Jericho: Unforeseen Consequences Part 2 (Jake/Beck, Teen)

[scribblerfic]

Title: Unforeseen Consequences
Author: scribblesinink
Rating: Teen
Characters: Beck/Jake, Goetz, Hicks, OCs
Labels: First time, AU, canon levels of violence
Spoilers: 1.12 The Day Before
Word count: 78,000
Author notes: The story that ate my soul. Starting out as a simple bingo fill for the hooker!fic square (previously published as Tipping Point), the story quickly took on a life of its own until, 75,000 words and many months later, I realized I'd written an AU slash novel for Jericho. I can't thank tanaqui enough, who has done duty as my beta-editor, enabler, co-plotter and enthusiastic cheerleader. Without her, this story would never have been finished—or at the very least, would've been so much less.

Summary: In a world where the bombs don't go off, Jake leaves Jericho and keeps running—from Ravenwood, Agent Hicks, and the disapproval of his own family. When Hicks destroys Jake's identity by invalidating his social security number in an attempt to flush him out, Jake's life spirals even further downward. Until, on a cold autumn evening in Rochester, NY, a stranger in a bar makes him an offer he thinks he should refuse.


Part 1 | Part 2



Unforeseen Consequences

Chapter 7

The bar where Jake was supposed to meet Ravenwood was as squalid as the littered alley leading to its entrance. Skirting an overturned trash can and avoiding greasy hamburger wrappers and rotten fruit, Jake carefully navigated his way toward the door, which was marked by a flickering neon sign. The smell of stale beer, old sweat and cigarette smoke assaulted him as soon as he pulled the door open, replacing the reek of the rubbish in the alley. The new stench didn't help with the mild nausea resting in the pit of his stomach. Walking in and letting the door fall shut behind him, he swallowed hard.

If possible, the gloom inside was even thicker than out. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he fought the urge to turn and run. The place reminded him of bars Jonah had done business in, and the patrons, sporting leather and faded jeans, were the same kind of men. A couple of them, nearest the door, shot him suspicious looks, their low murmur falling silent at his presence. Another, dirty hair brushing his shoulders, licked his lips as his gaze raked Jake up and down. Jake ignored them, firmly reminding himself why he was doing this: for Edward's sake. Thinking of Edward, and how he had put his faith in Jake more than anyone else, calmed him a little. Mentally squaring his shoulders, Jake began to work a path through the Saturday night crowd of sweaty bodies packed close together.

In spite of the sparse lighing in the bar, Jake spotted the Ravenwood group easily. They were in a booth at the far end. As per Hicks's briefing, there were three of them. They were dressed similarly to the other low-lifes in the bar—and still managed to stand out like a sore thumb. Maybe it was the way they sat isolated, a small circle of space surrounding their booth as the other customers instinctively avoided getting too close to them. Or perhaps it was the threatening air they exuded, daring anyone to challenge them. One of the Ravenwood guys gave Jake a hard-eyed stare, before bending forward to whisper something to the man across from him. The other, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, nodded in acknowledgement, though he didn't look up. Jake supposed they'd recognized him from his J&R mug shot the instant he'd walked into the bar.

Trying not to let the fear uncoil inside and give him away, Jake made a beeline for the booth. "Goetz?"

The dark-haired guy slowly raised his head at Jake's question. A short, neat beard covered a weak chin, but there was nothing weak in the way his cold blue eyes traveled over Jake. Jake suppressed another quiver of fear. Those kinds of eyes didn't miss much. He'd never felt more exposed in his life; it was as if the man could see right into his soul, and would know the real reason Jake was there.

"Jake Green." Goetz flicked a hand at one of the men sitting opposite him, a short guy with a crewcut. The man slid from the booth, making room and silently indicating Jake was supposed to take his place. He slipped back in after Jake and, again, Jake had to struggle not to show his fear; he was effectively trapped between Crewcut and his buddy, a muscular blond. Neither of Goetz's companions introduced themselves as they sandwiched Jake, and Goetz didn't bother with introductions either. Nor did they offer him a drink from the bottle of scotch they were sharing between them. Jake didn't care; he wasn't here to socialize.

Nobody spoke for a while. Around them, the buzz of men talking picked up again. Goetz continued to scrutinize Jake with that unreadable stare, until Jake had to fight not to fidget where he sat. He recognized it as a tactic to unnerve him. The knowledge didn't stop it from working as intended. He cleared his throat; time to show some initiative and let them know he wasn't so easily cowed. "I hear you're looking for a pilot?"

Goetz sniffed. "Lotsa people hearing lots of things." He poured a fresh shot from the bottle and contemplated his glass. Jake was acutely aware of the two hard bodies on either side of him, and the fact that he couldn't escape.

"But yeah, might be we got a job for an experienced pilot." Goetz threw back the whiskey and resumed staring at Jake.

Ignoring the elbows jabbing in his ribs, Jake smirked cockily at Goetz and thumbed his own chest. "ATP-certified, 1,600 verified hours." He wriggled until he had enough space to lean forward and plant his elbows on the table. "Single seater or passenger jet, don't matter. If it's got wings, I can fly it."

Goetz's expression didn't change. "You drove a rig for J&R for a while." It wasn't a question.

"Yep. Needed a job." Jake wasn't going to divulge any further details than strictly necessary. Would be safer, he'd concluded, as he'd gotten on the bus to the rendezvous. The less he told them, the less chance they'd catch him in a lie or a half-truth.

"Why'd you quit?"

Jake hesitated, his smirk melting as the memory of that poor girl flashed through his mind. "There was... an incident." The blond on Jake's right scoffed at his choice of words.

"And?" Goetz prompted, ignoring the blond's snort.

Jake raised his shoulders in another shrug. "Guess I didn't have the stomach for killing innocent villagers."

This time, both of Goetz's men reacted, barking derisive laughs. Goetz gestured them to silence and they quickly curbed their amusement. It spoke of the man's influence over his underlings, corroborating Jake's first impression: Goetz was one dangerous sonofabitch.

Goetz pondered him silently for a minute, toying one-handedly with a cardboard coaster. "Thanks for coming by," he shook his head, "but you're not the guy we need." Beside Jake, Crewcut started to slide from the booth to let him out.

Jake's heart sped up in his chest as panic threatened to overwhelm him. He had a sudden vision of Hicks gleefully presenting whatever evidence he had to Edward's superiors. "Wait!"

Goetz quirked an eyebrow, and Crewcut stopped moving.

"That was then, okay?" Jake wrestled his alarm under control and racked his brain. What he could say to Goetz that'd convince him to give Jake the job? Maybe he should've lied about Saffa? No, Jake instantly answered his own question. The fact that he'd protested the company's decision to bury the whole sordid affair with no repercussions at all was in his file. Goetz would be aware what Jake's feelings about Saffa were; he'd have known immediately if Jake had lied.

"Since I've been back state-side," Jake succeeded in meeting Goetz's stare head-on, "I've not had much luck finding work." Goetz didn't stop him from talking. Encouraged, Jake went on, "Employers don't like holes in a resume. Especially when they plan to let you play with their expensive toys." He recalled the interview at Saber Airlines: the guy had given the impression he really liked Jake for the job, until Iraq had come up.

"So?" Goetz dropped the coaster. He didn't sound convinced yet.

"So, I learned my lesson." Jake scratched his neck. "All I'm interested in is the money. I don't care what the job is."

"Hm." Goetz considered Jake quietly. Jake's only hope was that they were desperate enough to give him a second chance. After all, how many out-of-work pilots with no conscience did they have to choose from? The mere fact that Goetz and his men were interviewing him in a bar, dressed in civvies, told Jake that what they were planning was an off-the-book job, an operation on the side that Ravenwood's higher-ups didn't want to know about.

Goetz's next words confirmed Jake's speculations were correct. "Ever done any low altitude night flying?"

Inwardly, Jake breathed a small sigh of relief. He hadn't bungled it completely yet. Outwardly, he sniffed, thinking it was time he sounded less desperate. "Of course." There was no need to elaborate; Goetz had known the answer before he'd asked the question. And while Jake preferred not to dwell on the South American jobs he'd done, he was also aware it was mark in his favor in Goetz's opinion.

"Hm." Goetz's tone was neutral and Jake still had no clue what was going on behind those pale eyes. "Thanks for dropping by, Jake. We've got your cell number, we'll be in touch."

Jake blinked. Did that mean they were going to hire him? "So I've got—?"

"I said: we'll be in touch."

The guy next to Jake was climbing to his feet, and Jake thought it best not to press his luck any further. He slipped from the bench and walked away without another word.

Outside, he breathed deeply from the loathsome alley air, hands shaking and heart thudding against his ribs. Retracing his steps to the main road and the bus home, he sent up a silent prayer. God, let me not have mucked that up.

o0o

Two days later, Jake was steering a rented Taurus off I-90, following the signs pointing toward Cuyahoga County Airport in Ohio. After leaving Goetz and his men, he'd suffered an unpleasant call with Hicks. The Fed had wanted an update, repeating his threats to expose Edward—as if he believed Jake wasn't trying hard enough. The rest of the weekend, Jake had spent fretting that Goetz would find another wretched fool with a pilot's license.

Monday at noon, his cell phone rang. Jake picked it up on the second ring, expecting it to be Hicks, to increase the pressure. Instead, it had been Goetz's gruff voice on the other end of the line, telling Jake they were willing to offer him a trial run. He'd proceeded to give Jake detailed instructions. "Meet us at Cuyahoga Airfield, near Cleveland. Hangar 6, Tuesday, 11 pm. Pack a toothbrush."

Jake had been so relieved he hadn't screwed up the interview, he'd almost forgotten he was supposed to be playing a despairing pilot-for-hire. Goetz had been ready to hang up before he remembered. "How much...?"

Goetz had sighed heavily. "Fifteen K. Half up front, half after the job's done." He'd broken the connection without giving Jake the chance to say anything else.

Hitting the blinker for the next turn, Jake glanced in the rear mirror. The headlights that had been a constant presence since he'd picked up the car at the rental agency in Rochester five hours ago followed him around the bend. He couldn't blame Hicks for wanting to keep an eye on him—in a way, it was reassuring—but he sure hoped those guys had enough sense not to follow him into the airport.

