and TAE.

***Nominated for a 2009 Light My Fire Award (LMFA) for Collaboration! :-)

See: lmfa (dot) diagonalfiction (dot) com

***Cover art viewable via my web site (see my profile)

Time-Frame: mid-2007, Numb3rs Season 3. When Cascade's Sentinel is outnumbered in LA and a lone Sandburg becomes Guide to too many, how do the Eppes brothers figure into the equation?

Author's Note: This story was spawned from a challenge posted by Crowswork. After the first chapter was posted by Crowswork, I took the bait and wrote the second one in the hope the story would become a round-robin. However, after the third chapter was posted by Katfairy, I ended up running with the rest.

This story's Theme Song ="Count on Me" by Default

Chorus:

You can count on me

Cause' I will carry you till you carry on

Anytime you need someone

Somebody strong to lean on

Well you can count on me

To hold you till the healing is done

And every time you fall apart

Well you can hide here in my arms

And you can count on me

To hold you till that feeling is gone

Verse 1:

I know that life ain't always good to you.

I've seen exactly what it's put you through

Thrown you around and turned you upside down and so you

You got to thinking there was no way out

You started sinking and it pulled you down

It may be tough you've to get back up

Because you know that life ain't over yet

I'm here for you so don't forget [chorus]

Verse 2:

I wonder why nobody's waiting on you

I'd like to be the one to pull you through your darkest times

I'd love to be the light that finds you

I see a silver lining on your cloud

I'll pick you up whenever you fall down

Just take my hand and I will help you stand

Because you know that life ain't over yet

I'm here for you so don't forget [chorus]

OUTNUMB3RED

Chapter 1

by Crowswork

Don Eppes paced the hospital room as he studied the still figure on the bed. Only the tiny strips of tape holding his eyes closed spoiled the illusion that the tall man was sleeping. Both muscular and handsome in a quarter-back, GI Joe sort of way, the guy was a perfect specimen of humanity. Under normal circumstances, he looked capable of twisting someone's head half off. Of course, this circumstance was far from normal.

To put it simply, the man was an enigma. Theyd found him in this unconscious, not quite comatose state lying in a farmhouse amongst the dead bodies of a half dozen terrorists, most of whom had died of bullet wounds, although two had broken necks. And yet aside from the nearly raw mess someone had made of his fingertips, probably with some form of acid, this one man lying among six corpses didn't have a mark on him.

Was this John Doe another terrorist? For some reason Don did not think that to be the case, but so far theyd had no luck identifying him. Although fingerprints might eventually reveal something, the doctors were still assessing the damage, which Don had been warned might prove to have irreparably erased the epidermal ridges. Meanwhile, Don had an irritating, maddening notion that he'd seen the man's picture somewhere. Charlie and some of the whizzes at headquarters were matching the stranger's face against published photos using a recognition algorithm or something... when Charlie said the word algorithm more than once, Don tended to tune him out.

"Agent Eppes?"

Don turned to see an older man with stern aquiline features stepping through the door.

"I'm William Ellison."

"Yes, sir?"

The man looked down at the still figure, his expression shifting briefly to surprise and then despair before returning to a more schooled visage. "This is my son, Jim," He announced. "Detective James Ellison."

Don frowned at the cool aristocratic tone. He tried to visualize his own father under these circumstances, then shook off the image. "He's a police officer?"

"Cascade PD." The man touched the stubbled cheek of the unconscious man. His shaking fingers belied his seeming calm. "Jimmy and his partner vanished six months ago. They were on assignment... some sort of undercover thing. You'll have to contact Captain Banks for the details."

"Why are you here, sir?" Don realized how that sounded. "I mean, why didn't his captain contact us?"

"I've had a number of people keeping tabs on every unidentified body... every John Doe that turned up.... in hopes of finding my son. I gave him up for dead once but never again..." The elder Ellison pulled himself together, straightened and studied Don. "Captain Banks and his officers kept searching but the powers-that-be in Cascade made it clear that they thought Jim and Blair were dead."

"Blair? His partner?"

"Oh yes... foolish of me..." William Ellison pulled a photo from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Don. Two men were holding a fish and grinning. One of the men was clearly the unconscious man on the bed; the other was younger and shorter. Even though there wasn't really a resemblance, the curly hair and bright eyes reminded Don of his brother Charlie. "His name is Blair Sandburg, Ellison said.

"He was a detective too?"

"Blair is was . He shook his head. Hes a college professor, actually, and a consultant to the police department. But more than a partner; more like a younger brother to Jimmy. I'm afraid he might not have survived."

Don looked at the patient with a new sense of kinship. If Charlie ever got hurt while helping him on a case he might just lie down and give up too.

Chapter 2

by Freya-Kendra

Blair Sandburg stared into his mug of tea as though the rising steam could show him that Jim was okay. But all he saw were clouds of desert dust.

"Is it too hot for you?" Mick Shofield asked, seeming genuinely concerned. "There's ice in the fridge if you like."

Blair looked at the other man, stunned yet again by his duplicitous behavior. At one moment the white-haired, former Marine was a cruel and ambitious leader, and then he would become the kind, grandfatherly soul Blair saw now.

"I did what you asked." Shofield said, apparently recognizing Blairs focus had nothing to do with tea. "I kept him alive."

"Alive?" Blair shot back. "You tortured him until he completely zoned out, and then you left him for dead."

"I did what I needed to do to protect the brotherhood. And he does have a chance. I thought you would find that better than the alternative."

The brotherhood. Blair had come to despise that word. What Shofield was creating was more of an army than a brotherhood. It was an elite fighting force made up entirely of sentinels, each one carefully and expertly recruited.

Setting his untouched mug onto the room's tiny desk, Blair shot his kindly captor an angry glare. "You deprived the brotherhood of one of its primary members, and eliminated its security force altogether." Blair could still see the men falling under a hail of bullets. They died simply because they were not sentinels. Once again fighting the raw feeling the memory left in his stomach, Blair pressed on with his reproach. "How is that protecting it?"

"I eliminated a member who refused to give his full allegiance. And the security force was no longer needed." In an instant Grandfather Mick vanished. It was time for General Shofield to take control. "The brothers are fully trained--."

"Thanks to Jim Ellison," Blair spat icily despite the general's tendency to punish insubordination -- severely.

Shofield met Blair's interruption with nothing more than a tilt of his head. "So be it. He served his purpose. As for the others, the only protection the brothers will need from here on out is the kind that you are quite capable of providing."

Blair met the old man's unwavering gaze with an even stronger one of his own. "No," He said with calm determination.

Surprisingly, Shofield smiled. "I thought you might get defiant once Ellison was no longer an issue. No matter. There are others."

Blair's blood went cold. "What others?"

"Innocents, Mr. Sandburg. Women. Children. The people of this city will earn our protection or our wrath. It's all up to you now. If you do fulfill your duty to the brotherhood, then all will be in harmony and we will become this city's saviors until it is time for us to pursue justice and honor elsewhere. If you do not...." Shofield shrugged. "Then good people will die until your allegiance becomes far more complete than your ex-partner's ever could."

Chapter 3

by Katfairy1

Henri Brown didn't so much as glance at the two desks anymore. He didn't need to; he knew they were empty, and he knew they would stay that way for a while. But he also knew this would not last. There wasn't a single member of Major Crimes -- and damned few in Central Precinct -- who didn't believe soul-deep that one day Ellison and Sandburg would be back. Water was wet, grass was green, and Ellison and Sandburg always came through. It was simply how the world worked.

The day when they had been told to drop the case had already become legendary. Everyone knew Captain Banks had a temper, that it was particularly volatile when his men were being misused, and that it was at its worst when those men were Ellison and Sandburg. Everyone knew that the rest of Major Crimes would back him up, too. What nobody had expected was that Warren's announcement of the probable deaths of the two men and his insistence that they "stop wasting taxpayers' money on an unsolvable case" would have such an effect.

It started with Simon Banks telling Chief of Police Warren very quietly that the last he had heard, it took more than a few weeks to declare somebody legally dead without a body. That the last he had heard, it was their job to solve all cases, no matter how long it took. That the last he had heard, James Ellison and Blair Sandburg were his men, and that he was damned if he was going to let some paper-pusher whose only loyalties were to whoever signed his check sell two good men down the river because he didn't have the balls to do the work. While Simon was backing Warren into a corner, the rest of Major Crimes had gathered behind him, silently making it clear that Warren had crossed the line. It had ended with Rafe -- Rafe, for God's sake! -- making a not very veiled threat about Warren's job security.

H did glance at Rafe, as he always did when remembering that moment. Like Jim, Valentijn Rafe was the son of a rich man. Unlike Jim, he didn't bother hiding it. Not that he said anything about it; he just lived his life the way he saw fit and people either accepted it or didn't. It was one of the reasons H liked him so much, this casual acceptance of who he was and his willingness to let others be who they were. Which was what made his threat so shocking -- Rafe just didn't throw around his status like that. Rafe's cousin was on the city council. On that legendary day, confronting his own bosss boss, Rafe had mentioned his cousin by name, explicitly stating that he'd be having dinner with her and her family that very night, and that he did hope he wouldn't have any bad news to report to her.

Never forgetting that Jim Ellison had once saved her life, with Blair Sandburg providing his usual invaluable assistance, she had been keeping tabs on the investigation into their disappearance; she would not be happy if someone decided the case wasn't worth pursuing. And she was married to the Mayor's cousin. The connections within connections got even more confusing after that, but what it all boiled down to was that if Warren made them drop the case, she would drop Warren.

The case was still open. It wasn't anybody's primary case, not anymore; but nobody except Warren and his cronies was willing to let it slide completely. Any lead was still followed, frequently on the detectives own time. Warren may not have figured out what they lost, but everybody else had: their Sentinel and Shaman/Guide had been stolen, and they would get them back. Whatever it took.

H suspected that IA was looking the other way on several aspects of the case. He knew Joel thought so, too, but except for one brief exchange, they didn't discuss it.

He glanced at Rafe again, but this time because his partner had made an odd hissing noise. The feral look on the man's face was as unnerving as his threat to Warren had been. H came around and read Rafe's e-mail over his shoulder.

Val, my boy-

Just got a message from Bill. Says your system needs a plumber. Bill wants to know if you've heard anything about the Jags re-upping an old member? Nobody dogging his steps, though. Pity- the man gets a little too into himself when left alone.

Well, got to run, son. Call me when you can- I still say you'll need help on that home-improvement project.

Tot ziens.

H froze, hoping he'd read that right, while also hoping he'd read it wrong.

"Rafe?" He said quietly.

"William Ellison found Jim, but not Blair, and Jim's zoned. Dad will give us whatever help he can, if we can't do this through official channels." Rafe's grin wasn't pleasant. "Living in South Africa doesn't build up much faith in police departments."

H wasn't going to argue that. The partners shared a silent exchange, then rose and entered Simon's office without knocking. Their Captain didn't bother yelling when he saw their faces.

"Right," Simon Banks said, looking as dangerous as he had that day with Warren. "You know what to do. We meet in two hours. Be ready. For anything."

They left the office without saying a word and returned to their desks. Connor, Taggart, and Rhonda were already at work. One by one, they called up files on their computers, printed them, and left copies in their desk drawers. One by one, they cleaned up their desks, took a long look around, and walked out.

Chapter 4

by Freya-Kendra

Charlie Eppes enjoyed his walks along the campus quad, taking in the southern California sun. He enjoyed them even more when they were combined with casual conversation among friends -- if you could consider the conversations he had with Dr. Fleinhardt and Amita Ramajuan as casual. For them at least conversations about variables and probabilities were casual. It was when the talk delved into things more social and less academic that Charlie grew uncomfortable.

Now as he walked with Amita he could feel his heart beginning to race in response to her prodding glances. He cleared his throat and turned his gaze toward a delivery van pulling up alongside the student center building.

"Don asked me about another case he's working on," He said. "He seems to think I can help him find a useful pattern every time he hits a dead-end. He doesn't get it that sometimes there are just too many variables, too many unknowns."

"What are the variables?" Amita asked, clearly taking his cue to avoid discussing the obvious chemistry between them. Math was always the way to go. Chemistry was far too dangerous.

But Charlie's attention had become focused on some sort of disturbance at the student center.

"What's going on over there?" He heard Amita ask him.

Instead of answering, especially when he had no answers to provide, Charlie started running toward the chaos. Something important was happening. He did not know what, and he certainly did not know why, but he felt he needed to find out as quickly as possible. Apparently, Amita felt the same way -- or perhaps she was just curious about Charlie's own sense of urgency, because she did not hesitate to follow him.

When Charlie realized that everyone else seemed to be running away from the building he had chosen to run toward, he slowed but did not stop. Then his eye caught movement in the delivery van. He was sure he saw something drop from a window.

"Go back!" Someone shouted at him. "They said there's a bomb."

His mind struggling to make sense of the confusing signals, Charlie noticed the delivery van speed off with a raspy roar of its engine as a puff of black smoke spewed the scent of diesel fuel into the air. An instant later, a much more impressive roar erased every other sound around him. He turned to Amita and saw rather than heard her screams. And then he felt himself propelled toward her by a sudden rush of hot wind.

* * *

Someone was squeezing Charlie's shoulder and nudging him. His ears were ringing; it was a loud, unnerving sound, making him feel almost as though he was trapped in a bell tower -- or that he was the bell tower. He felt heavy, leaden bells peeling right into his brain. Still worse, he could not breathe.

"Charlie?"

The sound pressed itself into his consciousness like a shout under water.

"Charlie?"

Finally he gasped, choking down a lungful of air.

"Charlie?"

Amita's voice registered clearly now. He coughed as he tried to sit up.

"Maybe you shouldn't--"

He waved her off. "I'm okay." The words were a challenge for him to utter; but at least he understood why. "Just got the wind," He took a shaky breath, "knocked out of me." Another breath. "I'm fine."

Amita's gaze said that she was not convinced.

"Really." He smiled.

As a blast of sirens began to converge on the campus, Charlie realized that he may be fine, but things around him were far from it. He saw then that Amita was bleeding from a cut on her forehead. He reached up, but stopped short of touching it.

"What about you?" He asked, suddenly concerned.

She shrugged. "I'm just trying to make sense of what's happening."

As her gaze moved to the student center, Charlie dropped his hand and turned to look there as well. What he saw was disturbing, and more than a little frightening. A small part of the wall facing them had collapsed into rubble. Most of the crowd that had gathered was standing, but several people were kneeling over a handful of others who were lying on the ground.

"This just might be one of Don's unknown variables," Charlie said.

"Why's that?"

"Because his case has to do with the murder of six known terrorists."

Amita's lips parted in a muted show of surprise, the impact of this new thought clearly lessened by the greater shock of the bombing.

As Charlie cautiously pushed himself to his feet, he could not help but gasp at a painful twinge in his shoulder. He also noticed that his knees seemed weak and his chest felt heavy. When his cell phone began ringing, he had to pause as though to get his bearings before answering.

