Author's Note: The original character Jennifer Stone first appeared in the story "Hope."

Beyond Blood and Tears

The overnight shift was blissfully quiet. No hot calls. Most of Team One spent much of the time sleeping off their fatigue. Leah stayed up helping with inventory while Greg attacked a mountain of paperwork, all clamouring to be completed yesterday.

The Wordsworth family was provided a private suite at St Luke's so the girls were able to sleep together in the same room; an extra bed was supplied for 'Mom and Dad Wordsworth' as a courtesy. Only Wordy couldn't sleep. The kidnapping forced a rethink of their family situation. Being with SRU was one thing. There, he dealt with the desperate, the suicidal, the mentally ill, the disturbed, and occasionally one got called out to contain criminal elements.

But being a detective with Guns and Gangs was altogether riskier. There was no two ways to look at it; this was an area of policing where officers only dealt with either informants or criminals. And mainly they're not the small time crooks. They're hard core, had tonnes and tonnes of money to buy out of jail cards, and mostly without remorse.

They were lucky this time. They may not be as lucky next time. Should he go on to put the lives of his family on the line? Never mind him - he opted for this, but his children? Did they have a say in all this non-sense?

This is all I know to do, was what he told Dr Toth at his last psych evaluation before he left SRU.

He needed this job, a job, to provide for his children. There's a mortgage to pay, cars to service, bills to pay, education and private tuition for music and dance lessons. These were all necessities and it's not like there were other options for him.

Personally, he's learned to hold to things and career lightly, there were far more important things in life like safety and peace and growing old and being a family. But none of these would be possible without money and provision.

Wordy walked the halls of the hospital. He needed to think, to pray. He wasn't a praying man, at least, not in the traditional sense. He reached a chapel that looked "generic" he supposed it was so no one was offended. He was a man of few words, and now, as he sat there in solitude, he had even fewer words to say.

His hands trembled. He dug into his pocket for his pills. He dry swallowed two. He had become an expert at it. Please tell me what to do? He stared at the stained glass window of a dove. He waited, willing to hear audibly what he must do next.

One thing was certain he couldn't risk his children's life and limb, not again, not ever.

He got up after a couple of hours, and walked back to the private suite to find Shell sitting on the couch, sleepless and drained of energy. "Hi," he said. He sat next to her. She laid her head on his chest and cried silently. Shell listened to his heartbeat, the rhythm putting her at ease. There was no denying it anymore, something had to give. She straightened up, "Kev, we have to talk about this…"

"I know," he said. "I'll apply for stress leave and take it from there. We can't make hasty decisions, for now let's just focus on the kids." He looked at the time, 5am, "There's no point trying to get sleep, coffee?"

Shell wiped the tears and gave him a tight smile, "Yeah, latte no sugar."

"I'll be right back."

Wordy returned shortly with two cups of coffee, muffins, a book, and a woman's magazine. "We'd be here for some time yet. If you want me to get something for you and the girls from home make a list."

Nick Coyle had a good night sleep, 6am, he was already on-board a Bell 412 helicopter out of Kingston Air Base to Ottawa. From there, he would hitch a ride in a bombardier Challenger 600, a utility transport operated by 412(T) Squadron to an undisclosed location for a briefing and then off by himself behind enemy lines. Not quite alone, inside Karachi someone called "Aguila" awaited his arrival.

The helicopter ride gave Thunderhead just enough time to remember what little he had of his past. His sealed juvenile record was not bedside reading, not even for the tough-hearted. Nick killed his step-father when he was 12 after he witnessed a brutal attack on his mother who was 27 weeks pregnant. A violent kick to the stomach caused the poor woman to go into premature labour, Nick grabbed a kitchen knife and attacked his step-father in the back multiple times as the bastard just wouldn't die.

A neighbour called police when the deafening sound of rage and pain echoed down the corridor of the tenement housing. Police arrived to find a dying man, and a boy of 12 holding his mother's head on his lap. In her arms was a newborn the size of a mice. The foetus was malnourished and suffered low birth weight.

The orphan boy lived in an orphanage until he was fostered out. His foster parents eventually adopted him, so he was lucky that way. For the first 8 months after the violent death of his Mom and sibling Nick didn't say a word. Not one word. His first word when he finally spoke was "Lilibeth".

His adoptive mother had taken him out for a walk when they saw a baby doll in the middle of the road, Nick shouted "Lilibeth" and dashed out to rescue the doll, missing death by inches. His new Mom asked who Lilibeth was. He tearfully said, "My baby sister." It turned out he delivered his baby sister. He gave the foetus to his mother to cradle and had the presence of mind to check if it was a boy or a girl.

He had only two other distinct memories; the funeral because his sister's casket was the size of a shoe box. The other was the night he distinctly and clearly imagined taking his heart out of his chest and placing it inside an imaginary box. He clearly saw himself locked the box and threw the key away in the ocean where it could never be found. He just didn't want to be hurt any more.

His adoptive parents encouraged him to call them Mom and Dad, he couldn't bring himself to do so. He was always respectful to them and they in return were supportive, he was lucky with parents the second time around but he didn't want anything to do with emotional connections.