At the next corner, where Jake made the turn into the airfield's access road, the pursuing car continued straight. Jake let out a breath, shaking his head at himself. Of course Hicks wouldn't send complete fools.

He could've let Jake borrow a car, though. It didn't seem fair that Jake had been forced to raid the emergency fund in the spaghetti tin to rent the Taurus, while Hicks could afford an agency escort to trail him the entire route to Ohio. The thought grated on Jake; he didn't expect Hicks to let him keep the fifteen thousand Goetz had promised—not that Jake wanted it; it was blood money—but Jake doubted Hicks would reimburse him for his expenses.

The county airport was largely abandoned at this time of night. In the gloom at the edge of the security floodlights, Jake caught a glimpse of several small twin-engine props tethered on the tarmac parking areas. He slowed as he drove down the row of buildings and parking spaces that lined this side of the airport, searching for the hangar where he was supposed to meet Goetz.

It did feel good to drive again, instead of having to depend on public transport. They'd asked him for an ID at the rental agency counter, and Jake had been pathetically happy he could present something with his real name on it. Although, he chuckled ruefully as he spied hangar 6, a credit card would've been useful too; it had taken a good deal of arguing to get the clerk to accept cash as payment.

He pulled up in front of hangar 6. It hadn't been so hard to find, after all: it was the only building showing lights. Parking the Taurus next to an SUV with Ravenwood markings, he got out.

"Hey! You!"

Someone came running from the direction of the hangar even as Jake slammed the car door shut and hit the lock button on the key chain. Palming the key, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, waiting for the other man to reach him.

"Who're you?" The guy was a few inches shorter than Jake, with a military buzz cut. A side arm dangled from his hip, and he kept his hand close to the butt of the weapon as he spoke. On his chest, Jake made out the familiar red patch with a black raven. "You can't park here."

Jake held back the irritated comment burning on the tip of his tongue. Experience had taught him that Ravenwood were a suspicious lot. Likely the reason Hicks had never gotten close enough to gather the proof needed take them out of business. "I'm the new pilot."

"Oh." The guy relaxed slightly, though his hand remained near his gun. "Name?"

"Jake Green."

As Jake offered his name, the security guard grew friendlier. Goetz must've announced he'd be coming.

"Randy Payton. Come on." Payton spun on his heel. "I'll take you to Goetz."

Preceding Jake into the building through a small side door, Payton reassured the other guard, who was keeping watch inside the hangar, that Jake was okay. As they passed the planes standing side by side in the hangar, lit by the overheads, Jake automatically inventoried Ravenwood's tiny fleet: a new Challenger 604, with the J&R corporate logo painted on its hull, and an older Lear 36A, unmarked except for its tail number. In spite the danger of walking into the lion's den, Jake's pulse quickened at the idea he'd soon be flying one of those. It had been so long....

Sudden doubt struck: would he still know how? That was what the biannual review was for, and he'd missed it—.

Don't be an idiot, he told himself as soon as the fear made itself known. Flying was in his blood; he'd remember what to do if he lived to be as old as Grandpa when he'd died. Assuming he'd make it that far. Giving himself a mental shake, Jake yanked his attention back to the present.

Payton led him into an office at the rear of the building. As soon as they stepped across the threshold, someone called out jovially, "Jake!" The greeting came from Goetz, and its unexpected cheerfulness put Jake on instant alert, all thought of the planes and taking them up forgotten. He met Goetz's gaze warily. From the corner of his eye, he saw Payton disappearing, the underling having done his duty. The door shut behind him. Again, Jake was trapped.

Goetz's grin seemed friendly enough, though Jake noticed the smile didn't reach his eyes. They were as cold as they had been back at the bar. "You remember Sloan, don't you?" Goetz indicated the other man in the room. Jake recognized him as the blond from the meeting in Rochester.

Sloan grunted something unintelligible that might've been a greeting.

"Of course." Jake hadn't learned the guy's name; he sure as hell was familiar with the man's elbows poking into his ribs.

Introductions done, Goetz turned to business. "Let's get a move on." He snatched a sheet of paper from a nearby desk. "This is the flight plan."

Jake peered down at the schedule. Destination: Santiago de Cali International, Colombia. His eyes widened in surprise; he'd expected something more obscure, a backwoods airstrip in the jungle, without any officials snooping around. "This—?"

"What? Not good enough for ya?" Goetz quirked a cynical eyebrow.

"No, it's fine. Just—." He broke off; he couldn't give voice to his suspicions.

Goetz understood anyway. "What, you thought...?" He snorted a laugh and exchanged an amused look with Sloan. "Jake, Jake. What were you thinking? Ravenwood is a legitimate outfit, and we have legitimate dealings with the Colombian government."

"Sure." Jake had no doubt that Goetz spoke the truth: what better way to hide their dirty dealings than under a layer of legitimacy? It had made Jonah successful, once he'd learned the lesson the hard way in Lansing, when Jake was a teenager.

"Is that a problem?" While Goetz sounded genuinely concerned, Jake didn't buy into the act for an instant. A test; it had to be a test.

"Nope." Jake gave another shake, folding the flight plan double. "My job's to get your plane from A to B, quickly and without any trouble. Anything else? Not my business."

"That's my boy." Goetz flung a cordial arm across Jake's shoulder. Test or no test, the man's behavior was so markedly different from the way he'd treated Jake in the bar that it unnerved him. It was probably a new tactic, one designed to make him feel like he was one of the boys and make him let his guard down. Jake made a mental note to be very, very careful over the next few hours.

"Good, now that we've got that settled, if you turn that in," Goetz pinpointed the page Jake was holding, "I'll have Sloan make sure the plane's ready. We're taking the Lear."

Jake cast a dubious glance at Sloan. The Lear would officially require a flight crew of two. "You're the co-pilot?" The guy looked formidable enough for a mercenary, muscles bunching under his shirt, and he had a mean elbow, but Jake didn't trust him to know one end of a plane from the other. "Um, if it's all the same to you, I'll do my own inspection." He was less worried about regulations—that was as much Ravenwood's problem as it was his. But he wasn't prepared to crash and get himself killed because the aircraft was defective.

Sloan shot him an offended glower, while Goetz snorted good-naturedly. "You're filling me with confidence, Jake."

It was Jake's turn to scoff lightly. "One other thing." He'd remembered he needed to keep up the ruse of being a mercenary pilot. "My money?"

Some of Goetz's good cheer left him and he glowered at Jake. "Told ya: half in the plane before take off, the rest when we return. As agreed. A'ight?" The way he asked the question brooked no argument, and Jake judged it wisest to nod without further comment.

Goetz signaled Sloan. "Have the Lear rolled out of the hangar. I'll tell our passengers to get ready."

Passengers?

Before Jake could ask, Goetz carried on, "You're taking five today. Two regional Ravenwood managers, plus me, Sloan and Payton. The three of us will be handling security."

"No cargo?"

"No cargo." Goetz strode off, presumably to fetch the executives Jake was hired to take to Santiago de Cali.

Jake furrowed his brow as he stared after Goetz's back. If there was no cargo, illicit or otherwise, what the hell was he going to tell Hicks?

o0o

The total trip, one of the most unremarkable Jake had ever undertaken, took less than thirty hours. True to the flight plan, he'd

carried the two executives to Santiago de Cali, setting the Lear down early in the morning. An official-looking limousine had been waiting to whisk them away, along with Goetz and Sloan, leaving it to Jake and Payton to see to the formalities and have the jet refueled. After flying all night, Jake would have liked to get some sleep during the day, but he discovered another drawback of serving two masters: there was no chance for anything more than a quick nap. The limousine returned just after sunset; an hour after that, Jake had them wheels-up, nose pointing north, returning to the States and landing them safely at Cuyahoga airport another five hours of quiet flying later.

Following the suspense of the past week, it was all very anticlimactic. At least he'd proved he hadn't forgotten how to work a plane, Jake grumbled bitterly to himself, following Goetz into the hangar's office. It took an effort not to let his feet drag as he walked and he suppressed a yawn; he hadn't slept much since Hicks had ambushed him in his kitchen and the lack of rest was starting to catch up with him.

"So," Goetz sat down in the chair behind the desk, "you like working for Ravenwood?"

Maintaining his wariness of the man's amiability, Jake rolled a shoulder. Job like this would've actually been a good gig to have, if not for the fact it was for Ravenwood, the outfit which had murdered Freddy, and against which he was supposed to find evidence while Edward's career hung in the balance. "Piece of cake."

Goetz guffawed a laugh and pulled open a drawer, rummaging through its contents. Jake decided to throw him a piece of bait. "I've got no clue why you needed me. That old Lear's like driving a bus; anyone who can handle a plane could manage her." Not everyone would've been able to manage her single-handedly, though; as he'd expected, Sloan had made himself scarce the instant Jake started the engines.

"I take it you haven't earned this, then?" Goetz smirked, holding up a thick envelope that Jake surmised contained the rest of his payment. He had an envelope similar to the one Goetz held stashed in the inner pocket of his jacket. As promised, the Ravenwood leader had given it to him on boarding the plane.

"Like hell I have." Jake held out his hand. "Deal's a deal."

Goetz's smirk faded as he considered Jake, the coldness creeping back in to his expression. "Glad you feel that way." He slapped the envelope into Jake's open palm. "Get your ass outta here. We'll know where to find you if we need you."

Knowing better than to argue and risk raising suspicion by trying to push for a more definitive answer, Jake stuffed the envelope into his pocket alongside its twin. He nodded his thanks and ambled out as if all was right in his world.

o0o

The road to Rochester was endless. Several times Jake caught himself just as his eyelids were falling shut. He stopped for coffee twice, but the caffeine didn't sustain him long. At last he reached home, thankfully without crashing the Taurus or wrapping the car around a tree. Leaving his jacket on a kitchen chair, he stumbled straight into the bedroom, not bothering to take off his boots, and fell face-down onto the mattress, too tired to drag up a blanket. Exhausted from the strain he'd been under over the past week, and with the adrenaline of working with Ravenwood and being around Goetz fading from his blood, Jake was out before his head had hit the pillow.