"Yeah," He said in a breathy voice without even bothering to check the caller ID.

"Charlie?" Don's voice called out from the other end of the line. "What's wrong? Were you there? Were you hurt?"

"I'm fine. We weren't ...." What was he supposed to say? He couldn't say they weren't there, because obviously they were -- at least they were close enough to be thrown by the blast. "In the building," he finally added.

"You don't sound fine to me."

"What happened, Don?" Charlie chose to ignore his brother's concern. "Was a bomb threat called in?"

"All I know is someone called 911 saying a masked gunman warned people to get out of the building. Are you there now? Can you tell if anyone was still inside when it blew?"

Charlie watched a fire truck disperse its crew, the first to arrive. "I hope not," He answered honestly.

Chapter 5

LAX had gone to a heightened alert level by the time Simon Banks and his team arrived, but the detectives from Cascade were unable to determine why until they hit the road in a rented minivan, the only vehicle they could get on such short notice, and found an all-news radio station.

"The FBI reports that no terrorist groups have claimed responsibility for today's bombing at the university campus just outside of Los Angeles," A female reporter said amidst the static from the AM signal. "Eight students were hurt in the blast, two critically."

When the station went to a commercial, Joel Taggart switched off the radio and glanced worriedly at Simon, who had insisted on driving. "That sounds like an awfully big coincidence. You don't think--"

"I don't think anything yet," Simon shot back. Then he sighed. "We'll know more as soon as we check in with this Special Agent Eppes."

"He's there," Rafe added from his seat behind Joel. He shoved his cell phone back into his pocket and leaned forward. "I just got off the phone with him. He's at the university now."

"How do we get there?" Simon asked.

"Sorry, Captain. He sounded pissed; said we weren't to go anywhere near there. He wants to meet us at LA General in a couple of hours."

"But what if there's a connection?" Connor asked from the seat beside him. "Joel's right. This sounds too coincidental. Jim was found with dead terrorists. Sandy's missing. There's a mysterious bombing at a university. And Special Agent Eppes is involved in each case. The FBI must believe there's a connection. And he can't possibly know Sandy as well as we do. What if his team overlooks something that only we might recognize? Sandy might need us."

"I hate to say it, but Jim needs us, too," Henri Brown said from the rear-most seat, where he could stretch his legs out into the floor space between Rafe and Connor.

"I'm not saying we should abandon Jim," Connor answered. "I'm just suggesting we stop at the uni first. We can introduce ourselves to this Agent Eppes and have a look 'round."

* * *

By the time Simon pulled onto the campus, he'd already had his fill of LA driving. He tossed the keys to Joel. "You're up next." Then he flashed his badge to an approaching uniformed officer and asked for Special Agent Don Eppes.

They were directed to the blast site, where a disheveled, curly-haired Einstein was talking to a group of glassy-eyed listeners in FBI jackets about angles and trajectories and other things Simon tuned out completely. The young man's passion and apparent brilliance were painful reminders of their own missing team member.

"We're looking for Agent Eppes," Simon barked authoritatively. It bothered him to be so ... well, bothered by the young man standing before him. Still, he let the annoyance build an edge into his voice. He even believed it helped to give him a degree of control -- until the young man stopped and turned to face him. There was something disturbing in his eyes, a look of hurt and loss that provided yet another reminder of Sandburg. Simon felt guilty without even knowing why.

"I'm Eppes." Another dark-haired man pulled away from the group of listeners. This one definitely fit the bill of an FBI agent, from his take-no-prisoners attitude right down to the glare in his eyes. "Who are you?"

"Captain Simon Banks, of the--"

"I thought I told you people to wait at the--"

"We thought we could be of better use h--"

"This is a federal crime sce--"

Suddenly it seemed as though everyone was talking over everyone else, but Joel Taggart pulled away as his eye caught something red and metallic in the debris. He moved toward it and knelt to get a better look. It was a Swiss army knife.

"We think it was dropped by one of the bombers," The young man said from behind him.

"Why's that?" Taggart asked.

"I saw it happen," The young man answered. "I was in the quad, over there." He nodded with his chin. "Something caught my eye. I saw it drop from a rear window of the van. It means something, I just can't quite figure out what yet."

Taggart straightened. "It means this bombing is directly linked with that John Doe in your hospital."

"How could you possibly--"

"The John Doe's name is Jim Ellison. Detective James Ellison, to be more precise. And unless this is one gigantic coincidence, that Swiss army knife belongs to his missing partner, Blair Sandburg."

It seemed almost as though those words, although spoken softly, were enough to bring an end to the quarrelling. Joel noticed a sudden, disturbing silence and decided to break it by introducing himself to the young man.

"I'm Joel Taggart," He said, extending his hand. "I work with both Jim and Blair."

"Charles Eppes," The young man said, taking Joel's hand. Joel saw Charles wince, as though extending his arm had caused him some degree of pain.

The detective realized this man had been as much victim as witness; still he was there, working side by side with federal agents to help determine what had happened, if not why just yet.

"Eppes?" Joel wondered then. "Any relation to--"

Charles nodded, giving a small, almost shy smile. "We're brothers."

From what little Joel could tell the two Eppes men seemed to be about as alike as, well, Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. Nonetheless, the younger brother was obviously part of the agent's team.

"Let's get that knife tagged and bagged," Don Eppes demanded then. "We need to know who's handled it, where it's been and anything else it can tell us. Chuck, you're with me."

Joel was impressed by the agent's take-charge approach. There was something about Eppes that reminded Joel of Jim Ellison. Actually, it was a shame Eppes wasn't more like Jim. If the agent had Jim's sentinel abilities he would not have to delegate the task of examining Sandburg's knife -- he might even be able to determine whether Blair was still alive.

"The hospital," Eppes added, apparently answering a question from his brother. "You're getting checked out before you get any more involved in all this."

The older Eppes brother shot Joel a look that was clearly intended to be hard as steel, but Joel saw it differently. There was something else in Agent Eppes' eyes, something more compassionate than cruel.

"Your team can follow Special Agent Sinclair back to headquarters," Eppes said to Taggart. "We've got a lot of--"

"Not yet," Simon Banks interrupted. "First, we see Jim. Detective Ellison," he corrected immediately.

Though Eppes stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly, he did not erupt into the kind of tirade Joel and the rest of Cascade's Major Crimes' crew had come to expect from feds.

"Right," The agent said instead. "Of course." A moment later, he added, "You can follow me if you like."

His gaze softened, but it was his brother, Charles who gave Joel a sympathetic smile.

Chapter 6

Ten years ago, a Chopek warrior from the jungles of Peru had made an impossible journey to Cascade, Washington. Reaching the loft Blair had shared with his friend and partner, Jim, Incacha had gazed curiously at things strange and foreign to his own, distant world. When the warrior had unwittingly turned on the stereo to find himself suddenly surrounded by the sound of tribal drums, the expression on his face suggested he had been equally pleased and surprised. He said something in Chopek to Jim, who laughed softly in response.

What'd he say? Blair had asked his partner and friend.

Earth music.

Yeah, Blair remembered now. Earth music invoked the sounds of tribal passion that fed the ritualistic practices meant to bring or restore balance to their world.

Blair had been drawn to such sounds through his own natural curiosity. He had introduced Jim to them as well, to help the sentinel restore balance within himself. But now, suddenly, there was no balance, none at all. The music echoing through the spaces of a musty, old warehouse in an abandoned corridor of Los Angeles was out of place. Strangely, it did more now to unravel Blair's nerves than to soothe them.

He gazed out at the ten men seated cross-legged before him, each with eyes closed, ears tuned to the music, thoughts turned inward. Blair himself had taught them how to meditate like that. It had proved to be a far easier task than he had imagined it would. In fact, all of these men had been better students than Jim ever had. From the moment Blair was introduced to them so many months ago, they had welcomed his suggestions.

Before Blair had even been made aware of the existence of Shofield's Brotherhood, they had studied Blair's notes, accessed illegally from Rainier University's computer network. Each and every one of this elite group could also recite Blair's supposedly fictional dissertation, despite the government's insistence that all known copies had been destroyed. It had been the government after all that had helped Blair to restore his honor. Just by working with the feds rather than at odds with them, Blair discovered they really could do miracles. They actually managed to restore academia's faith in Blair Sandburg, who was now -- or at least had been, up until six months ago -- a full professor at the very university that had once been so eager to throw him out in the street.

Blair had even been a willing teacher, back then, all those months ago. By agreeing to teach Shofield's sentinels, Blair had helped to persuade the leader that both he and Jim were far more concerned about refining the skills of sentinels than they were about the city of Cascade. The idea of belonging to a tribe made up entirely of sentinels was well worth abandoning a single city populated by a multitude of inferior beings.

At least, Blair had tried to believe Shofield had been persuaded. In truth, neither Blair nor Jim had ever earned the man's trust. And Shofield had blindsided Blair completely when he set out to prove that Jim, and not Blair himself, was expendable.

"Your own words teach the importance of meditation." Mick Shofield's voice at his back brought sudden chills to Blair's spine. "To find balance and to renew the spirit."

Blair tensed but fought to prevent himself from recoiling as Shofield's hand landed softly on his shoulder.

"Son," Shofield said in his best, grandfatherly tone, "you should join them."

His jaw locked so tightly he could almost imagine his teeth beginning to shatter, Blair found it impossible to reply.

"Look at you," Shofield said tenderly. "You're all in knots."

Blair cringed as the old man began to rub his shoulders. He endured the tortuous massage for less than a minute, and then sprang to his feet, shivering as though he had just brushed away a deadly insect.

"Don't touch me," Blair said. "Don't you ever, ever touch me again."

The old man smiled. The sight made Blair want to vomit.

"You have so much hatred in you, son. You yourself should know that hatred is a useless and wasted emotion."

The man never ceased to surprise him. Dumbfounded, Blair stumbled against words that simply could not be made strong enough. "You ... you blew up a building full of innocent people. How ... how the hell do you think I'm going to respond to you?"

Shofield's smile did not fade. "We gave them a warning."

"Not enough of one! Eight people were hurt. You heard the report. Eight students. And two of them might not survive. A warning? I can't believe you. Sentinels are ... they're about protecting the tribe. Protecting," Blair emphasized. "Not murdering."

Still the man wore that smug, deadly smile. "Our chosen tribe, for the moment anyway, is Los Angeles. That campus was not within city boundaries, and therefore does not fall within tribal lands. We simply struck out against an enemy."

"What enemy? Those were students -- defenseless, unarmed students, not warriors."

"Listen," Shofield said then, his gaze drawn upwards, his eyes focused on nothing. "Listen to that so-called 'earth music' of yours. What do you hear?"

"What?" Blair asked, confused and confounded.

"The sounds of the earth. The sounds of your own inner spirit. What do you hear?"

"You're insane."

"What is your greatest enemy? Who is your own, true enemy?" Shofield continued to prod.

"You are," Blair said icily.

Shofield's smile grew wider. He shook his head. "No, son. Not at all." He rose, moving closer to Blair, who could not help but back away.

"Don't you see?" The man pointed toward Blair's bandaged hand.

"It's you, son. Your own inner beast is your true enemy. You raised your own hand against yourself. You bled yourself on the ridiculous belief that someone out there would even care that you're still alive. Don't you see? I didn't strike out at students. I struck out against your inner beast. That is the enemy we need to defeat. And then...."

Shofield turned his attention to the meditating sentinels. He pulled his hands behind his back and raised his chin, giving Blair the sense that the man believed he was General Patton urging his troops to victory. "And then, my son, we will assume full control. And nothing -- and no one -- will stand in our way."

Still backing away, still shaking in fear and repulsion, Blair's heel jammed against the electrical cord feeding the small stereo. He tripped and threw out his bandaged hand before landing on his butt on the hard concrete floor. The earth sounds died as he gasped against the sting of his reopened wound, where he had sliced his palm with his Swiss army knife before dropping it as proof that he had been there, on that campus, with the bombers.

Proof of what? He wondered then. Proof of life?

This was no life, no way to live. He had to get away; but more importantly, he had to stop Shofield and his army of sentinels. But how could he even hope to do that without Jim? And how was Jim anyway? Was he even alive?

"Yes!" Blair said aloud, forcing himself to believe it. Jim, man, you've got to help me out here.

Suddenly, Blair had a real, solid reason to try meditating. He plugged the cord for the stereo back into the power strip, restarting the music.

"Sorry about that," He said to the two sentinels who had been roused and were now gazing at him curiously.

Then, ignoring Shofield, Blair crossed his legs, assuming his own version of the lotus position, closed his eyes, and tried awakening his inner beast. Surely the wolf would seek out its companion spirit.

Chapter 7

Jim had tumbled into a vast jungle. Its colors muted and gray, it was like something not quite dead, yet not even close to alive. He was surrounded by silence and nothingness. He was out of synch in a timeless wasteland. And he was utterly alone -- until he caught the scent of a faintly familiar mustiness. On all fours, one with the spirit of the black jaguar that had claimed him, Jim raced past trees that may as well have been plastic for the cold, non-life they represented. He jumped over logs that fell like boulders in his path, and then landed nimbly on fragile straw grass; its blades shattered like glass despite the light touch of his lithe paws.

As he drew nearer, the scent grew stronger, unmistakable. Soon, another grayness approached him, a grayness that separated itself from that of the undead jungle. This new grayness shimmered with something new and exquisite -- it shimmered with life.

With scent and sight restored, Jim called out to his approaching companion, his voice raw and jagged, and soft -- too soft. Still, it was enough, and soon the welcome cry of a lonely and desperate wolf opened his ears.

"Sandy's alive, Jim," the wolf said then. "He's out there somewhere, and you've got to help us find him."

The voice was strange, feminine. It did not belong in the wolf.

"We have his knife; you know, that Swiss army thing he always carries around. There was blood on it -- Sandy's blood. Not a lot," The female voice added hastily, "don't get me wrong. Just enough to prove he's alive."

Blood? 'Sandy's blood? Sandburg? Jim reached the wolf and slowed until the animals stood facing one another -- frozen, somehow unable to do more. Neither could reach closer; neither could touch the other.

"Jim, I don't know what happened to you out there," The female voice continued, "but whatever it was, it could still be happening to Sandy. Please, Jim. You have got to snap out of it. You have got to come back to us."

The wolf howled plaintively -- and then it was gone. In an instant, it vanished, gray melting into gray, leaving Jim alone once again with the plastic, the cold, and the hollow emptiness.

"Jim, I--" The female voice returned, riding a wisp of warm, sterile air, though it, too, seemed to get pulled away.

"No," she said then. "At least while I'm here I feel like I'm doing something. But some coffee would be lovely, thank you."

Coffee? Jim could smell it then, a smooth, almost nutty aroma.

"You're an angel," the female voice -- Megan? -- continued.

"Don't let word get out on that," A man's voice added. "Might ruin my reputation."

H? Henri Brown?

Suddenly Jim could hear other sounds around him: a variety of beeps from monitors; the soft buzzing sounds of florescent lights working hard to chase away a different kind of grayness; the electronic tones of telephones ringing in the distance.