He once had a conversation with his adoptive father who said that he should get beyond the place of blood and tears.

"I can't," he said.

"You won't," said the old man. "You just won't."

He sat rigid in the helicopter lost in thought, It's too late for me. I can't go beyond the place of blood and tears. I can only follow its trail. That's probably why I do what I do.

He wondered what would happen to Ally, taking her wasn't his idea. Glen Davies didn't ask his opinion about it. Ally was taken without much forethought. He wasn't a praying man, but he said a quick one to no particular God, I hope she, they, gets past the blood and tears.

It was time to disembark. He jumped off the helicopter and walked down the length of the tarmac and wondered how he was still alive. He's lost count of bullet and shrapnel wound, and the near misses, he laughed inwardly when a thought crossed his mind, even the Great Satan is scared of me. He doesn't want me in hell.

Team One shift finished at 9am. Spike showered and dressed in his civvy. He got the thick yellow packet from his locker, weighed it in his hands and hoped he had not overstepped the mark. He didn't want to be misunderstood lest of all by Wordy. He prayed it would be taken as a well-meaning gesture. Nevertheless, it's already here, he had to go through with it.

After the Glen Davies saga, Spike went to the office of Security International, a high level recruitment company for security matters and asked to speak to the CEO, Jennifer Stone. To his surprise, he was accommodated even though he had no prior appointment, the vixen of security recruiting came out to greet him warmly, "Officer Scarlatti, have you finally made up your mind to join the private sector? Coffee?"

Scarlatti said, "No and yes. Cappuchino, no sugar."

She led him to the conference room and sat down opposite him. She eyed him closely, which embarrassed him. "You look good," she said after the initial inspection, "I watched the news. Was that your handywork?"

He looked at his hands, feeling self-conscious, "Yeah, it's no big deal."

Miss Stone laughed, she tilted her head back in a flirtatious way, "You're so humble. I've been fielding a lot of calls about it mind you. You know what I say to them? 'I'm working on him'." Spike smiled shyly at the sly compliment.

The assistant came in bearing coffee and cakes, chocolate mud cake to be precise. "It's my favourite," he said casually.

"I know," she said to his surprise. "I make it my business to know. Anyway what brought you here?"

Spike breath in deeply, "I was wondering if you have a position for my friend, Wordy."

"Kevin Wordsworth," she said, "five years as a beat cop, homicide detective for a couple of years, SRU for seven, Guns and Gangs Team Leader for two. Did I miss anything?" The SRU Tech expert was dumb-founded.

"I told you I make it my business to know who's who." They ate their cakes and drank their coffee, "There's something you need to know…" he said.

She cut him off, "He has Parkinson's."

Scarlatti was shocked, she flashed him a jaw dropping smile. Miss Stone pressed a button under the table and the assistant came in, summoned as she were. "Print out an offer for the Building Security position for the Continental Towers, will you? The offer is for Kevin Wordsworth." The assistant walked out and came back with a yellow packet inside five minutes.

"Tell him he doesn't have a lot of time to think about it, there's a big pool of candidates I can choose from but I'm giving him priority because of the heroism he demonstrated today. Tell him not to worry... it's a job he can do sitting in a wheelchair, not that it would come to that, of course."

Spike thanked Jennifer Stone. "My pleasure," she said with a brush of her delicate hand, "it's the least I can do."

So now, he's about to hand the packet to Wordy, he felt intimidated. What if it offends him? Ah, just to do it! He's a big man, he won't take it badly.

He called Wordy, "Can I see you for 10 minutes? I've got something important to give you."

"That's ok, see you soon."

Spike bought flowers and balloons and for something practical, children's books. The girls were still sleeping when he got there, it was just fine. He caught up with Shelley and was pleased to see Mrs Wordsworth looking less frail. Wordy came in shortly after, "Hey, bro" he said. "Thanks for coming." It was warm and fuzzy all around.

"Is there a place we can talk," he said.

"Sure, there's a balcony just at the end of this corridor," said Wordy.

"Excuse us Shell," he said. She smiled and waved them off.

"So what's this about?" asked Wordy when they reached the balcony.

Spike looked him in the eyes, "First , promise me you won't think I'm meddling in your family affair. I just love your family very much. I'd like to help, ok?"

Wordy wasn't quite sure where this was going but said, "Sure."

Spike handed him the thick packet, the big man opened it gingerly. He read the front page, an offer for Building and Security Manager for the newest office and commercial high rise in Toronto. He read it slowly and then again.

"Are you sure?" he asked almost in a whisper. The offer was twice his current pay. Not to mention the one-page fringe benefits and at last, safety and security for his family.

"Yeah, it's for you."

"Do they know I have…"

"Parkinson's? Yeah, they know. She said it's a job you can do sitting in a wheelchair, not that it would get to that."

"I don't know what to say," said the man of few words. Spike took a pen out of his breast pocket. "You don't have to say anything, just sign on the dotted line.

"We can't do what we're doing forever. It's time you put family first, you've served your people, your City and your country. You've done your time."

"Yeah," said Wordy, "Time we move on."

At the stroke of a pen, Kevin Wordsworth life changed for the better.

- The End -