Rhythmic banging gradually filtered into Jake's sleep-befuddled brain, as if someone was beating a heavy drum. The noise slowly brought him back to consciousness. He raised his head a fraction, wincing at the stiffness that had settled into his neck from the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in, and peered blearily at the alarm clock. The digits told him it was shortly after eleven in the morning, which meant he'd gotten only a handful of hours of shuteye.

"G'way." He dropped his head wearily, his plea muffled by the pillow, hoping whoever was pounding on the door would give up and leave if they didn't get any response. Five minutes of intermittent, relentless knocking later, it dawned on him that the other person was more patient than he was.

Cursing under his breath, Jake dragged himself from the bed, tottering drunkenly toward the door. Peering through the peephole didn't make him feel any better. "Hicks." He unlocked the door and stumbled into the kitchen area to make coffee. He was going to need it.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Hicks stormed in, slamming the door behind him.

"Sleeping." Jake rubbed at his eyes, which were stinging with fatigue, and yawned.

"Why didn't you pick up the goddamn phone?"

"What phone?" Jake's gaze landed on his jacket, still hanging where he'd discarded it on the chair. Gradually, Hicks' meaning filtered through his addled brain. "Oh," he muttered sheepishly. "That phone." He snatched up the jacket, digging through its various pockets until he located the cellphone Hicks had provided. He glanced at the display. Fifteen missed calls? Laughing ruefully, he held up the phone so Hicks could see the notification. "These all yours?"

"Yes." Hicks still looked furious, his pale, thin face flushed red with anger. "I've been trying to reach you all morning."

"Sorry." Jake managed to put a measure of regret into his tone. "I've been up for—" He tried to calculate how long it had been since he'd last slept, not counting the midday catnap in Santiago de Cali, snatched while curled up in the pilot's seat. His brain proved incapable of doing the simple sum. "—God knows how many hours."

Hicks' expression didn't soften. "I'd have imagined you'd want to debrief soon's you got away." A slight smirk played around his lips. "Get your boyfriend off the hook."

The sobering reminder instantly brought Jake fully awake. He'd been too exhausted to think beyond getting some sleep, but even if he hadn't—he had nothing to report to Hicks. Nothing of use, at least. He busied himself finding a clean mug in one of the cupboards. "Got nothing to tell."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hicks rounded the kitchen table and pushed into Jake's personal space.

Jake refrained from taking a step back. He met Hicks' sharp-eyed gaze. "Don't—." He swallowed the bile that threatened to rise. What could he say to convince Hicks not to reveal Edward's secret? "It's not my fault."

Hicks scanned his features closely. "Not your fault, what?" He threw up his hands in disgust as the answer dawned on him. "Come on, Jake. Don't tell me you didn't get any evidence! Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Jake poured a mug of the coffee that had now finished brewing. He decided against adding milk—he needed the coffee every bit as strong as could be—but put in a spoonful of sugar for energy, using the time to try and figure out how to tell Hicks the truth without sending the Fed straight off to Edward's superiors.

"Well?" Hicks demanded impatiently. "I asked you a question."

"It was a legit flight, okay?" Jake swung round to confront Hicks. "No drugs, no weapons, no Stingers, nothing."

"What?" Hicks blinked at him, taken aback by Jake's outburst.

Jake shrugged wearily, the flash of anger leaving him more tired than before. He plopped down heavily on the nearest chair, setting the mug on the table in front of him. "I took a couple of brass in suits to a business meeting in Colombia. No cargo whatsoever, clandestine or otherwise."

"Did they pay you?"

Jake sipped from the coffee, startled by Hicks' change of subject. "Yeah."

"How much?" Hicks grabbed the coffee pot and found a clean cup for himself.

Jake watched the agent over the rim of his own mug, frowning at Hicks. "Fifteen grand."

Hicks whistled through his teeth. "For driving a bus? On a legit flight?"

Jake scowled at Hicks' choice of words, an echo of his own. "A Lear jet, actually. But basically, yes." He shrugged as Hicks gave him another look. It was too much; he'd thought the same thing. But it was what it was.

Hicks dumped a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into his mug and peered around. "Got any milk?"

Jake pointed with his chin. "In the fridge."

A minute later, Hicks was seated across from Jake. He looked pensive as he stirred his coffee. "Are you absolutely sure the flight was legit?"

"Yes." Jake got up to refresh his cup. "Told you: there was nothing. I went over the entire craft while they were gone. Every nook and cranny and secret compartment." He'd grabbed the opportunity after Payton fell asleep in one of the leather seats in the main cabin, Payton's loud snoring accompanying him as he searched the plane top to bottom for anything that didn't belong. "So unless you think they hid a pair of Stingers in their briefcases...." He let his voice trail off.

"There's no need for sarcasm." Hicks scowled. "I'm just trying to figure things out. Why'd they hire you?"

Jake shrugged. "Damned if I know." He peered over at Hicks. "Could've been a test."

Hicks mulled over Jake's suggestion for a moment. "Could be you're right. Did you pass?"

Another wary shrug. "I don't know." Jake set his mug down and rubbed his neck. "Maybe. Just don't...." He stopped. He didn't want to beg. Dropping his hands to his sides, he lifted his head to look at Hicks. To his surprise, the Fed was more thoughtful than angry.

"Let's give it another few days." Hicks pushed back his chair, scraping it noisily across the tiles. "See if they contact you again."

"Okay." The prospect didn't cheer Jake, but he reckoned it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

Leaving his coffee unfinished, Hicks strode toward the door. He paused on the threshold. "Jake?"

Jake glanced up.

"Keep me posted."

"Will do." If Ravenwood called him for another job, he'd need Hicks as much as Hicks needed him.

After Hicks left, Jake washed out the coffee mugs and then grabbed his jacket, planning to hang it in its proper place on the peg near the door. It was oddly heavy in his hands, and he remembered the wads of cash he'd stashed in the inside pocket. Surprisingly, Hicks hadn't mentioned the money again after Jake had told him how much Goetz had paid him. Jake had expected him to demand he turn it over. Jake doubted Hicks had forgotten about it; not much passed him by.

Pulling the bills out the envelopes and shoving them together in a single pile, Jake riffled through them. All twenties and fifties. It was come by as honest as could be, but Jake still didn't want it: it had belonged to Ravenwood, and that alone made it dirty.

Deciding he'd worry what to do with it later, after he'd slept a couple more hours, he reached for the spaghetti tin on the top shelf. He stuffed the cash into it, before slogging toward the bedroom.

---

Chapter 8

The landing gear settled in the belly of the Lear with a thunk that quivered through the airplane's fuselage. Below, the runway lights of Cuyahoga airport dwinded to tiny pinpoints until they faded out altogether in the distance. Jake banked sharply to set a course south, leaving Cleveland a glowing orange sphere on the western horizon.

Goetz had finally called Jake for a new job on a bright Tuesday in July, almost two weeks after his trial run with Ravenwood. Jake had spent the intervening days being harassed by Hicks and second-guessing the wisdom of not sharing his problems with Edward when he had the chance.

Edward had figured out there was something going on, despite Jake's efforts to hide it, and Jake had briefly been tempted to confide in him: to tell him about Hicks and how the agent was holding Edward's career over Jake's head to force his cooperation. But the specter of the hurt and disappointment that would undoubtedly be Jake's due once Edward learned his carefully protected secret life was in danger of being exposed because of Jake's mistakes had held him back. And if he told Edward about Hicks, he'd have had to tell him about all his screw-ups, too: Freddy and San Diego, and the girl in Iraq....

Jake had shut down the conversation when Edward asked.

Maybe, he hoped, sparing a thought for the cell phone in his pocket as he checked the Lear's altimeter again, he'd get the proof Hicks required during this trip, and then Hicks would leave him alone—and he'd never have to tell Edward a thing.

The Lear reached cruising altitude, and Jake informed his passengers they were free to take off their seat belts and move around if they wanted; the weather forecast was clear all the way, the tropical storm forming over the Atlantic ocean posing no threat to their flightpath, and their ETA in Santiago de Cali was seven in the morning.

After he'd switched off the intercom and was alone with his thoughts, he let his gaze rove over the instrument panel, directing only half his attention to the various meters and dials. He trusted to his instincts and experience to alert him if something wasn't right, focusing his mind instead on the real job he was supposed to do. On the surface, this trip was identical to the last one—a pair of executives, along with their security detail, for passengers, with a flight plan to a destination in for Colombia—but Jake was wasn't fooled: in the thirty minutes he'd had to prepare the plane, he'd noticed the differences.

To begin with, Goetz had been nothing like the amiable guy Jake had dealt with last time. He'd been tense and curt, impatiently barking at Jake to get the plane up and running while Jake was still climbing out of his car, and then refusing to let Jake run the pre-flight checks personally, telling him bluntly it had been taken care of and demanding he get his ass into the pilot's seat and the plane in the air as soon as possible. Jake had attempted to put his foot down—no way was he going to take up a plane he hadn't looked over himself—but Goetz hadn't backed down until one of the suits overruled him. Even after that, he'd dogged Jake's heels during the preparations, his presence a silent menace that made sure Jake didn't dawdle.

Secondly, they were carrying cargo. Jake hadn't been around to see if any had been loaded but, finding the external lockers bolted shut, he'd asked. Goetz had nearly bitten his head off, snarling it was none of his business. Jake had needed to explain three times that he needed to know so he could calculate their take-off weight. At last, Goetz had unwillingly admitted the lockers were filled to their load capacity, though he'd point-blank refused to allow Jake to inspect the cargo and confirm it was secured properly.

Reluctantly, Jake had given in, praying silently Goetz was right, that Sloan knew what what he'd been doing when he'd overseen the loading. Fortunately, it seemed Sloan did know his business: while the Lear was noticeably more sluggish to respond to Jake's touch than he remembered, she still handled well.