He was in a hospital. He could even smell it, those distinct hospital scents mixing body odors with medicines and sanitizing cleansers.

But he could not open his eyes.

"Jim?" Brown called out. "Hey, Jim. You hear me in there?"

He felt a soft pressure on his forehead, on his temples; and then a tugging on his eyelids. There was a small ripping sound as something was pulled away.

Jim blinked into the brightness.

"Jim!" Megan sounded surprised. "You're back. See? I knew you would. I knew he would, didn't I, H?"

Her dark curls began to swim out of a brilliant fog.

"Welcome back, Jim," Henri Brown added.

Jim saw a shadowy blur reach his shoulder. There was a light squeeze, though he never felt Brown's hand actually touch him.

"It's good to see you," H continued. "You had us going there. Hey, Megan, I'd better call Simon."

Jim tried to blink Henri into focus, even as he watched the large man recede into the distance. Henri stopped at the door, and then turned to point toward Jim.

"Now don't you go anywhere before I get back."

Jim tried to answer, but all he managed was a groan.

Chapter 8

Special Agent Don Eppes sat back in his chair and sighed deeply as he rubbed his eyes.

"I don't believe this," Don heard his brother complain from his chair beside him at the conference table. "The government actually bought into this Shofield's scheme to create an army of ... of supermen?"

Don leaned forward and touched Charlie's wrist, silently asking him to stay quiet. After all, Charlie was a civilian. He was a civilian with special clearances, but a civilian nonetheless; and those clearances could get pulled in an instant if someone at the right level was angry enough to make it happen. The man who was currently briefing them was definitely at the right level.

"Whether or not his army was made of what you call 'supermen,' Mr. Eppes," The white-haired, dark-suited man replied, making a point to emphasize the civilian title, "has no bearing on the fact that Shofield is a dangerous man with a dangerous following. The undercover work performed by Detective Ellison and Mr. Sandburg, with the cooperation of the Cascade, Washington Police Department proved invaluable. It helped us to determine the full extent of that danger. We were also on the brink of gathering sufficient evidence to justify the warrants we needed to eradicate that danger."

"Since when did suspected terrorists regain their rights to things like warrants?"

"Hold on, Charlie," Don scolded softly before trying to redirect the discussion to more current and more pertinent issues. "Okay, so what happened to the operation? You lost contact with these men six months ago. And what? Shofield just disappeared?"

"He learned he was under investigation, so he went into hiding. We figured Ellison and Sandburg were already dead--"

"So you abandoned them," Captain Simon Banks angrily interjected.

"We had no leads, no information, nothing we could follow up on. We issued alerts against Shofield and those of his men Ellison's reports had identified, and we waited."

"Your waiting could cost two students their lives," Charlie argued. "Wasn't this exactly the kind of thing Homeland Security and the Patriot Act were supposed to prevent? It was this kind of non-communication that enabled the 9-11 terrorists to--"

Don grabbed his brother's arm. Then, hoping to avoid the eruption he could see simmering, he excused himself and dragged Charlie out of the room.

"What's gotten into you?" He demanded once they reached the corridor.

Charlie pulled away from Don's grip and started pacing while he tried to work out the kinks in his sore shoulder. "It's just ... it's the whole idea of our government acknowledging things like psychics and supermen."

"Wait a minute. Psychics? Is this about Kraft?"

Charlie stopped moving long enough to glare at his brother. "Like I said then: it's intangible; improvable; no better than throwing darts."

"Come on, Charlie. Without Kraft's help we might never have found that girl alive. You know that."

Charlie's glare intensified. "What I know is they screwed up. They gave a terrorist group six months to get their act together, and now two students could die."

"This isn't about the students."

Charlie went silent and still.

"Go home, Charlie," Don said softly. "Whether you admit it or not, you are still in shock from the bombing. ou need time to unwind. Believe me; I know what I'm talking about here." He smiled, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Amita was hit by shrapnel, Don. In the head. Can you imagine how bad it could have been for her? She only needed a couple of stitches, but.... Shrapnel, Don. At the university. That is not supposed to happen."

"No. It's not." Don reached out and gently squeezed his brother's good shoulder. "Let me take you home. They'll be fine in there without me for a while."

After a moment, Charlie shook his head. "No. You just ... you figure out what we need to do to catch these guys."

Don studied his brother's eyes and then nodded once. "Okay. But you go home, take those pain pills the doctor gave you and get some rest so you're ready to do your part when I call you."

"You sure you don't want to call Kraft?"

Seeing that Charlie was actually smiling, Don's own smile grew warmer, reaching his eyes. "You could kick his ass any day."

"Considering I'm about thirty years younger than he is, the odds would be in my favor."

Yet there was something about Charlie's eyes as he turned away. Charlie was feeling vulnerable. He was coping far better than he had a year ago, after a close call with a shooter in FBI headquarters left him afraid of "being afraid again," as Charlie had confessed to their father. Perhaps that close call had helped to prepare him for this one. Still, Charlie had never been trained to deal with close calls. Period. Why should he? He had always had Don and their father to protect him. Now Don wanted nothing more than to just glue himself to his brother's side, to not only take him home but stay there with him, watching over him until he knew he'd be okay.

Sighing, Don accepted that was not an option. There was a group of lunatics who thought they were supermen loose in the city, and someone Captain Banks said was a lot like Charlie had been their captive for the last six months.

Don reached for the conference room door unaware of the fact that the scope of conversations on the other side of the glass wall had shifted. By the time he stepped inside, the meeting was ending. Captain Banks had received notification that Detective Ellison was awake. It was time to get answers from the best source they could hope to find.

Chapter 9

Simon Banks was approaching the door to Jim's hospital room when he heard the welcome sound of a familiar voice complaining in a particularly non-welcoming manner.

"I understand all that," Jim Ellison said more loudly than he probably should have. "Just give me the damn form and let me sign it."

Simon was smiling by the time he reached the room. It was good to hear Jim, even if it was a cantankerous Jim he was hearing. But when he looked inside, Simon's smile vanished. Jim was having difficulty maneuvering the pen in his hand.

"Dammit," The detective complained as the pen slipped from his fingers.

Simon watched Jim struggle to grasp the thin object with his noticeably raw fingers.

The nurse beside Jim was watching as well. "How about if I--" She offered after a long, uncomfortable moment.

"I've got it," Jim cut her off; it sounded like a warning.

After another long, uncomfortable moment, the form was signed, although Simon felt reasonably sure the words must look more like chicken scratch than Jim's usually clean writing. The nurse slipped past Simon without giving the police captain a second glance while Jim struggled to finish fastening the belt on his pants, a task that was apparently no easier than signing his name had been.

"Jim," Simon said, realizing Jim had not yet noticed his presence.

When his friend looked up at him, Simon saw Jim's anger shift quickly to something that looked like relief, and then to pure frustration.

"Simon," Jim said. The word came out like a sigh.

"It's good to see you."

"Yeah." His expression as mixed as it had been a moment before, Jim now seemed to be caught between relief and despair. "You, too."

Both men spent the next few seconds alternately looking toward and away from one another. Simon could almost hear Blair Sandburg at his ear explaining how fascinating it was to observe such human behaviors in action. In contemporary social settings such as this, men are supposed to mask their emotional reactions. The police captain smiled sadly as he caught himself thinking like the younger man, and then he strode purposefully into the room. He put his hand on Jim's shoulder and squeezed.

"I'm glad you're okay."

Jim gazed back at him, but offered only a small, terse nod in return. He still seemed distant -- too distant -- so Simon did what he had rarely done to any man aside from his own, grown son; he wrapped his arms around his friend, drawing Jim into a warm embrace.

A moment later, after Simon pulled away, he caught a momentary glimpse of fluid in Jim's eyes even as he felt something similar in his own. The captain sniffed as Jim blinked the moisture away.

"Simon, I...," Jim paused briefly, perhaps to gather his thoughts. "We need to find Sandburg," He finished in a rush.

"I know."

"This Shofield, he's as dangerous as they come."

"I know."

Jim hesitated, finally seeming to notice that Simon might have information beyond what he knew himself. "What is it?"

"Someone set off a bomb at a student center building at the local university." Simon waited until he caught Jim's searching gaze in his own. "Sandburg's Swiss army knife was left behind."

"Shofield wouldn't do that."

"What? The bombing?"

"The message. Blair must have been there. He must have dropped it himself." The hint of a smile formed briefly on Jim's face. "He's still alive."

Letting his relief peek through with a small smile of his own, Simon nodded. "We'll find him."

Jim started struggling again with his buckle. "They'll have found a new hiding place. It will be inside Los Angeles, not outside. But we'll need to look for an area that's away from major congestion. It's probably--"

"Jim," Simon interrupted, holding up his hand. "We're not alone in this."

Now it was Jim's turn to be confused. "What do you mean?"

"A local FBI team has been fully briefed--"

Jim bristled, his jaw going taut.

"Hold on, Jim. We can't do this alone. First, we don't have any actual authority here. Second...." Simon paused, shaking his head incredulously. "This isn't like any group of feds we've ever worked with. I think I might even have convinced them that Sandburg is actually on our side."

Seeing the anger simmer in Jim's eyes, Simon did not give his friend an opportunity to speak until he added, "They might not be as anxious as we are to extract Blair, but they are definitely motivated to stop Shofield sooner rather than later."

Jim's questioning gaze silently encouraged Simon to continue.

"The team lead, Special Agent Don Eppes," The captain continued. "He has a brother, Charlie. Seems he's a professor at the university that was bombed."

That caught Jim's interest. "Was he injured?"

"Bruised up a bit, but nothing serious. And Jim...." Simon paused as he let a new smile creep back into place, lightening his demeanor. "This agent's brother, the professor, apparently he is often called in to consult with Eppes' team."

"You're not going to tell me he's an anthropologist."

Simon shook his head. "Mathematician."

A tiny smile curled the edges of Jim's mouth -- but it disappeared in an instant when his fumbling attempts simply could not get his belt buckled.

"You sure you ought to leave here?" Simon asked.

"You're damned right, I'm sure," Jim barked in response.

"Look, Jim, I--"

"They're numb, Simon." Jim held his hands up in front of him as he shouted back at his friend, who stifled a shudder at the red, raw looking tips of Jim's fingers. "I can't feel a damn thing."

"Judging by the look of things, that's probably good, Jim. But I'm sure the medication will wear off s--"

"It's not medication." Jim sighed. "At least, I don't think it's the result of any medication." He shook his head in frustration. "It's not just my hands. It's everything. My sense of touch, it's ... it's almost non-existent."

"Jim, you were in an extended zone-out, as Sandburg would call it, for five days. It'll probably take some time to readjust."

"Maybe, but I .... I don't know, Simon."

"What about your other senses? Did you really not notice me in the doorway?"

Jim shook his head and then took a deep breath. "I just, I wasn't paying attention. No, I think everything else is okay. It's just my sense of touch."

"Good. 'Cause Jim? We can't catch these guys without your senses."

Chapter 10

Charlie Eppes did not know whether he was angry or relieved when he learned that Detective Ellison had already briefed the FBI on the strange little army Shofield was attempting to create. Don had not bothered to invite his brother to attend. Was he trying to protect Charlie, or just to keep him off the case? Charlie figured it was probably a little of both; after all, he was still having difficulty dealing with the bombing at the university -- and he was still stunned by the FBI's casual acceptance of the concept of sentinels. Not only had they already found published articles completely discrediting a thesis about sentinels written by Ellison's missing partner, Blair Sandburg, the mathematical probabilities of even one man having the kind of heightened senses reported in Ellison's case file were less than anyone's likelihood of winning the lottery. Yet here was a man who had supposedly amassed an army of not one, but eleven of these so-called sentinels. And Don was already accepting Ellison's word on the entire matter as fact.

"Hey, Charlie," His dad greeted as Charlie came through the front door. "Amita called, looking for you. She said you missed a meeting at the university."

Charlie found himself glancing down at the floor and realized he must look like a teenager caught in a lie. He tried to straighten his back, and then nodded once. "I, ah, took a walk."

"A walk? You missed a meeting for a walk?"

Shutting the door behind him, Charlie hurried past his father and headed toward the kitchen. "I just needed some air. And the meeting ... it wasn't important."

"Well, it was important enough for Amita to try to find out where you were."

Though he could not see his father's gaze, Charlie felt it on his back. It pulled at him like a magnet, preventing him from crossing the kitchen's threshold.

"She's worried about you," Alan Eppes continued. "She thinks you might be avoiding the campus."

Charlie turned. He sighed heavily in defeat, knowing it was useless to hide. "I just ... I keep seeing ... I keep hearing that explosion. And I keep seeing ... people ... bodies ... and ... and Amita with all that blood on her face."

"She's okay, Charlie. You know that."

"Yeah. But not everyone was that lucky."

Alan moved closer to his son and placed his hand on Charlie's shoulder. After a moment, he said, "Why don't you talk with that counselor Donny recommended? It's nothing to be ashamed of. What you experienced, it was a terrible thing."

Charlie shrugged away from his father's grip and escaped to the refrigerator.

"The FBI, they hire these counselors for a reason," Alan continued.

"I know."

"People need help dealing with things like that."

"Yes, I know. But--"

"Even Don."

Charlie closed his eyes. And then he closed the refrigerator door and leaned into it, pressing his forehead against the cool surface. "The only thing I need help understanding is how everyone can be so ... rational ... about it. How is it that even Amita is able to get back to normal, as though it never happened?"

He heard his father sigh behind him. "People deal with bad things in their own ways, Charlie. And in their own time. Some people focus hard on getting back to normal. A little too hard, sometimes, but that's their way of coping. But Charlie, you're not coping. You're not even being ... Charlie."

Confused, he turned around to face his father.

"Usually when something upsets you, you're out there filling chalk boards and memo boards and every scrap of paper you can find with equations and formulas. You try solving unsolvable problems, or you calculate out whatever problem gets into your head. You told me one time, you remember when Don tried to pull you off that case awhile back to keep you from getting targeted? You told me you couldn't just drop it. You said the numbers were in your head anyway, so you might as well write them down. But Charlie, you're not doing any of that now."

What could he say? How could he respond? His father was right. Charlie wasn't even sure who 'Charlie' was anymore.

"Frankly," His dad continued, "I think Amita's right to be worried. I'm worried, too."

"I'm fine. I'll be ... fine."

"Sure. You will be fine. Eventually. But not until you admit that you're not fine now, and you start getting some help."

A long moment passed. Neither seemed to know what to say next, where to go with this conversation, or even how to end it. Then Alan clapped his son -- a little too hard -- on Charlie's sore shoulder. "Okay. We can start small. How about I make us some lunch? You go out there, turn on the TV, read the paper, just relax. Okay?"

Sighing heavily, feeling lighter somehow, Charlie walked away. He soon found himself flipping through television channels aimlessly, mindlessly, until he landed on the local news and a story about an odd string of thefts from the night before. And then it was as though someone had flicked a switch in his head. The numbers were coming back.