He wished he'd had a chance to see the actual cargo, or take a peek at the loading bill. Knowing they were transporting a heavy load of an undetermined nature wouldn't be enough to satisfy Hicks. The Fed had made it clear that he wanted hard, irrefutable proof: copies of manifests, photographs, eyewitness statements. He hoped he'd have an opportunity during the unloading in Colombia, perhaps to take some photos—.

"Jake."

Goetz's voice startled Jake from his plans. He'd been so deep in thought, he hadn't heard the cockpit door open or noticed Goetz sticking his head in. He twisted in his chair so he could meet the other man's gaze. "Yeah?"

Goetz gave him a hard stare. "Change of plans."

Jake's heart started beating faster in his chest. "Why?"

Goetz scowled at the question. He stepped further into the cockpit, taking a seat in the empty co-pilot's chair. "We're making a detour. Quick stop en route to our official destination. Here." He shoved a sheet of paper at Jake. In the low light the instruments emitted, Jake made out a pair of coordinates, scribbled in a sloppy handwriting. Looked to be a location north of Santiago de Cali. Also in Colombian territory, he reckoned, though he couldn't be sure without consulting a map. Either way, it shouldn't add a great deal of time to the trip.

"What's there?" He took the sheet from Goetz and turned back to the instrument panel. He'd have to calculate a new route.

"A place to land." Again Goetz sidestepped Jake's question. "It's got a dirt strip. They're expecting us." He got up from the chair. "And Jake? We need to have nobody none the wiser about this detour."

Jake scoffed. Easier said than done, especially in the dark. "Could get tricky," he warned. A quick mental calculation had told him the sun would still be below the horizon as they approached the landing site, although it shouldn't be full dark any longer. Thank God it was going to be a clear day; with luck, it'd light enough he could pull off landing visually. And the Lear was equipped with the latest navigation aids if he should have to bring the plane down on the instruments. Biggest problem was gonna be avoiding ATC tracking them.

Goetz clamped a hand on Jake's shoulder, gripping him hard. Not hard enough to hurt, but a warning all the same. "That's why we hired you, Jake. Time to start earning those big bucks. Like you said, if a bus driver could do it, we'd have hired one."

Jake shrugged off Goetz's hand. "Right."

Goetz left him to calculate the new course, shutting the cockpit door carefully behind him and blocking Jake from hearing anything of what was going on in the main cabin. Jake swallowed a sour laugh. He might not be a bus driver, but he sure as hell wasn't part of the crew, either. And while he didn't have any desire to be best buddies with the likes of Goetz and Sloan, it would've made his job easier.

Shaking his head to himself—nothing to be done about it—he concentrated on the calculations needed to reach Goetz's airstrip, while trying to figure out the best way not to alert the Colombian authorities to their presence.

o0o

A few hours later, the sky to the east was turning pink and orange with the imminent sunrise as Jake approached the coordinates Goetz had given him. He'd been flying low over the tree tops for the past hour, relying on the Lear's instruments to keep him from crashing into hills or cliffs. It was still too dark to see properly but, almost imperceptibly, the ground below was taking on more and more shape: endless forested slopes interrupted by the occasional small river snaking through the trees, its rippling surface glistening in the early dawn light.

Jake glanced at his instruments again. They should almost be—there! The dark forest opened up abruptly and small yellow pinpricks of lamps being lit at their approach sprang to life, stretching out in a ragged double row. He allowed himself a brief grin; at least they weren't expecting him to set down on the landing strip completely blind. He grudgingly admitted Ravenwood was running a pretty smooth operation; whoever was in charge down below must've had a spotter on one of the hills along the plane's flight path, radioing in their approach so they could hold off on lighting the beacons until the last minute.

After warning his passengers they should ready themselves for landing, Jake flew a single pass over the dirt runway—a chance to examine it and let the people on the ground finish lighting the beacons and get out of his way—before turning to make his final descent. His impression of efficiency was reinforced once he'd put the Lear down and bumped along over the rough ground. At the end of the strip, someone wielding a pair of flashlights directed him toward a cluster of corrugated-iron sheds obscured from view under the trees. A couple of trucks, canvas painted in camouflage colors designed to make them blend in with the surrounding rain forest, stood parked near the sheds, with a group of men dressed in a ragtag collection of frayed army fatigues lounging around them.

The men got to their feet as the plane rolled up and swarmed toward it as Jake turned off the engines. A truck's engine rumbled as one of the vehicles was brought closer, and bangs and crashes reverberated through the fuselage: the cabin door being unsealed and the stairs lowered. Voices shouted orders, and the plane shook again as the external locker lids were slammed open. Jake crawled out of the pilot's seat, rolling his head until his spine crackled, and strolled out of the cockpit, trying to look as casual as possible.

He made it less than two paces into the cabin. "Who said you could come out of there?" The third Ravenwood guard on the trip shoved a gun in Jake's face. Barsotti, Jake recalled Goetz had called him. Jake would've preferred to have Payton along; he'd seemed a decent kid at heart—which was probably the exact reason Goetz hadn't brought him this time.

Jake squinted down at the muzzle pointed up his nose. "Hey, can't a guy take a leak anymore?" The instant he uttered the excuse, Jake became aware it wasn't a lie. The flight had been long, and focusing all his energy on not crashing into the jungle had kept his mind occupied. Now he'd had the chance to relax a little, his bladder made itself known.

"Hmph." Barsotti peered at him suspiciously along the barrel of his gun for another second. "Make it quick." He slowly lowered the weapon. "Boss wants to be gone ASAP."

"Sure."

By the time Jake inched back out of the cramped bathroom in the rear of the plane, Barsotti was gone and the cabin empty. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. He dashed toward the stairs leading from the aircraft. The sun was slowly climbing above the tree tops, illuminating a hive of activity in the dew-speckled grass. Nobody seemed to be paying Jake any attention.

Struggling to appear nonchalant, Jake dropped down the set of steps and wandered around, trying to give the plane a cursory inspection while, at the same time, looking everywhere at once and assign everything he saw to memory. He was certain Hicks would grill him mercilessly for every last detail. The ground crew were running back and forth, carrying slim cylinders from the plane to the truck that, despite their relatively small size, were evidently heavy. Wrapped as the objects were in plastic, Jake couldn't make out what they were.

One of the Ravenwood executives, a bald guy whose name Jake hadn't been told, stood talking with one of the receiving crew: a tall, older man wearing a neatly pressed uniform that Jake guessed probably belonged to some branch or other of the Colombian armed forces. Goetz hovered near the pair. From the sheer quantity of insignia the Colombian wore, and the authoritative way he held himself, Jake reckoned he was in charge. He had no idea what rank or branch the marks signified. Then again, it occurred to him, the man was just as likely to be serving in a private outfit than any official military.

With the unloaders shouting instructions at each other, and the truck engines rumbling noisily, Jake couldn't make out anything beyond a couple of snatches of the conversation.

"... not enough..." the Colombian was complaining in heavily accented English. He glared at the Ravenwood man, as if to guarantee he was being understood.

The executive shrugged, the man's displeasure not impressing him in the least. "... be careful... entire shipments missing..." He shook his head.

Frustrated, Jake retreated to a spot near the Lear's wings. He couldn't get any closer to the discussion without it becoming obvious, and those snippets were next to useless. He fished out his cell phone. No way Goetz would let him see any cargo manifests—and if he did, Jake reckoned they'd claim the cargo was something innocuous, like machine parts or manufacturing equipment. But perhaps he could get some shots of the area, and of the man in charge.

He'd snapped a handful of pictures when someone shouted, "Hey! What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

Jake's heart jumped into his throat. Lowering the phone, he slowly swiveled around. Sloan was standing behind him, face twisted in suspicion, his gun in his hand.

Jake struggled to not stare at the weapon. He offered Sloan an unconcerned shrug. "Need to make sure the plane's okay."

"Again?" Sloan didn't relax in the slightest.

"After landing on a dirt strip? Damned right I do." Jake quirked an eyebrow. If Sloan had any clue about planes, he'd know that. "Unless you want to risk us dropping out of the sky because a screw came loose?"

For the first time since he'd accosted Jake, uncertainty crept into Sloan's expression. He made a humming noise under his breath, and relaxed his grip on his weapon a fraction. "What were you doin' with that?" He pointed with his chin at the phone Jake had been trying to slip into his pocket unnoticed.

Crap. Jake snatched at the first excuse to pop into his mind. "Trying to find a signal."

The leery crease in Sloan's brow deepened. "Who're you tryin' to call?"

"Um..." Jake racked his brain. "My girlfriend."

Sloan looked as if he didn't quite believe Jake. Jake prayed he wouldn't demand Jake give him the phone. The cell held what little evidence he'd gathered and he didn't want to lose it. And if Sloan insisted on checking what Jake had been doing and saw the photos....

Mix truth with the lies, Jake reminded himself. "Her ex has been harassing her," he explained. "With me gone, I wanted to make sure she's okay."

Sloan still seemed dubious.

"I'm not getting anything, though." Jake had finally managed to shove the phone into his pocket. He hoped he looked less guilty than he felt. "Too many damned trees, I guess."

"Whatever." There was a warning shout behind Jake, followed by a heavy thud and a cry of pain. Sloan's gaze lifted to look past Jake. Jake glanced across his shoulder. One of the unloaders had dropped the cylinder he'd been carrying. Jake caught a glimpse of an olive-green tube rolling out into the dirt from its plastic wrapping. It was maybe four feet long, and five or six inches in diameter. Jake's breath caught: though he didn't know exactly what model it was, it was clearly some type of advanced missile system.

Sloan shoved him in the chest, preventing him from making out any further details. "Get your goddamn ass back in the plane."

Jake puffed out a breath as he trudged toward the plane's open door. Hicks had been right; Ravenwood was smuggling weapons to insurgents in South-America. He wished he could've taken a picture of the missile as proof. It would be the sort of thing Hicks would love to have. But he could feel Sloan's glare prickling in his neck every step of the way back to steps up to the cabin door.

At the top of the short staircase, he risked a final quick scan around. His blood grew cold: Goetz had joined Sloan, and they were both staring at him. Would Goetz believe his story? Deciding not to take any further chances, he retreated into the cockpit.