He jumped out of his chair and grabbed the newspaper, looking for statistics the TV had not reported. Minutes later, leaving pages scattered across both the table and the floor, he was back at his board, calculating something that just might help Don track down his missing army of so-called sentinels.

* * *

For the first time in months, Blair was treated like a true prisoner. He was locked into a back room of the warehouse with nothing more than an old steel desk and a stained office chair that sat slightly askew on wheels that no longer moved in synch. The walls and floor were coated with black grime, presumably from the emissions of fork-lifts from the warehouse's former life. And the only window was at least twenty feet over his head. It barely even let in a ray of sunlight; grime covered it as well.

Yet, somehow, Blair was relieved. Spending so much time never knowing whether Shofield would congratulate or punish him had left him permanently on edge. At least now he knew with a degree of certainty where he stood in Shofield's eyes.

"You have done everything I could hope for, Mr. Sandburg," Shofield had told him the night before. "Even more. Tonight's triumphs prove that my men are now fully trained. Each and every one of them is ready to fulfill his calling -- and mine."

Blair's stomach had churned painfully at that statement. It wasn't until Shofield began discussing his own theory about guides and sentinels that Blair's fear gave way to his own call for action.

"Guides are teachers," Shofield had said. "You, yourself have proved that. But, Mr. Sandburg, there must come a time in everyone's education when the student becomes his own master. The guide/sentinel partnership that you have spouted off about for so long -- it's a myth. One created most likely from your own desires."

"What?" Blair had shouted without thinking. "You've read Burton's journal. You've seen all of my notes. Even Incacha recognized the importance of that link. Every sentinel needs a guide. This eleven-to-one ratio of yours, it never worked as it should. Without the proper relationship, it's only a matter of time before one of them goes too far, too deep. Without a guide, he could end up permanently--"

"Yes, yes," Shofield interrupted, chuckling in amusement. "You're thinking of course about Ms. Barnes. But my men are well aware they must stay clear of temples and mystical grottos -- neither of which are likely to turn up in Los Angeles."

"There's more to it than that. You know there is."

"What I know, Mr. Sandburg, is that my men proved themselves tonight. And they did it on their own, without your guidance. Until or unless I see otherwise, I believe your services are no longer required."

And so Blair was locked in this damp, grimy cell. If one of Shofield's sentinels did not have a major zone-out soon, this could be the end of the line for Blair Sandburg. Exactly what that might mean for his own health -- his own life -- remained an unknown he did not particularly relish pondering. Nonetheless, the stress of the past months seemed to have finally reached a pinnacle. Everything else would be downhill from here. Such thoughts gaveBlair a sense of peace he had come to believe he would never know again.

"Jim," He whispered to the room's stilled echoes as he closed his eyes to reach elsewhere, to a place where the trees were lush and green and the ways of the shaman remained unspoiled. He had no idea whether Jim was still out there, whether he was even alive. Blair had only a feeling, a sense that their link had not been severed, that it perhaps had suddenly grown stronger. "It's over," He said to that link, to that feeling. "I think it's finally over. I'm sorry it had to come this far, sorry that our partnership wasn't strong enough to overcome these odds. And the fact that Shofield won, that he actually succeeded in poisoning such a profound legacy -- I can't even define for myself how sick it makes me feel inside. But...." He took a deep breath and then felt it flow back out of him, taking with it a heavy burden. He could finally, truly breathe. "It's okay," He continued. "At least ... it's over."

Blair knew Jim could not hear him, not physically anyway. He also knew there were others present, ten others to be exact, who probably could hear him. It didn't matter. Not one of those others would care.

No, not a single one -- two, on the other hand did care. And soon those two would convince even more. The guide/sentinel bond was strong, after all -- perhaps far stronger than Shofield himself could ever understand.

Chapter 11

Don Eppes looked at the map Charlie had put up in the conference room, and -- not for the first time -- he felt a strong sense of pride and amazement at the kind of things his brother could accomplish just by connecting with numbers. This time, Charlie might well have given them their first real, tangible lead. Even Jim Ellison appeared to be impressed.

"How is it you came to think these robberies might be connected with Shofield?" The detective asked, referring to an odd crime spree that had been reported from the night before.

Charlie's animosity toward Ellison seemed to be softening, or maybe it was just that Charlie's math gave him the support he needed whenever he was forced to face something no equation could really explain -- something like the idea of sentinels. Whatever the reason, Charlie responded to Ellison's question no differently than he would have if Don himself had raised it.

"They all took place in a single, two hour time period, between midnight and two a.m. This factor alone could allow for the possibility of coincidence. However, when you also consider that not a trace of evidence was found at any of the crime scenes, and in every case security systems were compromised without causing any visible damage, the probabilities change dramatically. We're looking at ten crimes and ten crime scenes, none of which fits the common patterns for a typical break-in. I'm sure you would all agree these crimes were committed by professionals, or at least by people who were well trained."

Animated now, Charlie turned back to the map. "Although there was no direct connection between any of the targets, each and every one was just beyond the city limits. You can see here that when we look at the locations all together, they actually form a pattern, encircling the city. All I needed to do was calculate a single point of origin, based on constraints such as time and transportation to and from each crime scene. Ultimately, those calculations lead us right here, to this warehouse district on the Boyle Heights, East LA border."

Cascade's Captain Banks appeared to be confused. "But how did you link any of this to Shofield?"

Charlie smiled. "There were ten robberies. Based on the two hour period during which each one occurred and the meticulous nature of the break-ins, the odds of even two of them being perpetrated by the same person are--"

"Spare us the numbers, Charlie," Don cut in. "Just tell us it would be virtually impossible."

"Okay." Charlie shrugged. "That's pretty much correct. But 'never,' 'always' and 'impossible' are words I would not necessarily use in describing calculations associated with odds. Let's just say it would be extremely improbable."

"Ten robberies," Banks concluded, "and ten sentinels."

The expression on Charlie's face turned then, if only for a moment. His jaw tightened. His gaze moved downward. An instant later, he offered up a brief nod without fully raising his head. "Exactly." He acknowledged finally, though his smile was gone.

"And based on what Detective Ellison said about ..." Charlie paused to clear his throat and then looked back to the map. "About these sentinels...," He over-emphasized the word. There was a sudden twitch in his shoulders, as though his entire body struggled against accepting the concept of living, breathing sentinels. "About how we could expect them to be territorial, it all fit into a pattern. We could expect them to strike anywhere except within city limits."

Megan Reeves turned to the detective seated across from her after Charlie was finished speaking. "Detective Ellison, based on the capabilities you've been telling us these men possess, does it make sense to you that they could have been involved with crimes of this nature?"

Ellison nodded. "Absolutely. Professor Eppes is dead on target with all of this." He spoke with what appeared to be genuine respect. "Last night was a test. Shofield's ready to make a move, and it won't be small. We've got to bring him down. And we'd better do it now."

Smiling, Megan turned to Don's brother. "You have no idea what you've just done, Charlie. But you have actually pinpointed the exact same area Detective Ellison recommended to us just a little while ago, based on his experience with Shofield. Good job."

Charlie gave her a quick, small smile. But then he seemed to close back in on himself. His explanation complete, he had suddenly lost his crutch. Mathematical probabilities and sentinels, to him, must be like oil and water. Or maybe American football in a European stadium might provide a better analogy; they simply could not coexist.

* * *

Jim Ellison could tell Professor Eppes was having difficulty accepting his sentinel capabilities. It didn't matter. The kid knew his stuff. His calculations would allow Agent Eppes and his team to authorize a stake-out -- an official one anyway, unlike the one Cascade's crew had already set up. This might even enable Don's team to get a warrant once they identified a specific location.

Jim was prepared to approach the young mathematician to express his appreciation when the jazzy tones emanating from Simon's cell phone drew Jim's full attention.

"Connor," Simon answered. "What have you got?"

"Bodies, Captain," Jim could hear Megan Connor reply. "What we've got are bodies."

* * *

The revolt began somewhere around dawn.

Blair could see a pale light seeping through the dirty windows above him as the blackness of night began to fade. Despite his discomfort from the cold, hard floor beneath him, he had managed to fall into a deep sleep after coming to accept that his work with Shofield was finished. This tiny sliver of not-quite-sunlight was not enough to have interrupted that sleep. He lay quietly, unmoving, and listened for a sound, any sound, something to let him know why he had been roused; but he heard nothing, not even the approach of the man whose hand then closed around Blair's mouth.

For a moment, instinct caused Blair to struggle. Then hope caused him to go still as a soft voice -- scarcely even a whisper -- blew hot, moist air into his ear. "We're getting you out of here," Was all it said. It was enough.

Jim? Blair wondered briefly, until his brain reminded him there were others. Like Jim, this man was a familiar presence, a sentinel under Blair's own guidance. Unlike Jim, this man had never become a true partner, and certainly not a friend.

The recognition gave Blair little comfort as he allowed the man he'd only known as Delta 7 to lead him through the remaining darkness to the large room's only door. They stopped at the entry for a count of twenty staccato heartbeats, and then slid into a black corridor -- at least Blair had considered it black until he saw an even darker blackness pull away from the far wall. Blair gasped and the frenzied, tribal drummer in his chest began playing an impossible tempo, one that threatened to begin echoing throughout the warehouse, maybe even throughout the city.

A strange, sudden smile crossed his face as Blair considered his heart might even be beating loudly enough to alarm his own, real sentinel.

An instant later the smile vanished as the black mountain moving toward him took hold of his upper arm. Alpha 9, Blair realized. This mountain was the largest, deadliest of all Shofield's sentinels. Could it really be possible he was there to help Blair?

Saying nothing, Alpha 9 gazed toward Delta 7 and gave a small nod, one only made visible by the thin reflection of light in his eyes, and then Blair was given over to the larger man's care.

They had moved only a few steps when a door opened up at the far end of the corridor, spilling a wash of gray light across the shadows. Had that been the work of Delta 7? The tightening of Alpha 9's grip as Blair was forced against the wall suggested it was not.

"Gentlemen," Shofield's honeyed, disembodied voice called in. "Does one, small guide truly bear so much more value to you than all of the Brotherhood?"

The grip on Blair's arm increased yet again.

"You disappoint me." Shofield's voice continued. "But you must realize you can never surprise me. Traitors cannot possibly succeed in this, special Brotherhood. We are one for all, or we are nothing. And you, gentlemen, have proved you are each for one, and therefore you are nothing. We shall oblige you of that fate now."

Alpha 9's grip went slack. Blair felt more than saw the large man's arm raise toward his head. And then the man was on his knees, crying out against an agony that was mirrored by another just a few feet away, yet still caught in darkness: Delta 7.

"What are you doing to them?" Blair shouted as he pulled himself out of the cover of the remaining night. "Stop it. Turn it off."

When the light from beyond the outer door became diffused, Blair turned to find a group of men advancing toward him. Sound canceling headphones on each of them could almost have marked them as humanoid aliens, if Blair had not already been so certain they were what remained of the Brotherhood. The small figure at their center could only be Shofield.

Blair regarded him with disgust, and then knelt beside Alpha 9. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder. Bending close to his ear, "Dial it down," he prodded. "Remember your dials. You can do this. You have to dial it down."

But it appeared to be no use. Alpha 9 began rocking back and forth, his hands locked firmly against his ears.

"Do you see?" Shofield said.

His voice was close, too close, as he came to stand directly behind Blair. Blair stiffened, but ignored him.

"Your services are no longer required," Shofield continued. "Your value has been spent. It is all in the hands of the Brotherhood now."

Another beefy hand grabbed hold of Blair's arm and pulled him to his feet until he was face-to-face with an overly smug Shofield.

The self-appointed general smiled. "You will be--"

But something unseen and unheard clearly interrupted the old man's thoughts. His eyes went wide as he gasped. And then he sank to the floor, collapsing in a heap.

The new grip on Blair's arm loosened, as, for a brief second, the crowd of sentinels seemed caught in a state of shock and bewilderment. In that instant, Blair looked to the man at his feet. Shofield had, literally, been stabbed in the back.

When time started up again, Blair Sandburg came to witness the total collapse of the Brotherhood as sentinel attacked sentinel. He could do nothing except watch and wonder whether he, himself, would be able to survive the battle.

Chapter 12

As he stepped into the abandoned warehouse behind Don Eppes' team, Jim was beyond the point of being on edge. He could already feel Sandburg's recent presence. He could equally feel his partner's current absence. Blair had been there, maybe as recently as an hour ago. But Jim was too late. Although Megan and Taggart had spent the past several hours parked barely a block away, they had all been too late.

Still, there were other reasons for Jim's edginess. Other sentinels had been there as well -- had been there and gone. Only half of Shofield's army remained where Jim could find them. Though they were dead, Jim could still sense them, could still recognize fragments of what they had been, fragments that toyed with his senses like sentient dust motes sent to mock him. Jim's entire body tingled from the touch of those fragments, almost to the point of pain. Perhaps there would have been pain if Jim's skin hadn't been numb since he'd awakened in the hospital. The lack of pain was probably the only thing that kept Jim sane when his gaze landed on the lifeless body of Mick Shofield.

"Jim?" Connor called out to him from deeper inside the building.

He could not bring himself to turn his gaze from Shofield. Jim could feel his jaw locking shut while his hands curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to -- needed to bend down and beat Shofield's face into a bloody pulp. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that the self-appointed general was already dead. Jim would have to find another outlet for his vengeance.

"Jim?" Connor said again a moment later, this time from right beside him.

He stiffened further as her hand landed gently on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Jim. But you know, there wasn't a sound, not a single thing to cue us in to what was happening here. When we saw the white van pull away, we called Henri and Rafe to get them on it. Then we came in here, and--" She stopped, her own focus given back to the grim discovery. "I'm sorry, Jim," She repeated then. "We should have gone after the van, but what if Sandy had been in here? We couldn't know; we had no way to--"

Jim placed his other hand over hers and finally allowed himself to meet her gaze. "You did exactly what you should have done. That the van got past Rafe and H only shows they know the area better than any of us. If Eppes' team had been here instead, then maybe--"

"We were close," Don Eppes interrupted. "We almost had that warrant. They just keep getting two steps ahead of us."

"Not your fault, either," Jim said. But his gaze had gone blank; his entire being felt numb within a shell of wary tingling.

"I need a medic over here," The other Megan, Megan Reeves called out from where she'd been examining the dead sentinels. "This one's alive."

No, Jim realized, though he chose to remain silent. Maybe that one had been alive, but not anymore. Jim had sensed the change, had felt his tenseness ease up ever so slightly. One more sentinel had left this world, giving Jim one less enemy to stand in the way of finding Blair Sandburg.

"He grabbed my wrist," Reeves said as the medics confirmed Jim's diagnosis." And he said something."

"What'd he say?" Don asked.

"Ninety-seven ... nine ... twenty-four."

"That's it? Just a series of numbers?"

"That's it."