Soon after, Goetz joined him. "We're done here. Get us up and to Cali." Jake muttered an acknowledgment and started flicking switches to turn on the plane's equipment. "And Jake?"

Jake snuck a glance in Goetz's direction, enough to tell him what Goetz was going to say next. He forestalled him with a hand gesture. "Hey, just here to fly the plane and get paid. The rest isn't my business."

Goetz pursed his lips. "See it stays that way."

Jake didn't bother to reply; the roar of the engines firing up would've drowned out anything he might have said anyway. Five bumpy minutes later, they were up in the air, the landing strip in the jungle fading into the general greenery of the forest.

o0o

Whistling a popular tune that had been playing on the car radio, Beck walked into the apartment. It was quiet, as he'd anticipated. Faced with the rare opportunity to leave Fort Drum unusually early on a Friday, he'd grabbed it with both hands. Then the traffic had proved light, so he'd made better time than expected on the interstate, which had meant he'd also beat the Friday afternoon rush hour in Rochester. So it was only mid-afternoon by the time he reached the apartment. Jake would still be at work.

Walking to the bedroom to drop off his bag, he chuckled under his breath. He certainly wouldn't have minded a repeat of the welcome he'd received from Jake the last time. Jake had accosted him the instant he'd stepped inside, shoving him up against the door. Beck hadn't managed to produce more than a startled "Whoa...!" before Jake silenced the rest of his protest with a deep kiss.

Beck had quickly given in to the sensation, pleasure taking over from shock. It had been nice. Surprising as hell, but definitely enjoyable. At last, reluctantly, he'd pushed Jake away far enough to scan his face. "What's gotten into you?"

Sure, he was a little on the late side, later than he'd told Jake he'd be, thanks to a nasty pile-up north of Oswego that had forced him to go round. That wasn't sufficient reason for such abundant enthusiasm, was it?

"Nothing," Jake mumbled, not looking at Beck.

Was it Beck's imagination, or did Jake blush?

"Just... I missed you." Jake's fingers were fumbling to undo Beck's belt, and Beck drew in a sharp breath as Jake's hand brushed over his cock where it strained in his jeans. He forgot about asking any further questions as, to his own amazement, he discovered he was hard already. Usually he needed time to make the mental leap from army major to lover. His body had no such concerns, though; it readily appreciated Jake's unexpected forwardness.

Of course, over time, as Beck and Jake had grown closer and gotten to know each other better, Jake had become bolder, more secure in his actions. He rarely reminded Beck these days of the uncomfortable, hesitant kid he'd picked up all those months ago at Bo's. But this? This was new.

Curious to see where Jake would take it, Beck let his overnight bag fall from his fist, grabbed Jake's ass and yanked him closer, letting him feel his desire. Jake made a small noise in the back of his throat, pressing tighter to Beck and hiding his face in the crook of Beck's neck. He whispered hoarsely, his breath warm on Beck's skin, "You okay?"

Deep inside Beck's brain, a warning signal went off, alarmed either at the question or the tone. Beck ignored it, desire and heat and need for Jake overwhelming him.

"Heavens, yes," Beck breathed into Jake's hair. A cry escaped him as Jake wriggled a hand between their bodies and shoved it down Beck's jeans. His palm was cool on Beck's cock. "Never... uhn... better."

Realizing the memory had left him shaking with fresh desire, and with his jeans uncomfortably tight, Beck ducked into the bathroom to splash water on his face and cool off. He'd get his fill of Jake soon enough; no need to act like a schoolboy dreaming up sexual fantasies.

Toweling himself dry, he ambled back into the main living area and then headed for the kitchen, Inspecting the fridge, he noted it was mostly empty. He'd have to do something about that if they wanted to eat later. Preparing to shut the door, he caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Frowning, he ducked in further and reached for the open carton of milk. Ugh. He grimaced in disgust as he got a full blast of the stench: the milk was spoiled.

Jake could be such a slob, sometimes. How long had that carton been in there? Dumping the curdled milk down the drain and carefully disposing of the offending carton in the trash, Beck softened his mental censure. It was July, after all, and the carton had been less than a quarter full. Milk could go bad quickly in those circumstances.

He glanced around the kitchen again. He had time to kill while he waited for Jake to get home; he could get fresh groceries and decide what to prepare for dinner. One of the cast-iron rules he stuck to, no matter what, was that he and Jake couldn't be seen in public in situations that could possibly lead people to unwanted—if correct—conclusions. As a result, they'd taken to cooking elaborate dinners at home, each attempting to outdo the other. Beck had been on kitchen duty his last visit, but Jake would be tired by the time he got home, and Beck didn't mind pulling double duty.

Beck returned an hour later, his arms full of paper bags. "Jake?" He kicked the door shut behind him with his boot before walking further into the kitchen.

There was no answer to his hail. Beck glanced over at the clock as he set the groceries on the kitchen counter. Jake should be here any minute; best he get started on dinner right away. Putting the groceries in the fridge, he began chopping up the vegetables for the pasta sauce he was planning on making.

His attention focused on preparing the meal, Beck didn't notice Jake hadn't come home yet until dinner was nearly ready and he was preparing to set the table. His brow creased as he checked the time again. Jake was distinctly late. A bit put-out, Beck switched the burners under the pans to their lowest settings, hoping the food wouldn't dry out while he waited.

Jake knew Beck was coming, didn't he? Beck had called yesterday evening and left a message on the machine. Had Jake picked it up? It'd be annoying if he was hanging out with the guys from his job, having a quick beer, unaware that Beck was waiting at home with dinner, like a neglected housewife.

While Beck could be very patient when the situation called for it, fretfully waiting for Jake began to grate on his nerves. He restlessly paced from kitchen to living room and back to the stove again. On his third round, after peering out of the window hoping to see Jake hurrying home across the small park in front of the apartment building, he turned off the stove entirely. Why hadn't he insisted Jake got a cellphone? At least he'd have been able to call and ask where he was.

Discouraged, Beck plodded toward the sofa. As he turned and sat down, his gaze drifted over the answering machine on the desk. A red light was blinking rapidly, indicating there was a message waiting to be played.

Beck snorted a laugh at his own expense. He was a fool. If Jake knew he was going to be late, he'd have tried to let Beck know. And he'd have done it the only way he could: by calling the machine in the apartment.

Beck walked over to press the button—one new message, the device told him—but it wasn't Jake's voice that came from the speaker: instead, it was his own, with the message he'd left the night before. Listening to his own words, he concluded he sounded pleased: being able to leave the base on Friday and not have to return until Monday was a rare treat.

Filled with disappointment and faint irritation, he hit the button to erase the message, as it served no further purpose. Dammit, Jake.

Still staring down at the answering machine, now dark and empty, annoyance mutated into apprehension. The message hadn't been listened to yet; if it had, the light wouldn't have been flashing. But if Jake hadn't played the message, did that mean he hadn't been home since yesterday?

Abruptly, Jake's absence took on a more sinister meaning, especially in light of the uncharacteristic eagerness he'd displayed last time and the way he'd stonewalled Beck's questions after Beck had found him staring sleeplessly out of the living room window in the middle of the night. He wouldn't—would he?

Cold fear clamped around Beck's heart and in a few large strides, he was back in the kitchen, reaching up on his toes for the spaghetti tin on the top shelf. He'd never told Jake, but he knew it was where Jake kept his savings.

Fully convinced he'd find the tin empty, he nearly dropped it as it proved to be far heavier than he'd expected. He upended its contents on the kitchen table, sucking in a sharp, whistling breath as bills tumbled out. Piles and piles of them. Gaping at the money on the table, Beck estimated it was at least ten thousand dollars. Perhaps more.

He plopped down heavily on the nearest chair. How the hell had Jake gotten his hands on that much cash? Off-the-books construction work didn't pay that well. The relief that Jake hadn't gone—if he had, he'd have taken the money—was short-lived, as Beck's imagination ran through the list of other possibilities.

What sort of bad business had Jake gotten involved in?

Nothing in Jake's file could explain the money, except—Beck swallowed, remembering the details: the murder in San Diego, the accusations that some criminal outfit or other had been involved. Jake had been a professional driver, over in Iraq and Afghanistan; he'd had plenty of opportunity to meet the wrong people.

Beck didn't want to admit it, but in the end, he had to: the obvious explanation for the incredible amount of money hidden in the tin was that Jake had somehow gotten involved in drug smuggling. Beck scrubbed his fingers through his hair, pulling in a shuddering breath. Running drug transports to Canada, maybe; the border was only a short drive away.

He put his elbows on the table and hid his face in his hands, wishing he'd pushed Jake harder to tell him what was bothering him, when he discovered him missing in their bed, last time.

Beck had woken, after that amazing bout of love-making, to find Jake's place bare, the sheets cold. Jake hadn't replied to his soft hail. Coming fully awake, Beck had located the alarm clock. It had been shortly after one in the morning. No light filtered from the bathroom, so that wasn't where Jake had gone.

Rubbing at his eyes, Beck swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, and searched around for his boxers. He finally located them caught in the crumpled sheets.

Chuckling wryly, he stepped into them. He considered looking for a shirt as well, but neither he nor Jake liked to run the noisy A/C at night, and he figured the apartment was warm enough. He didn't expect to be gone long, anyway.

"Jake?" Padding barefoot into the living room, he spied Jake silhouetted against the window. He'd put on jeans and a T-shirt, indicating he'd been up for a while. Light from the streetlamps was playing on his hair.

Jake turned at the sound of Beck's voice. "Did I wake you?"

"No." In the gloom, Beck felt around for the switch to turn on the small lamp on the desk. He made the mistake of staring straight at the bulb when he found it, blinking owlishly at the sudden glow that blinded him momentarily. It took a minute for the spots dancing in front of his eyes to fade so he could make out Jake's face. "What are you doing up?"

Jake hunched his shoulders. "Couldn't sleep."

Beck started to chuckle, until something in Jake's expression made him swallow the quip that Jake should be plenty exhausted after their earlier activities. Again, a warning flare went up in Beck's mind. He'd never known Jake to suffer from insomnia. Combined with the way Jake had practically assaulted him, getting Beck off in the living room, before dragging him to the bedroom for another round without giving Beck the chance to say so much as "Hello", it was enough to raise the alarm. "Is everything okay?"

Jake stared at him, giving him a look Beck couldn't quite read. Despite the warmth of the room, involuntary goosebumps pimpled Beck's skin. He moved closer. "Jake? What's wrong?"

Jake opened his mouth as if he was preparing to answer, then snapped it shut without saying a thing. He gave a wry sniff. "Everything's fine." He turned once more toward the window, shoulders to his ears, leaving Beck to gape at his back.

Beck drew down his brows in a mixture of irritation and concern. He didn't believe Jake for a single second. Closing the last three feet of distance, he put a hand on Jake's shoulder. Jake flinched; he was tight as a coiled spring, the tension perceptible even through the soft cotton of his T-shirt. "Are you sure?"

From the way Jake wrenched away, Beck realized it had been the wrong thing to say. He dropped his hand.

"I said it's fine, didn't I?"

Dammit, Jake could be so damned stubborn. Every instinct in Beck longed to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he'd share whatever trouble was keeping him awake. Instead, Beck forced himself to remain calm. If there was one thing he'd learned over the past months, it was that Jake didn't respond well to being pressured: he tended to push right back—or run away. And neither was going to help the situation any.

Was this a new problem Jake didn't feel like sharing? Or an old one that had resurfaced? Beck had burned the file Bo's friend had put together for him; he'd neither wanted to keep it in the apartment, where Jake might find it, nor in his quarters at the base. But destroying the copies didn't mean Beck had forgotten the things he'd read. Had something from those files come back to haunt Jake? He wished he could ask directly. But as long as Jake refused to tell him, Beck couldn't let on he was aware of any of those facts. He'd have to explain how he'd found out, confess he'd had Bo dig into Jake's past. While it had made sense at the time, it now shamed Beck. So he offered Jake a small shrug instead. "As long as you know you can talk to me if there's a problem."

Jake offered him one of those wry half-smiles, his posture relaxing a fraction. "I know. Thanks." Beck continued to scrutinize him until he added reluctantly, "It's nothing I can't handle."

"Okay." Beck resisted the urge to sigh. To be honest, Jake's stubborn streak was one of traits that had attracted him in the first place. And he suspected that same stubbornness had kept Jake alive during the hard times he'd gone through. While Jake could be exasperating, Beck wouldn't wish him to be different.

He took a step to close the distance between them again, this time placing a hand on Jake's arm. "Come back to bed." Problems that appeared insurmountable in the dark of night often proved not quite so serious in the light of day. "It'll be better in the morning."

Jake snorted disbelievingly, but he did allow Beck to lead him back to the bedroom.

Once there, though, despite the soft mattress and the physical satisfaction of their earlier lovemaking, sleep had eluded Beck for a long time. Lying on his back, staring up unseeingly at the ceiling, he hadn't been able to banish the twinge of resentment, of hurt, that Jake didn't trust him enough to share whatever it was that was troubling him. He could also feel the waves of unhappiness coming off of Jake, curled up beside him, his knees lightly touching Beck's hip. He didn't think Jake was getting any sleep, either. He longed to reach out, to pull Jake closer, to repeat his offer of help, but he told himself he shouldn't; that he should respect Jake's evident desire to deal with the issue alone.

In short, he'd deluded himself that the reluctant admission there was something going on was all he could expect from Jake at this point, and that Jake would confide in him if the problem turned out to be too big to deal with on his own.

And now Jake was missing....

Beck had a sudden, horrible vision of Jake lying dead in a morgue somewhere, a John Doe tag on his toe, and him never finding out what had happened. He'd always been so careful to ensure nothing could tie them together, to protect himself. He'd never considered that it would also mean that, even if the authorities did identify Jake, they wouldn't know to contact Beck.

Sick to his stomach, Beck forced the vision away, firmly berating himself for coming up with such an outrageous idea. He was a soldier; he should know better than to jump to far-fetched conclusions based on skimpy intel. However, whether Jake's absence meant he was dead or not, a persistent voice in the back of his mind warned him that all the facts put together did paint a grim picture.

Shaking his head, Beck got to his feet, and started scooping the bills back into the tin. He shouldn't panic or accuse Jake of anything as damning as drug smuggling without proof. He'd do what he was best at: methodically puzzle together what facts he could until he had a clear picture. Then, and only then, would he pass judgment.

Putting the tin back on the shelf, feeling better for having a plan of action, he considered his next move. First thing to do would be to talk to the neighbors. He'd start with that woman across the hall, the one Jake hung out with when Beck wasn't in town.

Anita: her name popped into his mind, along with Jake's crazy suggestion they engage in a threesome. Despite his fears, Beck's mouth twisted in a slight smile at that particular memory. The smile quickly faded as he grabbed his keys, and crossed the hall to knock on Anita's door. He hoped she hadn't gone out, it being Friday night.

Luck was with him and, to Beck's relief, she answered the door only a few seconds after he'd rapped his knuckles against it. The hubbub of various voices talking at the same time came from behind her, and he caught sight of a number of people cluttering up the living room: she was having a party at home. Though he couldn't help scanning the crowd, he reckoned it was too much to hope Jake would be among them.

"Oh, hey." It was clear from her expression that she recognized Beck, although he'd never talked to her beyond a hello on the stairs. She must've seen something in his face: the quick smile she'd bestowed on him in greeting disappeared and, with a wave to her friends, she stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind her. "Is everything alright?"

"I don't know." For some reason, Beck was reluctant to say even that much. "I'm sorry to bother you...." He paused again. Was he getting carried away by his own insecurities? What if his initial conclusion was right? What if Jake had simply gone out for a beer and to shoot some pool with a few buddies? He'd look like a overwrought fool.

No, he told himself. No, he had to trust his instincts. And all his instincts, honed over the years, screamed that something was wrong. And if he was mistaken after all? He reckoned he could care less if Anita thought him an idiot, as long as Jake showed up hale and healthy. "I'm worried about Jake," he admitted. Saying it out loud made it real, and a cold shiver slithered along his spine. "Have you seen him lately?"

"Not for a couple days. Maybe—." She broke off, and her features turned pensive. She bit her lip, then straightened slightly, as if coming to a decision. "I'm not sure I should tell you this, but, um, there was a cop looking for him, a few weeks ago."

"A cop?" Beck raised an eyebrow. Jake had been trying very hard to avoid any contact with the authorities.

"Yeah, some kind of federal agent or other." Anita clasped her hands together. "Jake seemed upset about it. When I asked, he said he wasn't in trouble or anything."

Beck resisted the urge to scoff; he didn't believe that for a second. The way Jake had been acting, the money, and now a federal officer added into the mix? It was impossible to believe Jake wasn't in trouble.

"Is there anything I can do?" Anita asked. A burst of laughter drifted out from her apartment.

"No, thank you." Beck indicated where the merriment came from. "Go back to your guests. Please. I'm sure everything will turn out fine."

She hesitated for another moment. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Well, alright." She took a slow step backward, pushing the door open wider with her hip. "Let me know, okay?"

Beck promised he would, and Anita closed the door, cutting off the noise of the party. Beck stood in the quiet hallway for a minute, trying to decide what to do next, before returning to their own apartment. He went straight for the bedroom closet. He didn't want to, but he had no choice: he had to search through Jake's things. There could be something among them that would give him a hint of what kind of trouble Jake was in, or where Beck might start looking for him.

Opening the closet, Beck reached inside. From the back, he pulled out Jake's frayed messenger bag. Sheets fell out from it and he bent to pick them up, turning them over as he did so. He gasped in shock: the last thing he'd expected was to be staring at his own face. It was his service photograph, taken two years ago, before he'd left for his last tour in Afghanistan. How on God's green Earth had Jake gotten hold of that?

---

Chapter 9

Jake's fingers were trembling with exhaustion as he struggled to insert the key into the lock. If he was lucky and Edward stuck to his usual schedule, he could get a few hours of shut-eye before Edward arrived. Heaven knows he needed it.

His estimate, that this second trip would play out in a similar fashion to the first, and that the detour to the jungle airstrip wouldn't involve more than two or three extra hours, couldn't have been further from the mark. Whether or not the journey to Cali was merely a front to hide the smuggling, they'd stayed in the city for a day longer than during the previous flight. Whatever business the Ravenwood directors were having with the locals had apparently proved trickier than anticipated. The company had put the entire party up in a hotel after it became clear they wouldn't be flying home any time soon—which meant Jake had been forced to share a room with a hostile Barsotti. It hadn't made for a very restful night.

During the extra day, the tropical storm building over the Atlantic for the past week had moved in close enough that Jake hadn't been comfortable taking the Lear straight across the Caribbean Sea on the way back to Cleveland. Goetz had grumbled, but eventually given in, and Jake had detoured them to the west—which in turn meant the Lear couldn't make the entire distance on a single tank. They'd been forced to put down for a refueling stop at a J&R facility in Oklahoma. By the time Jake touched ground in Ohio, at the crack of dawn on Friday morning, everyone was tired and irritated, and Goetz had thrust the envelope with the other half of Jake's money into his hands with a snarled, "Get the hell out of here."

Jake had beat a hasty retreat. He didn't want to risk increasing the man's ire any more than he had to, and he was still afraid Sloan would remember him messing around with his phone while they were unloading the illicit cargo. However, if he'd thought he could go straight home and crash, he'd been sadly mistaken. Not far from the Rochester city line, the car that had latched onto his bumper a mile after he'd turned out of the airport had pulled alongside him, the agents inside holding up a badge—not that Jake had needed it to know who they were—and indicating he should follow them. They led him to a government building in Fairport, where Hicks waited impatiently on the stoop.

"What's with the goons?" Jake jerked a thumb across his shoulder at the two agents dogging his heels.

Hicks didn't smile. "I figured this time I'd make sure you'd come straight to debrief."

Jake grimaced as he followed Hicks inside the building. He couldn't quite blame him.

Hicks showed him to a drab windowless interview room. Apart from a single, grudging bathroom break, it was the only part of the building he saw until Hicks let him out twelve hours later, shortly before midnight.