"It's a code," Jim said, locking his eyes on the peaceful, empty gaze of the young Japanese man at his feet. Bravo 6, Shofield had called him. But as the youngest member of this deadly brotherhood, he had been the most talkative, the least shielded of any of them; and Jim had come to know him as Shinji. Jim had even dared to believe he might be able to lead Shinji away from Shofield's pull. But that had been before -- before Shofield had chosen to cut and run, leaving Jim for dead in a rotting barn and severing any hope Jim might have had for Shinji, and maybe also for Blair Sandburg.

"Detective?"

Jim felt a strong hand land on his shoulder. He shook his head, drew a deep breath and then looked toward the concerned gaze of Don Eppes.

"You said it was a code. What did you mean by that?" Eppes asked. "What kind of code?"

"Shofield created new codes for them to learn every other week. He could have cut it down to every week by now; it's hard to say."

"So what did he mean by ninety-seven, nine and twenty-four?" Eppes was looking down at Shinji.

"I don't know," Jim answered frankly. "I was always kept out of the loop. Even when he pretended to trust me, Shofield only gave me part of the latest codes."

"That's all right," Megan Reeves interrupted. "If anyone can break a code of numbers, Charlie can. Why don't you head back to FBI headquarters and see what the two of you can come up with?"

Her tone was light, casual; but Jim knew she was playing him. As a profiler, Reeves was a trained observer. Surely she had noted the tight set of Jim's shoulders, the darkness in his eyes. She wanted Jim away from there. She wanted him in a controlled setting, in a place where his link with Sandburg would not be challenged, where his desperation for vengeance would not be tempted.

Jim could almost agree with her, but he couldn't leave, not yet, not as long as the tingling continued. And in the instant Reeves mentioned Don's Eppes' brother, that tingling even seemed to intensify. Jim felt the touch of ice along his neck. He then felt a soundless calling from behind him and spun about to see a coyote standing near the door. Its mouth opened in a mocking smile, the animal's gaze was locked on Shinji, the newly deceased sentinel. And then its eyes were drawn to Jim.

When it turned and ran outside, Jim sprinted after it. His feet skidded on loose gravel as he slid across the threshold. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the onslaught of the bright, LA sun, he scanned the horizon for the coyote. Instead, he saw a dark sedan peeling onto the main road nearly a mile away. A cloud of dust trailed behind it as it exited the industrial complex. Following the sedan would be useless; it was already too far away. Whatever sentinel had been driving had not needed to be close to hear what was being said inside the warehouse. And there were no license plates, no markings of any kind to help Eppes' team track him down.

"Damn it," Jim shouted. He turned around aimlessly, kicking at gravel as anger and frustration roiled inside him. And then he threw everything he had into a wild punch at the warehouse's steel door.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Don Eppes soothed. "Beating yourself up is not going to help us find your partner."

"You said it yourself," Jim yelled back. "They're always two damn steps ahead of us."

"Now, maybe," Eppes answered. "But not always. We'll catch up. And the sooner you and Charlie can solve that code, the faster we can get them. You up to doing that, Detective?"

Jim closed his eyes and tried to force oxygen into his lungs. A moment later, he nodded.

"Good." Eppes acknowledged the subtle gesture. "Now let me see your hand."

Jim's right hand was already swelling. His knuckles were red, raw. Blood trickled along his fingers. He didn't feel any of it.

Chapter 13

Uncomfortably balanced on a stack of wooden pallets, Blair kept his eyes closed as the van bounced along uneven roadways. He tried to center himself, tried to move past the throbbing in his head, the taste of bile in his throat, as he wondered yet again whether or not he should be grateful to the men who had tossed him into the back of Shofield's delivery van after the sentinels' little civil war had come to a brutal end.

Fully half of Shofield's army was now dead, including the general himself. Delta 7 had been quickly and efficiently killed with a blade drawn across his jugular while he struggled against the agonizingly piercing sound waves Shofield had ordered to be broadcast. Alpha 9, however, had survived. Blair might even have helped him to stay alive by guiding him to his inner dials. But who had he really helped? And to what purpose?

Opening his eyes, Blair studied the man seated across from him.

"How's the hearing?" He asked.

Alpha 9 inclined his head to silently acknowledge that his hearing was fine. "How's your head?" The larger man asked then in return.

"Fine," Blair answered quickly. In fact, his head hurt like hell. Whatever had connected with it had dropped him like a rock, and the way his ears were ringing and his stomach was churning, he was pretty confident he had a minor concussion.

"You held your own back there," Alpha 9 said then. "Long enough to survive, at least."

Blair could not stop himself from providing a sarcastic reply. "Yeah, well, I did witness six months' worth of Shofield's training exercises. Even if I didn't participate, I'd be a pretty lousy anthropologist if I didn't learn something along the way."

Surprisingly, Alpha 9 smiled. It was a small upward turning of his lips, but a smile nonetheless.

"It's over now, right?" Blair decided to ask.

Another small nod indicated something was, indeed, over.

Still, Blair felt hesitant. "You can let me off anywhere. I don't care if it's in the middle of frickin' nowhere so I couldn't possibly recognize where any of you were headed, just as long as I'm finally left on my own."

Alpha 9 did nothing but stare at him. After a moment, the man even closed his eyes.

"You are going to let me off, right?"

There was no reply.

Blair turned to the other man also riding in the back of the van. He might as well have not even existed.

"It's over, man," Blair insisted. "Over. You don't need me anymore."

"You're wrong," Alpha 9 said finally.

"What? What could you possibly need me for?"

There was that hint of a smile again. "Shofield showed us what we were capable of. You can show us who we are, and why we are this way."

"How? How could I possibly do that?"

"You are the only man living who knows exactly where sentinels originated; the only one who can guide us through the grotto."

"What? No way. You know what happened to Alex Barnes. It's way too dangerous."

"That's why we need you. You can guide us past the dangers and help us to connect with what we are meant to be."

"And if I refuse?"

Alpha 9 continued smiling.

Blair's stomach churned more fiercely than before.

* * *

Night had fallen and they were no closer to solving the code. Still, Charlie Eppes showed no signs of slowing down. Three memo-boards and multiple pieces of paper were filled with notes, and the conference room walls were covered in maps showing every location Shofield had been known to occupy in and around Los Angeles.

The farm where Jim had been abandoned was not excluded as a point of reference. Jim stared at the red circle marking it and envisioned himself punching a hole through it, right down into the hay he could almost smell. It seemed ironic to see his hand already bandaged.

"Jim?" Simon's voice pulled him out of such useless thoughts. "We're headed down to meet Eppes and his team for a bite to eat. Why don't you and Charlie join us?"

Charlie didn't even seem to be paying attention. The way his hand was moving across the memo-board writing symbols and numbers made Jim think of a manic artist--or of his own partner's incessant talking as new ideas began to form. Considering the obvious, lingering pain in Charlie's shoulder--the only thing that came even close to slowing him down--it was amazing to watch Charlie Eppes at work.

"Thanks, Simon," Jim said, keeping his eyes on the mathematician. "But I'd rather not walk away from this. We're close. We have to be." It was a lie, but a worthwhile lie nonetheless. Maybe a little positive thinking would somehow give them an edge.

Simon cast an extended glance toward the professor. "It looks impressive, anyway." He smiled and shook his head. "We'll bring you something back."

When Simon shut the door behind him, Jim finally turned his gaze to watch his captain walk away. He could almost envision the bullpen back at Cascade's Major Crimes. That was where they should be--all of them, including Sandburg.

"This makes no sense," Charlie complained then. He threw the marker he'd been using onto the table so hard it jumped back up and ultimately landed on the floor. "Are you sure you told me everything?" He said to Jim, wincing as he tried to loosen up the stiffness in his shoulder. "I mean everything; every place you know Shofield either occupied, visited or even just talked about?"

"Yes," Jim answered flatly.

Charlie focused his attention on the three numbers Megan had heard Shinji say. "The codes Shofield used were simple. Based on the few examples you were able to give me, it's clear he used common elements such as GPS coordinates and times from different time zones. Even though he shifted the basis of the codes, he held to those two elements in each example. I'm guessing his primary purpose was to develop a code his men could remember without too much difficulty. Clearly he wasn't too concerned about preventing spy agencies from cracking them, because they should be relatively simple."

"Should be?" Jim asked.

Charlie seemed surprised when he turned back around to face Jim. Had he forgotten Jim was there?

"Yes," Charlie said then. "Yes, they should be simple. But every time I try to put it together, I come up with a location that has absolutely nothing to do with anything we've referenced here."

"What location?"

"Somewhere in the middle of a jungle, in the middle of Peru."

Jim went cold. "Call your brother. Call Don. Now."

"What? Why?"

"Tell him to check the airports, especially charters."

"What? You think they're on their way to Peru?"

"I know that's where they're headed."

Charlie's look went from confused to disturbed. "What haven't you told me?"

But before Jim could answer, he felt a familiar chill along the back of his neck. He focused his sense of hearing as he turned to scan the empty offices beyond the glass-walled conference room, but there were too many papers blocking his view.

"Get down," He said softly to the young man behind him.

"What? What do you mean 'get down'? I still need to know why they would be on their way to Peru."

"They're not, not yet."

"But you just said--"

"I said, 'get down'." Jim rushed toward Charlie and pulled him to the floor just as a bullet pierced the glass wall in front of them. It punched a hole in the middle of the farm Jim had been haunted by, and embedded itself into the memo-board where Charlie had been working.

"They haven't left yet because one of them is right here," Jim whispered to the stunned mathematician, "and none of them is the self-sacrificing type. Now call you brother. And whatever you do, stay down."

"What," Charlie said shakily, "what are you going to do?"

Two more bullets sprayed bits of glass and paper across the room.

"Whatever I can to see that we both survive this," Jim answered as he reached toward the room's rear door. His fingers were still too numb to turn the doorknob.

"Sorry, professor," Jim said then. "But it looks like you're going to have to come with me; and you're going to have to do everything I say. When I say 'move,' you move. Got that?"

Charlie studied him for a moment before giving a small nod.

"Good. Now open this door, and move." Sensing they had run out of time for stealth, Jim shouted that last word and pushed Charlie out the door an instant before the intruder burst into the room from the other side.

Chapter 14

Simon Banks and the rest of the Cascade contingent were still barely a block away from FBI headquarters when Don Eppes phoned Rafe, whose number had been the first one programmed into the agent's speed dial.

"I just got a strange call from Charlie," Eppes said. "Something's going down at headquarters. We're on our way back now."

"What's happening?" Rafe asked. "It was quiet when we left there no more than ten minutes ago." He shifted the phone away from his mouth and told the rest of the van's occupants, "We need to go back."

"It's not good, whatever it is," Came the agent's answer on the other end of the line. "There may have been shots fired. Security's checking it out."

By the time they returned to the building, it was being evacuated. Simon was able to catch pieces of conversations among evacuees discussing rumors about the cause. Some might even have gotten it right. At least it sounded credible that a gunman had taken over an entire floor and was holding a couple of hostages.

It didn't sound good, but it did sound credible.

Two hostages. Simon repeated silently before adding under his breath, "Jim and Charlie Eppes." Then he shouted to a guard who was refusing his team entry, "Ellison's one of ours. We need to get up there."

Unfortunately, Simon's stated need was not clearly enough evident to the federal people taking charge of the situation. No matter how authoritative or sincere he presented himself to be, it wasn't until Don Eppes arrived that the proper clearances were granted. By then, Simon's pacing had practically worn trenches in the concrete.

* * *

"Echo 1-0," the intruder shouted playfully. "What is your position?" He laughed. "Come on, Detective Ellison. You know it doesn't matter where you go, where you try to hide. I can hear you. Hell, I can smell you. Mr. Professor over there, too. It's not even a game of cat and mouse. I could shoot you both, right now, just like fish in a barrel. These bullets can go right through that steel desk, and smack dab into Einstein's brain."

Jim recognized him by his accent: Foxtrot 3, a Texan suffering from an overactive sense of entitlement.

"Then why don't you?" Jim asked.

Charlie's eyes widened. Jim could smell the younger man's fear, could feel as well as hear the erratic beat of his heart. Raising his good hand -- or at least his better hand -- Jim put one finger to his own lips and nodded before raising his other fingers in the universal gesture for "wait." The intent was to get the mathematician to understand there was no way Jim was going to let him get shot. Whether or not the message actually got through as intended was a question he had no time to consider as Foxtrot continued his tirade.

"You really expect me to believe Mr. Save-the-World doesn't care whether or not the professor dies here today?"

"No," Jim answered, still studying Charlie. "I just asked what's stopping you from shooting us both."

"Stand up," The intruder ordered. "I want to see the super sentinel."

"Why?"

"I have an offer to make you. I'd like to make it face-to-face."

Jim hesitated.

"Come on. You already know I'm not ready to shoot you. If I was going to, I would have done it by now."

Knowing full well that not ready didn't necessarily mean won't, Jim glanced at Charlie. Could this particular professor be anywhere near as quick-thinking as Sandburg? Blair Sandburg could always be counted on to back Jim up. Half the time it was almost as though Blair was reading Jim's mind; the other half just proved that Blair was damn good at improvising. He would use whatever tools were at hand to throw or push or drop onto a perp while keeping himself protected.

But that was Blair. This man here was Charlie Eppes, a stranger to sentinels and especially to sentinel ways of thinking. Jim had no way of knowing how Charlie would react. Would he do something stupid to put himself unwittingly in danger if Jim left his side? Or would the mathematician's history in dealing with FBI protocols have sufficiently grounded him to deal with the stresses inherent in life-threatening situations?

Taking a gamble on the later scenario, Jim signed for Charlie to stay down, while he, himself, rose to face his challenger.

"Okay," Jim said, keeping his voice lowered to a conversational tone despite the nearly thirty foot gap that separated him from the other sentinel. "You've got my attention. But before we talk, why don't you let the professor go? He's not part of this."

The tall, blonde man on the other side of the room smiled with a show of brilliantly white teeth. "Not a chance. He broke the code."

"So?" Jim shrugged. "If he hadn't done it, someone else would have. You probably even heard him mention how simple it was."

"Doesn't matter. It's protocol. He broke the code. Have to take him out before he shares the intel."

"Don't be stupid. The information has already been compromised; had been from the moment Shinji gave us those numbers."

"Not my problem."

"You're in an FBI building for Christs sake, and you can count on the fact that this kid's brother is right outside, already waiting for a chance to take you out. All you'll end up doing is signing your own death warrant."

"You see, that's where you're wrong. We can beat 'em. We can always beat 'em." Foxtrot pointed to a camera in the ceiling. "Their eyes and ears are based on wires and gizmos; we fried 'em in no time at all. They're all blind, deaf and dumb."

We? Jim thought. Did that mean they were all here, somewhere -- all of them, including Sandburg?

"But ours," Foxtrot pointed to his ear, "ours are the genu-ine thing, a true miracle of nature." He made an exaggerated show of sniffing at the air. "Smell that? The sweet, sweet smell of superiority. Shofield had it all wrong."

"If he had it all wrong, why are you so concerned about following his protocols?"

Foxtrot laughed. "You think you're so smart. But you never even once considered how far you could take this, did you? We weren't meant to be no army at someone's beck and call. We can be gods. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. We're goin' to that ol' grotto of yours. I'm giving you the chance to come with us."

"Why would I?"

Foxtrot shrugged and scratched his head. "Thought maybe you'd like a little reunion with that runt guide of yours."

* * *

Charlie saw Detective Ellison go rigid. The intruder had clearly struck a nerve. But what could Ellison do? The detective had one broken hand and another that was still so raw and numb he couldn't even open a door on his own. Using a gun was out of the question. Facing down a gunman from thirty feet away without any means of defense -- well, useless described the whole situation quite well. Maybe Ellison could keep the man talking long enough to enable Don to do something. Or maybe not. Charlie took a deep breath realizing this new thought seemed to offer as much hope as Ellison providing any real defense. The probabilities were just too strong on the other side of the equation.

For a moment Charlie began calculating likely trajectories for when the bullets did start flying again, but such numbers did nothing to make him feel any less tense. He had to do something. He couldn't just cower behind a desk while Ellison tried to talk them to freedom. The odds of talking down a gunman who had been determined enough in the first place to try to shoot someone in the middle of FBI headquarters in the middle of Los Angeles....

Charlie took another deep breath and decided to focus on a more optimistic series of equations, like the odds of him being able to reach the rear exit while Ellison kept the gunman occupied. The only problem with that option was while it might help Charlie to get free, it would leave Ellison completely on his own. On the other hand, the gunman had seemed far more interested in shooting Charlie than Ellison, so Ellison seemed to be at less of a risk than Charlie was himself.

He decided to go for it. All he needed to do was stay at ground level. The angles would keep him completely invisible from the perspective of the gunman. As long as he didn't bang into something to draw the man's attention, he should be fine. It was also highly likely that agents were already posted at that rear door, so all Charlie had to do was get there. It should be no problem at all.

"Don't do it!" Ellison yelled.

Charlie stopped cold, thinking the detective had aimed the words at him. But seeing that Ellison's focus remained on the gunman, he gave himself a moment to calm his racing heart, and then started crawling forward once more.

"You shoot him," Ellison continued, "I swear Ill tear you apart; and the only reason I'll keep you alive is so his brother can finish the job."

"I told him not to move!" The gunman shouted back. "You think I can't hear you moving, Mr. Professor? You think I can't tell exactly where you are?"

The gun fired. An explosion of metal shards from the desk beside Charlie pelted him with tiny fragments of shrapnel, a piece of which buried itself in his eyebrow. How the hell could the gunman have known he moved? There was no way he could have seen Charlie. The angles were all in Charlie's favor, and there wasn't a single reflective surface Charlie could see that could have given his position away.

"You're already on borrowed time, Professor," The gunman said. "Do that again, and next time I promise you I will kill you."

Charlie froze. He was afraid even to breathe.

But Ellison moved. The detective started forward, toward the gunman.

"You won't get a next time, you son of a bitch," He said, his tone low and menacing. "Why don't you put that gun down and end this with me right now, one-on-one?"

"Come on, man. What do you care? He's nothing, nobody. He's not like us. We are the future, Ellison. Come with us to Peru. You've been to that grotto. With you and that guide of yours, we can all become who we were meant to be. Mathematicians, FBI agents, none of them will matter anymore. They're no better than ants to us."

"And you're no better to them. Worse. You're a piece of crap stuck on Don Eppes' shoe."

"You mother--"

"Get out of here, Charlie!" Ellison surged forward.

Charlie didn't hesitate. He took Ellison's cue and ran toward the rear door. When he heard more gunfire behind him, he found himself wondering if he would feel anything at all, or if the world would just go black.

* * *

The gunfire spurred David Sinclair and Joel Taggart into action. They burst through the rear door to find Charlie running toward them. Sinclair grabbed him and ushered him into the stairwell. The agent gave Don's brother a quick once over, disturbed to see traces of blood on his face and his left arm, but relieved to note no serious injuries. Then, entrusting Charlie into the care of another agent, Sinclair set his team to work.

But the work had already been done. The gunman was on the ground, out cold. Ellison, kneeling beside him, had his broken hand cradled in the crook of his left arm. The detective looked up at Sinclair and nodded once, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch him breath.

Then the detective's eyes were on Taggart. The heaving stopped. A relieved gaze became a determined glare. Ellison held his left hand to his lips, and Taggart knew without having to be told: the rest of the sentinels were here, somewhere. And if they were here, Sandburg must be as well.

Chapter 15

The security cameras in both the building and the parking garage had been disabled, but Blair knew it would only be a quick, temporary problem. Though the sentinels had been trained well enough to be able to compromise the FBI's security systems, they lacked the resources to either destroy the systems entirely or maintain any sort of position in the area. They had to hit and run. And now it was time to run. That meant obtaining a new vehicle that would neither be recognized nor stopped upon exiting, despite the fact that any vehicle attempting to leave would be considered suspect under the current lock-down conditions.

The sentinels were stealthy and capable, but they were not an army. Since the morning's revolt, they were even less of an army now than they had been. And they were minus yet another member, if Blair was reading the soundless signals from his captors accurately.

Blair would have smiled if the duct tape across his mouth would have allowed him that luxury. Of course Foxtrot had not been a match for Jim. None of these goons were, or could ever be. They lacked Jim's motivation as well as his discipline. They were too self centered, all of them. And they had listened to the wrong man when their abilities were first formally recognized: Mick Shofield.

Tango 2 laced his hands through Blair's hair and yanked his head backwards. The barrel of the man's gun pressed more firmly into the base of Blair's skull. Blair grunted reflexively, not knowing whether the renewed level of violence was meant to tell him he was moving too fast or not fast enough.

Apparently, grunting was no more allowed than speaking. The pressure from the barrel disappeared. An instant later the side of the gun connected with the side of Blair's head. Hard.

Closing his eyes as a new round of black spots collided with stars in his head, Blair told himself, It's okay. Just hang on. Jim's out there somewhere, listening.

Each and every one of these goons knew it, too. Even if the security cameras weren't on line, Jim was. That thought alone was enough to keep Blair from thinking every step he took moved him further away from the life he was so anxious to regain. He was going to make it home. Soon.

Another shove at his back propelled him forward, and, surprisingly, toward an exit. The pale orange lighting of the parking structure was giving way to the red and blue flashes of emergency vehicles. Blair could smell the freshness of the cool, night air. It felt good in his lungs, soothing his nausea. At the same time it nearly stopped his heart cold. He could not help but imagine they were en route to a showdown. In his mind he replayed the last scene in the Newman and Redford version of "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." If these goons wanted to go out like that, fine. But why should Blair have to be caught in the middle?

* * *

Jim could feel everything. His sense of touch was as strong as it had ever been, possibly even stronger. He could feel every nuance of the fractured bones in his right hand, and the resonating pain of his still raw fingertips. But more than that, he could feel the presence of more sentinels, and somewhere among them, his own guide, Blair Sandburg.

He cued in his hearing as he hurried down the stairs, ignoring the string of questions from Don Eppes following behind him. Simon and Joel would provide whatever answers they needed. All Jim needed to do was focus.

As he reached the lobby, he heard a sound that disturbed him. There was a grunt, followed by a sickening thud and several quick, harsh breaths. He froze and focused more heavily out into the night, beyond the building, toward the parking garage. He piggybacked his hearing with his sense of smell. And he found himself zeroing in on Blair Sandburg.

"Outside," He shouted, not caring who heard him or who followed.

As the cleared the outer doors, Don Eppes' worried voice called out to another agent somewhere behind. "I thought you told me Charlie was okay."

"He is," David Sinclair answered.

"Then why's he getting into an ambulance?"

But Jim already knew why. Those men were not EMT's. And there, sandwiched between them, was Sandburg.

* * *

The EMT had barely finished putting a bandage across Charlie's eyebrow when someone grabbed the medic and bodily threw him aside. Charlie jumped up, feeling a surge of adrenalin that urged him to run. But running would not be an option. A gun stopped him. It was pointed mere inches from his face.

Part of him had seen enough of guns for one day. Charlie wanted to ignore this one, to just go ahead and get out of there. Logic, however, kept him rooted to where he stood. If this gunman was anything like the last one, Charlie's life could too easily be forfeit. No matter how he figured it, he could never outrun a bullet. He was only just beginning to accept that sentinels were real. No one was ever going to convince him that Superman was as well.

Although this new gunman said nothing to him, gestures made it clear that Charlie was supposed to get inside the ambulance.

"You -- you don't need me," He tried.

His only reply was to have the barrel of the gun pressed directly against his forehead.

"Okay. Okay. Look, I just ... I need to turn around so I can at least see where I'm going." Charlie hesitated until the gun was pulled away far enough to let him move. And then, his heart sinking, he did was he was told.

An instant later, someone else was tossed in beside him, someone who was bound and gagged with duct tape.

* * *

Blair stumbled as they pushed him toward the ambulance. When someone lifted him up and threw him onto the gurney inside, the black spots across his vision grew more pronounced. He started to lose focus. Confusion quickly followed. Was he finally getting help? Then why were his hands still bound? And his mouth ... there was still tape covering his mouth. Someone had better remove it soon; Blair was fairly confident he was going to be sick.

* * *

Don's instincts were starting to war with his training. He needed to get to Charlie, needed to get his brother away from what remained of Shofield's army of terrorist sentinels. Everything inside him told him to advance on that ambulance, giving no thought to the fact that bullets would inevitably begin flying and he would be putting himself directly in the line of fire -- not to mention what any of that might mean to the health and well being of his brother.

But he had to ignore all of those instincts, all of those feelings. He had to take charge of the situation -- a situation that was rapidly getting far too out of control.

Don looked to Ellison, the sentinel detective, the FBI's best link to ending the crime spree Shofield had initiated -- and apparently also a magnet that both tended to draw Shofield's sentinels together as well as drive them apart. Ellison's visage could have been a mirror of his own. Charlie was not the only hostage in that ambulance. Blair Sandburg was in there as well. And clearly the detective was driven by the same sort of protective instincts that Don felt for his brother. Sandburg was both a partner and a pseudo-brother to Jim Ellison, and a college professor as well. Those similarities suddenly filled Don with a sense of brotherhood toward Ellison.

But, brotherhood or not, Simon Banks was wrong to give Ellison a gun. And Ellison was wrong to raise that gun now with trembling, damaged hands. Don watched the detective aim toward the passenger's window of the ambulance. It was an impossible shot. They were too far away, it was too dark and Ellison was clearly in a great deal of pain. All he would succeed in doing would be to antagonize the other sentinels. The driver, unharmed, would race away, taking Charlie and Blair Sandburg completely out of reach. Add that to the probability that a gun battle would ensue, one that would do more harm than good and was all too likely to result in the deaths of both of their 'brothers.'

"No!" Don shouted, running toward Ellison.

He was already too late. Two shots were fired in rapid succession.

Time stopped. The world went silent. Don froze, his focus directed completely onto the ambulance. For a long while, nothing happened. Then, finally, there was movement inside the cab. The passenger door was opened.

An army of agents now had guns trained on the figure moving about the cab of the ambulance. The dead passenger, successfully taken out by one of Ellison's improbable shots, was pushed out the door.

Don raised his weapon, as ready to shoot as the rest of his men -- until he saw the profile of the figure that was about to fall under their fire.

"Don't shoot!" His shout was an echo of Ellison's, both of which were repeated several times until trigger fingers eased back and the imminent gunfire was avoided.

Only then did Don allow himself to breathe, knowing now that the figure inside the cab was none other than his own brother, Charlie Eppes.

Chapter 16

Charlie was concerned about his fellow hostage. The man was barely conscious and his color was not at all good.

"You should remove the tape," He said.

The suggestion was not well received. Both of the gunmen accompanying him in the back of the ambulance pointed their weapons at Charlie. The larger one, a black man with wisdom in his gaze, held a finger to his lips. The message was clear. No talking.

Still, Charlie had to address his concerns. He struggled with his silence for only a moment before blurting out, "He could drown on his own vomit."

The smaller gunman grabbed Charlie's chin and put his gun directly against Charlie's mouth.

A heartbeat later -- though it could have been an eternity -- the larger man intervened. He placed a hand on the other's arm, gently pushing him away, and then repeated the gesture for silence to Charlie. Finally, he reached down, removed the tape from Sandburg's mouth, and nodded toward the younger Eppes.

Surprised and appreciative, Charlie was about to nod back when shock stilled him. An explosion of gunfire broke the enforced silence, and was immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass. Though Charlie ducked instinctively, it soon became evident neither he nor his companions in the rear of the ambulance had been the target of that fire. The two who had settled in the cab, however, were not as lucky. Both were dead. Just like that.

It was an amazing and terrifying testament to the effectiveness of Don and his fellow agents. Help was right outside. In mere seconds, Charlie's captors had been reduced from four to two. Unfortunately, the two who remained were sitting right beside him.

An agonizingly long period of seconds passed as the remaining gunmen silently considered their options. Then, without a word ever being said, the smaller one grabbed Charlie by the arm and began pushing him toward the cab. The gestures he made with his gun made his intentions clear. Charlie was supposed to get rid of the bodies.

He shook his head, tried to refuse. Not even the gun aimed at him could effectively force him to so callously handle two bodies that had been living, breathing human beings only seconds before. But when the larger man held the barrel of his gun to the forehead of the other hostage, Charlie knew he had no choice.

* * *

Alpha 9 was still seated in the back of the ambulance with a metal wall and a distance of a dozen meters separating him from Jim Ellison. He also had no radio or other communication device. Nonetheless, he initiated a conversation with the world's premier, modern-day sentinel.

"Okay, Ellison," The large gunman said softly, "here's the deal. This isn't about Shofield anymore. It's not even about Peru. It's simply about survival. You let us drive out of here, both Sandburg and Eppes will be released in a confidential location where you will later be told to retrieve them, and neither will endure any additional physical harm."

"You know it's not that simple," Ellison replied.

"What?" Don Eppes asked behind him. "Who are you talking to?"

"It's as simple as life and death," Alpha 9 said. "You have already proved how tenuous the difference can be. I can prove it right back to you, starting with Sandburg. Why don't you share my request with Agent Eppes, and let him know that once Sandburg goes, his brother is next in line?"

When Jim relayed the conversation to Don Eppes, the agent was skeptical.

"How -- how could you possibly hold a conversation with him, this far back? It's impossible."

Jim just stared at him, while Simon Banks shook his head.

"You still have no idea how strong their senses are, do you?" Simon said. "He wouldn't lie about this."

Eppes hesitated, looking back and forth between Ellison and the ambulance. "Okay. Assuming you're right, how could we possibly trust anything Alpha 9 is saying?"

"He can hear you," Ellison said casually. "Why don't you direct your questions to him?"