He told Hicks everything he could: the unscheduled landing, the cargo, the tall Colombian. Based on Jake's description, including details he hadn't been aware he'd noticed that Hicks' interrogators patiently extracted from him, the missile he'd seen was identified as "probably a Javelin anti-tank weapon": heavy-duty tech Hicks said was worth tens of thousands of dollars a piece. They showed him a picture, and Jake had confirmed the device he'd seen had looked similar.

When Jake mentioned the photos he'd taken, his cell phone was whisked away by a lab tech. Blurry blown-up prints were delivered to the room an hour later. Hicks had asked Jake again and again and again to give him a blow-by-blow account of every minute they'd spent on the ground. Jake had been forced to repeat countless times what everyone had said to him, and what he'd overheard, and who had moved where and done what, until he got so sick of it he was afraid he'd strangle the Fed if Hicks dared order him to tell the story one more time.

All the while, stenographers captured his words; schematics were drawn and Jake asked to correct and amend them from memory; and a computer artist brought in to work with him to make improvements on the picture of the Colombian leader. The original photo, taken at low light and from a distance, had been too fuzzy for the techs to ID.

At last, dog-tired, Jake found himself left alone with Hicks. "Can I go?" He tried to sound bored, but he was afraid it had come out as desperate begging.

Hicks considered him silently for a minute, arms crossed over his narrow chest as he stood on the far side of the room. "It's not enough."

Too worn-out to grasp Hicks' meaning, Jake blinked in confusion. "What isn't?"

"The evidence."

Jake resisted the urge to bang his head on the table—barely. "I did what I could." He couldn't muster the energy to raise his voice.

"We need more, Jake."

Jake rubbed his eyes, gritty with fatigue, and peered blearily up at Hicks. "I can't help you."

Hicks spread his hands. "Jake—."

"Hey, I did the best I could, alright!" Frustration overcame tiredness, and Jake jumped up from his chair. "Those guys, they don't trust me. They don't trust anyone. I nearly got caught getting these." He sketched a wave at the photos still spread out in front of them, before leaning forward, his fingers curling into fists on the table. Lowering his voice, he added, "So, no matter what you do to me, what you do to Edward, I—can't—help—you." He pronounced the last four words separately, to underscore them.

"I've no intention of doing anything to you, or him." Hicks sat himself in the other chair, ignoring Jake's open-mouthed stare. "Jake, listen to me. Maybe, maybe if you'd gotten a photo of that Javelin missile, we'd have had a case. As it stands, if we arrest them based on what we have, chances are, we won't get a conviction. Your testimony alone isn't enough." Hicks shook his head as if to stress what he was saying. "Too easy for a good defense lawyer to explain that you misunderstood what you saw. The case would get thrown out and we'd have to release them." He caught Jake's gaze, holding it. "Make no mistake, no matter where you go, they'd find you. And they won't be as nice about it as I've been."

Jake blinked at Hicks, his heart dropping into his stomach as Hicks' warning filtered through the fog in his brain. He hadn't given a lot of thought to what would happen to him after he'd helped Hicks collect his evidence; his main concern had been to keep Hicks from exposing Edward. But Hicks was right. If Ravenwood got so much as a whiff that he was working with the Feds, the entire world wouldn't be big enough to hide in. "Then don't arrest them."

"That's not an option." Hicks scowled. "You think I'm doing this for fun? I've got people leaning on me too, Jake. People demanding results yesterday. And can't say as I blame them." He paused for a moment, leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingers on the table. "Outfits such as Ravenwood are a cancer we need to cut out. Or they'll run roughshod over every damned law they don't like. What would that make us? No better than some goddamn banana republic, that's what." He drew in a breath, and added softly, "You need to go back in."

No. Every cell in Jake's body wanted to scream in denial. But the alternatives were worse. "What makes you think they'll want me again?" It depended on whether he'd succeeded in assuaging Goetz's mistrust after he'd seen the missile.

Hicks shrugged. "They called on you twice, right? Let's hope they do it a third time." He held up his hands as Jake was still trying to assemble a protest. "I know, I know, they don't trust you. Maybe they'll slip up. Make a mistake. You just need to be there when they do." He slid Jake's cell phone across the table toward him.

Defeated, Jake pocketed the phone. He didn't bother to mention that if Ravenwood were prone to making mistakes, Hicks would've put them behind bars a long time ago. He thought it more likely the mistake would be his, and he'd end up dead in an unmarked grave. And the longer he spent in Goetz's company, the greater the chances of that happening. He had no doubt that if Goetz or Sloan got the slightest inkling Jake wasn't the pilot-for-hire he was pretending to be, he'd be a corpse the next second.

Right now, he was simply too exhausted to care. "Can I go?" he repeated tiredly.

"Yeah. Go home, get some rest." Hicks managed to sound compassionate. "We'll be in touch."

That had been an hour ago. After he'd left Fairport, Jake had needed to drop off the rental car at the agency—catching a penalty fee for the late return—and then take a night bus to the apartment.

Squinting to focus his blurry eyes, Jake repeatedly stabbed at the keyhole with the key. At last, he successfully slipped it into the lock, and opened the door. The apartment was dark, but to his surprise, a light was on in the kitchen—its yellow glow revealing the pages of the files Hicks had given him lying spread out on the kitchen table. They were weighted down with the spaghetti tin, the money Jake had concealed in it lying in a heap next to it.

"Crap." The display could only mean one thing: he hadn't fooled Goetz after all.

Fear and fatigue kept Jake frozen to the spot, incapable of running even if he'd thought for a second that would do any good. He expected a bullet to bury itself in his skull any moment soon.

But the anticipated shot never came, although Jake almost wished it had when, with a soft click that made him jump, the floor lamp in the living area flicked on, casting soft light over the man on the sofa.

"Wanna tell me what this is all about?" Edward's voice could've frozen Lake Ontario for all the warmth it held.

o0o

Senses on the alert, despite the slight doze he'd fallen into, Beck started awake the instant he heard the quiet rattle of the key being inserted into the lock. He'd spent the last hours pouring over the documents he'd discovered in the closet, until his head ached. Deciding he needed a break, he retreated to the comfort of the couch, carrying his service photo with him.

The pages, records of Jake's past activities, had filled in some of the blanks, adding details that Bo's cop friend hadn't been able to dig up. The scribbled notes of what looked like names and numbers, written in Jake's hasty chicken scrawl, had been harder to decipher, and Beck had soon returned to studying the print-outs and photocopies.

Jake had graduated from Embry-Riddle with a degree in aeronautical science, had he? While Beck had always been aware Jake was bright and picked stuff up quickly, he had to admit he was impressed: it was a prestigious school, and a number of the army's best helicopter pilots had trained there.

Impressive as Jake's education was, it also raised new questions: why would a man who was certified to command large airplanes do cargo runs to South America for an obscure company called Shelby Aviation? Why would he drive trucks for Jennings & Rall in one of the world's most dangerous places? Or wreck his back by hauling bricks for a living?

Beck's brows had knitted together in bewilderment as he'd identified the declining trajectory of Jake's career path; Jake's life certainly had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

To be honest, the files had raised as many new questions as they'd answered. None of the information explained what trouble Jake was currently in, or why he'd gone missing. It didn't shed light on what the Feds wanted with him, or where the fifteen thousand dollars in the tin—Beck had carefully counted it to be absolutely sure—had come from. Beck definitely had no clue how his own service photo had ended up among Jake's visa records and J&R personnel file. The more he mulled it over, the less sense he could make of the various pieces. By the time Jake walked in the door, Beck was as thoroughly puzzled as he was scared.

"Wanna tell me what this is all about?" It took every ounce of self-control for him to keep his voice calm, his relief that Jake was alive clashing with his confusion over everything he'd learned and his fear of what the future might hold. A part of him wanted to grab Jake and shake an explanation out of him, while another part wanted nothing more than to be able to touch him and reassure himself that Jake was all right.

And, having learned Jake was alive, a third part of him was simply furious for the scare Jake had given him.

"Not really," Jake mumbled under his breath, his voice low enough that Beck suspected the answer hadn't been meant for his ears. He bit down on his rising irritation and instead carefully scrutinized Jake as he stumbled toward the easy chair across from Beck.

Jake's skin was pale under his tan, eyes bloodshot and bruised, three-day stubble shadowing his jaw. He let the small backpack he carried slip from his shoulders and fall unceremoniously to the floor, before collapsing into the seat, exhaustion in every line of him. He lifted his head enough to sneak a glance in Beck's direction from under his lashes, before quickly letting it fall back and picking at his nails as soon as he met Beck's eye.

In the brief flash, Beck caught something that dulled his anger. What was it? Guilt? Shame? It took him a second to make the connection, but then he knew: Jake's gaze held the same flatness he'd seen in troops who'd been battered for too long on the front lines. A sign they were too tired and too ground down to care anymore.

Beck's chest tightened with concern, and he wanted to reach out and take Jake's hands between his and swear to him that everything would be all right. But he couldn't. Not until he understood what was going on. Otherwise, it might prove to be an empty promise.

"Jake?" He waited for Jake to raise his head, before tapping the service photo he was holding to draw Jake's attention it. "I'd say I have a right to know what's going on."

Jake scrubbed at the corners of his eyes with the tips of his fingers. "I guess so."

In spite of his sympathy for Jake's beat-up state, fresh irritation flared within Beck. "Dammit, Jake...!"

"I was trying to protect you, okay!" Jake burst out. He got up so quickly he shoved the heavy chair backward. Its legs scraped across the wood floor with a screech.

"What?" Beck blinked. Of all the things he'd expected Jake to say, that made the least sense of all. "Protect me from what?"

"Hicks." Jake started pacing between the kitchen and the sitting area like a caged animal. Beck climbed to his feet as well, not wanting to have to crane his neck to look at Jake. "He said he'd—." Jake inhaled a shuddering breath. "He'd have destroyed you. Your career, everything. I couldn't let him do that."