Shaking his head, Eppes muttered, "This is unreal." He turned toward the ambulance, and then could not help but shout, "Okay, how can we--"

"He heard you the first time," Ellison interrupted. "And you don't have to shout. His answer is that we have no choice." Jim cocked his head briefly, listening, and then added, "We either trust them to let Sandburg and your brother go at a location to be disclosed later, or we trust them to drop them both right here, right now."

Eppes stiffened. "They do that, and they'll end up dead too. You hear me?" He yelled toward the ambulance. "You will not leave here alive."

"It doesn't matter." Jim said.

"What?" Eppes swung back to face him. "What? It doesn't matter? How can that not matter?"

"They figure they're at the end of the line. It's all or nothing."

"No. It's not nothing. It's my brother and your partner. And they're not getting away with this. It ends here. It ends now."

Jim nodded. "Agreed."

"What? Who agrees? What do we tell them?"

"Nothing. They already know."

With that said, the back doors of the ambulance flew open. A body was tossed outside. Though it was clearly that of Blair Sandburg, Jim did not flinch, did not move at all. Only the flexing of his jaw proved he had not turned to cold, hard stone. He held his position even while a single gunshot resounded from the vehicle, hitting the ground not six feet beyond Sandburg. It sent a spray of dirt and gravel flying across Sandburg's still, seemingly lifeless form.

"What the hell--" Eppes began.

Jim held out his hand to silence the agent beside him. Then he turned to face Don Eppes. Nodding, he mouthed the words, 'Hold fire.' Though he wanted to add, 'It's all under control; just go with it,' Jim could only hope his gestures sent that message as well.

Even so, how could he even begin to hope that Eppes would believe him? The agent had to be able to see his brother, now seated in the passenger side of the ambulance. And though Eppes couldn't see the gun currently pointed at his brother's head, he had to know it was there. In Don Eppes' gaze Jim could recognize a mix of confusion, concern and doubt. Yet, somehow, Eppes accepted Jim's position. He turned back to watch after his brother, and waited for the next move.

It was not a long wait.

Another shot was fired, this one concentrated inside the ambulance. With his own eyes focused again on the vehicle, Jim could only imagine the color draining from Eppes' face. But Charlie was fine, as Jim knew he would be. With Tango 2 now dead in the driver's seat, Jim watched Don Eppes' brother turn to face the last of Shofield's sentinels, still situated in the back of the ambulance. And then, cautiously, his gaze obviously still riveted to the gunman behind him, Charlie Eppes opened the passenger door and fell backwards to the ground. He tripped over the body he, himself had been forced to push out of the vehicle, and then scrambled back toward Don and safety.

An instant later, Alpha 9 threw his gun out of the rear door and stepped outside, both hands raised in surrender.

It was over. It was finally over.

* * *

While Don Eppes ensured himself that his brother really was okay, Jim approached the last living member of an army that should never have been formed.

"Thank you," Jim offered, despite a deep desire to kill the man right where he stood.

"Don't thank me yet," Alpha 9 replied. "Sandburg suffered at least 2 hard blows to the head. He needs medical attention."

And then Alpha 9 was led away.

Shouts for medics resounded around Jim Ellison, helping him to accept that the entire Shofield incident really had reached an end. Still, at that moment, only one sound gave him any sense of peace at all: the slow, worrisome but very real sound of his guide's heartbeat.

Jim closed his eyes, caught his breath, and then dropped to his knees beside the man he had feared he would never see alive again.

"How'd you know?" Don Eppes asked a few minutes later, after the medics had arrived to tend to Sandburg.

"He never said he'd kill them," Jim answered softly. "He was careful to use words that were ambiguous."

"Good catch, detective," Megan Reeves said then. "That's not something most people would pick up on."

"Blair would." Jim focused on the EMTs at work. "I've learned a few things from him over the years." He smiled briefly, and then turned to watch agents loading Alpha 9 into a police car. His gaze grew dark. "And I spent six months with that sentinel. I could tell a thing or two about his character."

"Like what?" Reeves asked.

"Like the fact that he has a stronger sense of right and wrong than any of the rest of them did." Jim then gave his full attention to Eppes. "But that doesn't mean you can ever let your guard down on him. He's a dangerous man."

"A dangerous man with a conscience?"

"Count on it."

When Jim stepped into the ambulance to accompany Sandburg and eventually see about having his own broken hand re-set, he found himself struck with a strange sensation. He glanced out the window to the squad car, and to the back where Alpha 9 should be seated.

It was empty.

Chapter 17

Alan Eppes was not typically a worrier. His boys were grown, and, being grown, they were generally pretty good at taking care of themselves. Still, the nature of Don's job was never truly absent in Alan's thoughts. Though he refused to dwell on the possibility that one day he might receive the type of call no federal agent's, police officer's, or other service member's family ever wanted to receive, he knew that possibility existed. But to receive such a call about Charlie was simply unthinkable.

"Dad, Charlie's fine," Don had insisted. "Just a little banged up. You know, cuts and bruises.

That did not define 'fine' to Alan. "He was already 'a little banged up' from the university bombing. How much more banged up can he be to still qualify as 'fine'?"

"Okay, you're right. He's definitely got bruises on top of bruises. And there was some shock. But Dad, there is nothing wrong with him that an IV and a little rest and relaxation won't cure."

"IV? Donny, do me a favor and work on your vocabulary. Charlie is clearly not fine."

Forty five minutes later, the elder Eppes found himself at the hospital arguing with an administrator about the whereabouts of his youngest son when a tired looking gentleman approached him.

"I think you want bed number 7, around the corner over there. They haven't determined yet whether or not they want to keep him overnight."

"Thank you," Alan answered, stunned by the intervention. He held out his hand, "Doctor...?"

The other man smiled sadly and shook Alan's hand. "Ellison," He answered. "But I'm not a doctor. Just another concerned father."

"Oh? Your son's in there, too?"

He nodded, looking back toward the section of the emergency room he had pointed out to Alan. "But the stubborn fool won't let anyone touch him until he knows his friend's getting the care he needs. It's okay, though. I've already seen to that. They'll both get the best care this hospital can provide; and, if necessary, the best care any hospital can provide. Your son, too."

"My son? What? You know Charlie?" Alan finally made the connection. "Wait a minute. Ellison. You're the father of that detective, from up near Seattle."

Another nod. "Cascade, actually."

"Right. Well, why don't we walk back together?" Alan patted the man on the arm and indicated the ER with a tilt of his head. "See how our sons are doing."

This time, Ellison shook his head. "No. I've done enough. All I can."

The answer confused Alan. "It's not about doing anything; it's just about being there."

"It's too late for that."

Alan smiled, still confused. "What? What are you talking about, 'too la'--" Then his face went white. "Oh my god; too late?"

"No, no. That's not what I meant. He'll be fine. They all will. Listen, I have to leave. You go on now, take care of your son."

As Ellison walked away, Alan watched after him, dumbfounded. Then he went straight toward bed number 7, where he heard Charlie's voice telling someone he was fine.

"Didn't you boys learn anything about the English language?" He started by way of greeting. "Let me tell you the definition of the word 'fine'...."

* * *

By morning, both Sandburg and Charlie were assigned to rooms -- though Don continued to stress to his father that Charlie was fine. The younger Eppes had simply experienced too much, too fast. He wasn't programmed to deal with the kinds of things Don had been trained to handle.

"Charlie wasn't meant to lead your life, Donny," Alan had said.

"Yeah, I know." He took a deep breath and shook his head. "I like working with him though, you know? It makes me proud to see him do the things he does to help us out with cases." He smiled. "I mean, it blows people away to see what he can come up with. Even Homeland Security wants a piece of him half the time." Then his smile faded, and his gaze grew introspective. "But at the same time, I don't want him anywhere near what I do. I want to see him safely tucked away behind those university walls."

"You can't have it both ways," Alan answered. "And even those university walls aren't always so safe these days. And I don't just mean the bombing. Look at what happened in Virginia."

"Yeah."

"It's his decision, regardless. We don't have to like it, but we do have to accept whatever he chooses to do."

The idea of losing Charlie's help over these recent events suddenly hit Don. "You don't really think he'll want to quit over this, do you? I mean, stop the consulting?"

"Nah. If there's math involved, he won't be able to refuse. But...." Alan shrugged. "It's probably going to take a while for him to adjust; you know, to deal with all he's been through. You really should get him to see that counselor of yours."

"Yeah."

But Don knew he would never be able force his brother to bare his soul like that. It wasn't until Don finally had a long, casual conversation with Jim Ellison in the hospital cafeteria that he began to feel a true sense of optimism for his brother's emotional healing.

"Introduce him to Sandburg," Ellison had told him. "They're very different people, but you can't deny there are strong similarities between them. And Blair ... he has a way of centering people. He's been through a lot himself over the past several months, and he's going to need to do some serious centering of his own. If we could get them to talk things out together, it could help them both. I'd ask you to bring him up to Cascade, though. Blair's been ... we've been away for too long. It's time to go home."

Don could recognize the detective's sincerity, and he knew right then and there that he would take Ellison up on his offer. But Don could see something else in Ellison's gaze and the set of his shoulders. The man was exhausted, both emotionally and physically.

"How's he doing?" Don asked then.

Ellison set down the cup of coffee he'd been struggling to hold, and sat back in his chair. "Doctors called it an epidural hematoma, bleeding on the brain. They had to drill a hole in his head. A small hole, but a hole, for Christs sake." He sighed. "Now we just have to wait and see. But he'll be okay."

"The prognosis is good?"

The detective gave him a small, weary smile. "The doctors say their timing was good. There wasn't as much blood gathered as there could have been. But as to a prognosis, all they'll say is we have to wait and see."

"Well, it sounded like your dad made sure those doctors were the best they could be. I'm sure he's in good hands."

"My dad?" Ellison's focus intensified, but Don wasn't quite sure whether he saw hope or disappointment in his gaze.

"He talked to my father back in the ER."

"He was here." It was more a statement than a question, an affirmation of some kind.

"Yeah. But I didn't get the chance to see him. I guess he was in a hurry to get somewhere."

Ellison did not reply.

"You'd better try to get some rest while you're waiting," Don said to break the silence, "or you're going to start feeling like you've got a hole in your head, too. Can I take you back to the hotel?"

The detective shook his head. "No. I'd just as soon be here when he wakes up."

"I kind of figured you'd say that. How about I walk you back up there?"

As they stepped off the elevator to the ICU, Ellison turned toward Don.

"Eppes?" He said. "Thank you."

Chapter 18

Jim stared down at his friend and partner -- his 'brother,' as Don Eppes had described him -- and marveled yet again at the younger man's resilience. The doctors had indicated that Blair would most likely need a respirator to assist him with breathing until the injury to his brain began to heal. Instead, all he needed was a little extra oxygen, provided via a small breathing tube unobtrusively affixed beneath his nose. That had to be a good sign; it had to mean Sandburg was already on his way to a full and speedy recovery.

It was good to be optimistic, Jim told himself. It was also good to be appreciative. But when he sank down into the therapeutic recliner someone had managed to set at Blair's bedside, Jim had no idea who to thank for that particular prize. Curious but too tired to investigate, he just closed his eyes and silently sent out a general note of gratitude to the cosmos themselves. And then he dreamed.

Seemingly within seconds, the hospital faded into nothingness and the cosmos came together in the guise of an ethereal jungle. The panther was on alert, standing over the slumbering wolf, when another presence began to make itself known. A giant anaconda slithered across the jungle floor, far from the river that gave it life.

"You do not belong here."

At the sound of Incacha's voice, the panther turned its head to see the shaman while maintaining a wary eye on the snake.

"This is not your place," the ghostly image went on.

"Am I not also a sentinel?" The snake replied as it rose into the air and took the form of the man known as Alpha 9.

"A sentinel protects the tribe," Incacha said.

"I have no tribe, except for these two men. Today, I chose to protect them both."

Bristling at the man's statement, Jim took his place where the panther had been. "We are not your tribe."

"You are all that remains."

"Why is that?" Jim asked. "Why did you encourage the others to go after me and Charlie Eppes? You had to know there would be no way out of that building."

Alpha 9 shrugged. "I was curious. They were all self-serving hypocrites. I wondered if they could still function as a team when it came down to the end."

"You were a part of that team."

"Only until it was time to go my own way."

"How does that make you any less self-serving than they were?"

"I am more than they were, more than they could ever be."

"Self-serving and arrogant," Jim observed.

"What you consider arrogance is simple honesty. I am a sentinel. And I am a student. I study people, much like our guide."

"Our guide? You're nothing like Sandburg; and you have no right to claim him as your guide."

"You are the first sentinel of this age." Alpha 9 lowered his head slightly, as though in respect. "Sandburg is the first guide. You both have a duty to those who would follow."

"My only duty is to Sandburg, and to our tribe, the city of Cascade. And the only place I'll ever let you follow me is straight to prison."

Alpha 9 smiled. "Your tribe is wherever you are. Yesterday, it was the Chopec. Today, it's Los Angeles, and I am very much a part of it. Tomorrow." He shrugged. "Who knows?"

"Our tribe is Cascade." Jim repeated. "And you are a fugitive. Cascade can never be your place."

"You are the first," Alpha 9 repeated. "But I am the second. And my place is wherever I choose to be. Today, I stand with you. So today you are my tribe."

"And where will you stand tomorrow?"

"Remember what I've already said about tomorrow." Another shrug. "Who really ever knows where tomorrow will take us?"

As the snake slithered back toward the great river, Jim shivered from a sudden chill. He opened his eyes to find himself back in the ICU, in the path of an air conditioning vent he had not noticed before. That should have satisfied him, should have been enough to assure him that his senses were responding to nothing more than a cool breeze. Yet he could not shake the feeling that Alpha 9 was closer than the jungle vision had suggested.

* * *

"Jim?"

The voice brought him back from a void. Nearly an hour after experiencing the vision, Jim had lost his battle against sleep. Fortunately, Alpha 9 had not intruded. Instead, Jim had found himself floating in nothingness. He slept more deeply than he had in a very long time.

"Jim?" The voice called again. It was weak, yet soothingly familiar, and it pulled Jim's attention to the man in the bed beside him.

Blair Sandburg was awake.

"Hey, Chief." Pushing himself out of the recliner, Jim hurriedly put his hand on Sandburg's arm, eager for the connection.

"Wha ...." Blair paused to swallow. "What ha....?" He tried again, but the rest of the question went unspoken. He closed his eyes tightly, perhaps trying to shut out his confusion.

Blair was not alone. Jim also wanted to shut something away. He struggled to cut himself off from his memories of the vision, tried to ignore his feelings about Alpha 9's lingering presence.

"It's over, partner," He said. "Shofield, the rest of them, they're all gone. It's just back to you and me, Chief."

Blair tried to look at him but seemed to find it difficult to focus. "Over?"

"You bet." Jim smiled. "We're going home, Sandburg. Think you can handle that?"

Returning the hint of a smile, Blair's eyelids slid shut once more. "Tired."

"It's okay, Blair. I'd say you've earned the chance to rest for a while."

"I'd say you both have," Simon's voice called softly from behind.

But Jim waited for Blair's breaths to grow slow and steady before he turned his attention away.

"I thought you had to go back to Cascade," Jim said then. "'Mend some fences,' I believe is what you said."

"Got a little help from the feds on that one," Simon answered. He shook his head incredulously and then chuckled. "I still find it hard to believe I can honestly say that."

"Eppes helped to clear things with Chief Warren?"

"Whatever he did, he more than cleared things. The chief obviously had no idea how valuable the feds consider both you and Sandburg these days. It still surprises me sometimes. Would you believe we actually got an official apology, and both you and Sandburg are up for commendations?"

"Actually? No, sir. I would not believe that."

"Well, you'd better start. It's all true."

"I'll be damned."

Simon's expression turned serious. "Look, Jim; now that you know Blair's coming out of it and I'm here for when he wakes up again, why don't you find a bed and get some real sleep?"

"I'm okay, Simon. Thanks." And Jim realized how true his statement really was. The prickly feeling he'd had about Alpha 9 was suddenly, inexplicably gone. Perhaps it was simply because he and Sandburg had finally been reunited. Not only that, home was finally starting to seem within reach. It was almost as though Simon's presence provided him the grounding he'd needed at that moment.

Jim smiled the first real smile he'd had both the opportunity and the desire to express since he and Blair had left Cascade.

"In fact." He took a long, refreshing breath before continuing, "I feel better than I have in months."

Epilogue

Jim Ellison stepped out onto his balcony and filled his lungs with the cooling, soothing air of Cascade. It had been two full months since he and Sandburg had returned, and it still surprised him to realize how good it felt. Part of him never wanted to leave again. Like a great sequoia, he wanted to plant his roots so firmly into the ground no one would ever again have the strength -- of arms or words -- to make him budge.

A more rational part knew he could plant nothing more permanent than an anchor.

Whether he liked it or not, Jim was rare in this world -- rare, but not alone. It was obvious now there were others out there like him. He could no more ignore that fact than the FBI could, thanks to Shofield's efforts and Alpha 9's disappearance. If Shofield could recruit sentinels, someone else could as well. Jim and Blair both knew that fact alone meant they would have no choice but to get involved in a different kind of recruiting effort, one that would result in true sentinels, men and women who understood what it meant to be responsible for the tribe they would protect.

"You are the first sentinel of this age," Alpha 9 had told him in his vision. "Sandburg is the first guide. You both have a duty to those who would follow."

As much as he was bothered by his thoughts of Alpha 9, Jim knew the man's words had been true. Still, he tensed as his sentinel instincts were awakened. He reached outward. Like a night watchman on patrol, he scanned his city's streets until a shrill scream drew him toward a neighboring building.

"Daddy, daddy!" A child called out. "There's a monster under my bed!"

All else was quiet. Jim's tribe was safe. Smiling, he pulled away to give the child and father the privacy they deserved, and then he settled into a chair to simply enjoy being home. Part of that enjoyment caused him to open a channel between him and the loft next door, where his guide, partner and friend had set his own anchor a few years before.

"Face it, Jim," Sandburg had said at the time. "We both feel the need to stay close, to stay connected. But you need your space, and, Jim, man ... buddy ... I really need mine."

He was right, of course. Though Jim hated to admit it openly, Blair Sandburg had an incredible batting average when it came to being right. He had good instincts -- or perhaps it was some sort of shamanistic intuition. Whatever it was, Jim trusted Blair's judgment. He also respected his partner's privacy -- unless, of course, he had good reason to suspect Sandburg's health or safety could be at risk. There were definitely some circumstances under which Jim would never even consider invading that privacy by tuning in. Usually those circumstances involved Blair inviting someone else into his personal space. But Blair's guest tonight was as unique as their own sentinel-guide relationship; and Jim was just too curious to completely shut them out.

* * *

Blair watched in fascination as Charlie Eppes scribbled hurriedly in a notebook, writing as many symbols and numbers as words.

"You think you can really use math for this?"

Charlie stopped working, but did not set down his pen. "It's just a matter of creating the right algorithm and applying it to search the right databases -- in this case, I would suggest student records at colleges and universities, particularly those with a focus on anthropological, psychological and sociological studies."

"You might also want to consider parapsychology," Blair suggested. "I don't think that should be the only focus, probably not even the primary one, but it still might help in assessing candidates. I've found that there are certain aspects about being a guide that seem to be more intuitive than anything else."

It didn't take intuition to recognize the change in Charlie's posture or the frustrated expression in his eyes. "I knew this was too good to be true," He said softly.

"What do you mean?"

"This whole 'sentinels are real,' thing. Between you and Ellison, my brother, Megan Reeves, and even Larry Fleinhardt, you've all finally got me convinced that there is a scientific basis for the existence of sentinels. I've even been able to start working on the algorithm to help in locating people with those particular abilities. But ...." He shook his head. "Parapsychology? There is absolutely no proof .... I mean, I'm ... I'm not even sure how that can classify as a legitimate science."

"What do you mean 'no proof'? There's plenty of proof out there. There've been studies done under tightly controlled conditions--"

"You mean, 'what kind of card' am I holding up?' Those kinds of studies? Results of those studies have never been conclusive. The number of right answers can easily be explained by--"

"What about psychics who've helped solve cases?" Blair interrupted. "There have been documented incidents in which victims have been found and murderers have been caught based exclusively on the details psychics have been able to provide. I wouldn't be surprised if your brother had--"

"Okay," Charlie gave in. "Okay. Look, I'll add it to the list. This isn't about what I believe, anyway. It's just about creating an algorithm."

"Hey, man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." Blair smiled. "Actually, I've always found it kind of fun to debate about that. And you have to admit there are still so many things we don't even understand yet about the capabilities of the human brain." He refused to voice the silly thought that was floating through his mind about a particular, first-rate psychic who happened to share this mathematician's name, Naomis friend, Charlie Spring.

Charlie Eppes' own smile seemed forced. "You and Larry would get along great."

"Larry?" Still struggling to separate the two Charlies in his mind, Blair now tried to block out the image of a Barbary ape.

"A friend of mine," Charlie answered. "Actually, he's a ... a physicist, but he constantly finds it necessary to remind me how difficult it is to factor in human tendencies with pure logic-based equations."

"Smart man," Blair offered.

"Yeah. Usually."

"Not always?"

The mathematician took a deep breath. "Sometimes he just accepts too much, too easily."

"Like psychics?"

"Maybe it's not so much that he accepts them as it is he doesn't discount them."

"Why would that be a problem? You have to admit that everything we now know to be scientifically true was originally nothing more than a theory until someone could back it up with facts."

"Well, when someone can show me clear and undeniable facts about the existence of psychic capabilities, then...." He cleared his throat rather than finish the statement. "But until then, I just can't buy in to the whole concept."

"Of course!" Blair blurted out excitedly. "You're a mathematician. You see patterns in everything, right?"

Clearly unsure where Blair was going, Charlie nodded hesitantly.

"There is a distinct order to everything you deal with, everything you experience."

"Absolutely."

"It's the same with the people, the cultures I deal with in my work."

Charlie started to shake his head. "I don't think--"

"No. Hear me out, here. It's true. Cultures work within established patterns just like people do. I mean we all have our individual patterns, right? It's like our routines. We get up every day at a certain time, have a cup of coffee, take a shower ... it all comes together to form a pattern."

"Of course, but--"

"Tribal cultures also have their patterns. In fact, their patterns might be even clearer than ours. Shamanistic rituals, for example, are based around maintaining a very distinct balance between the world we know and the unseen world that we don't. You might say it's between the physical and the spiritual. In psychology it could be the balance between the id and the ego, or between eros and thanatos. In physics you say for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."

Blair paused and Charlie studied him, expecting more. When it seemed as though Blair had no intention of continuing, Charlie shook his head again. "How does any of that have anything to do with whether or not psychics exist?"

"You know how your friend Larry tries to get you to see that human tendencies can defy logic?"

Charlie shrugged and then nodded.

"What about your experiences, both with the bombing at the university and the gunman in the FBI offices; didn't those seem to defy logic, to defy any attempt you might have made to find the underlying patterns?" Blair watched his guest grow tense.

"It still bothers you, doesn't it?" Blair went on then. "You still can't find the perfect pattern that could explain Tango 2's attempt on your life, can you?"

Charlie's jaw went taut; his eyes grew dark. "What exactly is your point?"

"It still bothers me, man. Everything those sentinels did, from the moment they attacked Shofield to the moment I woke up in that hospital. None of it made any sense. It was as though they all suffered some sort of mass psychosis or something. It bothers the heck out of me that I can't see the right pattern in any of it, and I'm not even close to being a mathematician. I still get nightmares about it."

There was a spark of recognition in Charlie's eyes.

"I'll bet you do, too," Blair said. "And I'll bet neither of us would have nightmares anymore if we could just find a logical pattern behind it all."

Suddenly it all started to fall into place. Blair could actually see it coming into focus. "But there is, man," He said. "There is a pattern. We've just been looking at it wrong. We have to think about it from that physics angle, the one with every action having an equal and opposite reaction. The reaction is what the sentinels did, but it's the action we've been missing."

"What -- what action?" Charlie asked, clearly intrigued.

For a moment, Blair felt as though his guest was hoping he might throw out a lifeline. Maybe he was.

"Alpha 9," Blair said. "He influenced all of them. I've been thinking all this time that he was just riding the tide, seeing where it would take him. But he created that tide, man. He was the cause behind the mass psychosis, the action behind the reaction."

"You ... you're saying that he told them to go after me?"

"No." Blair shook his head. "Not at all. He just planted a seed and then waited to see what would grow from it. It's all a matter of psychology. I'm sure your agent Reeves would explain it much better, but think of it like this. He gave them a mental push to see how they would react. Whether that was achieved by words or body language or ... or something else, we can't say. That's the unseen action, the one we know exists only because we have seen the reaction that it caused."

"The missing variable," Charlie offered, perhaps in an attempt to grab Blair's lifeline.

"Exactly. And if you ever work with a psychic, you can see the reaction in the details they uncover, but you can't see the action, the missing variable."

Charlie gazed at him thoughtfully.

"But that doesn't mean it's not there," Blair went on. "It only means we haven't seen it; we haven't yet managed to clearly record it for credible and indisputable scientific analysis."

There were a few moments of thoughtful silence before Charlie drew a deep breath and blew it out in a heavy sigh. "I'll admit you give a good argument for not entirely discounting the possibility that psychic phenomena might exist in some capacity."

Blair's smile broadened. "All I'm asking you to do is open your mind to the possibility."

This time Charlie smiled back. "It's as open as it could ever be ... but ...."

"What?"

Charlie sighed again. "But your argument isn't going to help me sleep any better at night."

"Why? Because you still can't see a precise pattern?"

"It's more because there's a dangerous fugitive out there who very nearly had me killed."

"Oh," Blair answered, stunned by the unexpected answer. "But, no, you shouldn't worry about that. Not really. I don't think he poses a danger to you."

"Why not? He almost had me killed once. How can we really know for sure he won't try it again?"

"Because none of that was ever about you. It was about the other sentinels. It was his screwed up way of studying them."

"So my being a target was not a fixed variable. Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Well, yes. No. I don't know. Look, I only know that the likelihood of Alpha 9 going after you again is--"

"I could calculate it out." Charlie held up his hand, effectively stopping Blair from babbling. "But I can imagine the probability would prove to be too small to be a cause for concern. On the other hand ...."

Charlie's gaze shifted to Blair and away again. It looked very much like he was hiding something -- or at least trying to hold something back.

"What?" Blair asked finally.

"I .. ah ... imagine the results would change significantly if ... um ...." He cleared his throat again. "If I were to base the calculations on Ellison or ... you." His eyes finally held firm to Blair's. They seemed to reflect real concern.

"Yeah," Blair said slowly. He nodded. "We've already pretty much determined that. But, hey." He smiled, "Jim's like ... he's like an early-warning system, you know?"

Charlie shook his head, clearly confused.

"Jim can sense other sentinels. He would know if Alpha 9 was nearby."

"How?"

"That's the unseen action, man. He just reacts to it."

Charlie studied him for a moment longer. "That's ... that's good."

Blair paused, watching Charlies mix of expressions from confusion to pure disbelief.

"I know this is all a lot for you to take in," Blair said a moment later. "But there really is more to being a sentinel than simply having heightened senses. It involves a a connection for lack of a better word. A connection to the world around him, a connection to something that links him with other sentinels, and a connection to his guide."

"And that would be you," Charlie played along.

Blair nodded. "Every sentinel needs a guide; and it has to be a one-to-one ratio. When Shofield failed to accept that fact, collapse was inevitable."

"What kind of connections does a guide have? Is that where the parapsychology comes in?" Charlie asked.

Blair gave him a soft smile, recognizing the challenge Charlie was having in processing concepts that defied mathematical logic -- or for which mathematical logic simply had not yet been able to address.

"A guide," He began, "has to be able to ground the sentinel in both this world and that unseen one. Thats what I do for Jim. I ground him, both from a physical perspective and a spiritual one. In order to be able to do that, I have to be open to to ideas, to things that your numbers havent yet been able to quantify."

Charlies gaze was incredulous. "Im sorry. This is all just" He shook his head. "Everything can be quantified. Its just a matter of finding the right variables."

"Then lets work together to figure out what those variables should be," Blair said.

Smiling, Charlie cocked his head slightly and then gave a small nod.

"But later," Blair added as he jumped up from his chair. "Im starved. Shouldn't your brother be done with his meeting about now? What do you say we get Jim and then go meet Don for dinner? I'm dying to find out how Cascade's FBI branch reacted to the whole Sentinel project idea.

Project Falcon, you mean, Charlie corrected.

Blair shook his head. Why do they always have to be so cryptic about these things? I mean, Project Bluebook was about UFOs. And Project Stargate wasnt about gates to the stars; it was about psychic--" Stopping himself, Blair gazed sheepishly at Charlie. Sorry. I didnt mean to bring that up again.

"No problem. Anyway, as to the naming conventions, cryptic is the whole idea. Its all about confidentiality.

Dont get me started about confidentiality. Blair grabbed his jacket and keys, and started making his way to the door. "Its exactly that kind of secrecy that leads to conspiracy theories. Although for Jims sake I can accept the whole idea of secrecy. Thats a bridge Id rather not cross more than once."

Blair opened the door to the hallway to find Jim already standing there.

Hey, Jim, He said with a little too much enthusiasm as he tried to cover for touching on a subject that had long been declared taboo.

But Jim didnt seem to care about old wounds. Instead he smiled back at Blair.

Its about friendship, Blair said in his thoughts. But he knew it was far more than that. Its about brotherhood, He corrected; the real thing, not Shofields kind. Jim was no less a brother to Blair than Don was to Charlie. Alpha 9 might still be out there; but Jim was right here. At least for that moment in time, the universe was in perfect balance.

end