"Who is Hicks?" Needing to give his hands something to do to keep from grabbing Jake, Beck went over to the kitchen table and began to shuffle the loose pages into a neat pile.

"A federal agent." Jake stopped by the kitchen counter, his back to Beck. He curled his fingers around the counter edge and hunched his shoulders. "I thought I'd lost him, that he didn't know where I—." He shrugged. "I guess I was wrong."

"Is he one of the people you were hiding from?" Beck's mouth had gone dry as Jake spoke, the implications quick to sink in. Could this have been his fault?

Jake turned, wearily slouching back against the counter top. "Yeah." He gestured at the photo Beck had put on top of the files. "He showed me that. Said he knew about... about us."

It was slowly starting to make sense to Beck. Jake was aware what would happen to Beck if anyone discovered the truth. Beck had certainly impressed the need for secrecy on him often enough. "And he blackmailed you?"

Jake nodded, running his fingers through his hair, not looking at Beck.

"To do what?"

"Doesn't matter anymore." Jake slid down to the floor, as if his legs were no longer strong enough to carry him. He drew his knees up to his chest, folding his arms around them. "I didn't get Hicks what he needs, and Ravenwood's gotten suspicious. No way they'll hire me a third time." He dropped his head onto his arms. "I'm sorry...." Tears choked his voice.

Ravenwood? Beck thought he recognized the name: weren't they a private security firm? But what could a private contractor have to do with Jake's troubles with the authorities? Resting on his palms on the table, he gazed down at where Jake sat slumped on the cold kitchen floor, his shoulders trembling. Beck amended his earlier conclusion: none of what Jake was saying made any sense.

One thing he did know: he wasn't angry any more. At least not with Jake. Straightening up, he made a beeline for Jake and knelt on the tiles in front of him. Jake didn't look up. Beck put a hand on his wrist. "I think you need to tell me everything from the beginning." Jake made a noise in the back of his throat; Beck couldn't quite decipher if it was in agreement or protest. "But not right away." Part of the reason Jake wasn't making any sense was because he was dead on his feet. But he was alive, safe; explanations could wait a short while longer. "Come on. You should get some sleep first."

Jake wiped his face with his sleeve and nodded dully. He didn't object when Beck dragged him to his feet, helped him out of his jacket, and half-led, half-carried him into the bedroom. As soon as he fell onto the mattress, he rolled onto his side and curled into a ball, eyelids drooping shut. He didn't seem to notice Beck pulling off his boots or draping a blanket over him.

Beck stood gazing down on Jake for a short while, watching Jake's face relax into sleep, before he tucked the blanket tighter and tiptoed out of the bedroom. He still didn't understand much of what was going on, though at least it would seem that his earlier conclusion—that Jake was running drugs—had been so far off the bat, it was out of the ballpark. While that was a relief, it wasn't a comfort: from the small amount Jake had told him, he'd come to suspect that he, Beck, was at least partly to blame for the mess Jake was currently in. Bo's friend rooting through the police systems to dig up information on Jake must've raised a flag in some agency's computer system, leading the Feds right to Jake to put the thumb screws on. And, as disjointed as Jake's stammered explanation had been, it had left scant doubt Jake had done whatever he'd done for Beck's sake.

Beck pulled the drapes in the living room closed, and tried to make himself comfortable on the sofa so he wouldn't disturb Jake's rest. Sleep didn't come easily, however, his mind brooding over the bits he had learned and the gaps Jake had left. There had to be a way to fix this, a chance to get Jake out of the jam Beck had helped get him into. He just had to find it.

o0o

Jake was woken by a sliver of warm sunlight playing over him. He blinked sleepily at the familiar ceiling, for one blissful instant not remembering anything—and then reality crashed over him like a wave of cold water. He wished he could go back to sleep, sink into oblivion again; he also knew he couldn't hide forever. Throwing off the blanket Edward must've put over him, he scrubbed his fingers through his hair, stretching. He scrunched up his nose as he caught a whiff of himself, realizing the clothes he'd slept in were wrinkled and smelly. He hadn't been out of them in... well, a very long time. The shower stall in the bathroom beckoned, with the promise of hot water and soap.

He started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, stopping half way. On the nightstand stood a glass of orange juice and a plate with a tin-foil wrapped package that wordlessly invited him to open it. For a second or two, Jake gaped at it, uncomprehending. Edward must've put the food out, even though, if asked, Jake would've said he'd been far too angry for such a considerate act.

The sight of the food made him aware of his hollow stomach and parched throat. Not wasting any more time agonizing over Edward's motives, and postponing the much-warranted shower, he scooted over to reach for the glass and the plate. After chugging down a good portion of the juice—God, he was thirsty!—Jake unwrapped the package to discover a ham and cheese sandwich. He bit into it, ravenous. He'd been too nervous to eat much while on the trip, and yesterday had been sustained during the debrief by nothing beyond bad coffee and greasy cheeseburgers, that had given him a belly ache on top of everything else.

He was wiping the crumbs from his mouth when Edward appeared in the bedroom doorway, propping a shoulder against the frame. "Thought I heard you. Sleep okay?"

Jake eyed him uncertainly. Edward didn't look angry or upset, and he met Jake's gaze placidly enough. Jake nodded in response, indicating the plate as he put it down. "Thanks for that. How long did I sleep?"

Edward walked further into the bedroom. "Sixteen hours, give or take. You were exhausted."

Jake huffed a wry laugh, relaxing a little at Edward's continued calm manner. He'd slept away the entire day: that explained the sunlight, which only entered the room near sunset.

"I guess I was," he conceded. He paused, fragments of the memory of his last conversation with Edward returning. "Can we not talk about—." He considered a minute, his sleep-befuddled brain not yet caught up. "Last night—?"

"No, Jake." Edward collected the dirty dishes. "You owe me an explanation." He uttered the statement softly, but his tone was firm, and clearly brooked no argument.

Jake sighed and gave small nod. It had been worth trying, but truth be told, he'd figured he wouldn't get out of it that easily.

Edward cocked his head. "Do you remember anything you said?"

Jake drew his brows together, trying to recall more of the events of the previous night. "Not exactly," he admitted with a rueful shrug.

Edward smiled gently. "As I expected. Don't worry; most of it didn't make a lot of sense, anyway." He ambled over to the window and drew the curtains wider. The full glare of the late afternoon sunlight fell across the bed.

Jake squinted into the sudden brightness. It didn't stop him from noticing the way Edward was now looking at him. His cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as he viewed his own disheveled state through Edward's eyes.

"You go grab a shower," Edward suggested, confirming Jake's misgivings, "and I'll make us some coffee. And then you can start from the beginning."

With a nod, Jake trudged to the bathroom, feeling Edward's gaze resting between his shoulder blades. He wasn't eager to start explaining; he'd have preferred to not tell Edward anything about anything ever. But that option had evaporated the instant Edward had found the files and the money. And while Jake had also gotten the impression Hicks was no longer looking to make good on his threat of destroying Edward's career, they still had Ravenwood to consider.

No, Jake could no longer keep quiet: Edward had a right to know.

o0o

Shortly over an hour later, Jake hunched on the couch, his hands curled around the mug Edward had offered him. He blew on the steaming coffee, enjoying the fresh scent. The hot shower had refreshed him, as had another sandwich, and he felt in better spirits than before. He studied Edward furtively over the rim of his cup while the other man took a seat in his usual armchair. Edward's attitude unnerved Jake; he'd expected him to still be furious. Instead, Edward came across as being more worried than angry or disappointed.

"So...?" Edward prompted once he was settled, urging Jake to begin.

Jake puffed out his cheeks, collecting his thoughts. Where should he start? He put the coffee down and drew up one leg, resting his chin on his knee as he tried to decide what to tell Edward. The other man's easy manner as he patiently waited for Jake's explanation helped him put his jumbled thoughts into order. "Have you ever heard of Ravenwood?"

That was when it had started, hadn't it? Two years ago, with Ravenwood, in Iraq.

Once he started talking, he couldn't seem to stop. In the end, Jake told Edward about more than just Ravenwood or Hicks, the words tumbling from his mouth. Edward let him tell the tale the way he wanted, only occasionally interrupting to ask for further clarification or to make sure he'd understood Jake correctly.

The only thing Jake couldn't bring himself to speak about was Saffa. He wasn't sure if, as a soldier, Edward would be able to understand better than anyone or not, but the wound was too raw, too near the surface, for him to give voice to.

He told Edward of the trouble he'd had finding a job after he'd gotten home from Iraq. Admitted the smuggling trips to South America, after he'd left Afghanistan. Explained about Freddy and Anna, in San Diego. He even told him about Jericho, and Chris, and copped to what a lousy son he was. Deep down, as he was laying out all the facts for Edward's judgment, Jake had to agree with his father. His life was one long series of fuck-ups.

"Eric was always the good son," Jake finished, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. His voice was hoarse, and his throat sore with all the talking he'd done. His coffee, forgotten and cold, was still on the table. "Me, I'm just the one who hurts everyone." He let out a sour chuckle. "As you've discovered."

Jake had talked long enough that the sun had fallen below the horizon. Neither of them had taken the time to turn on any lights and Jake struggled to make out Edward's expression in the gloom. "I'm sorry."

It sounded horribly inadequate, as it had so many times in the past. "I messed up." Again.

o0o

Beck stared at Jake after he finished his story with a mumbled apology and a whispered word of self-recrimination. For one of the rare times in his life, he was lost for words, unsure how to react to what Jake had told him.

Because, sweet Mother of God, Jake had gotten them into a spectacular jam. FUBAR'ed, the troops would call it. Beck couldn't help wonder: if he'd known all the facts when he met Jake, would he have...?

Don't. Second-guessing himself was not in his nature. And besides, it wasn't a fair question. Yes, Jake had made mistakes. More than most people made in their life. But everyone had skeletons in their closet, things they'd have done differently in retrospect.

Jake snuck a glance at him, as if seeking reassurance. He sat angled forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling, his entire posture screaming remorse and self-loathing. Any resentment Beck had felt as Jake told his story—and true, there had been several times he'd wanted to blame Jake—melted like a snow cone in the summer sun.

How could he hold Jake responsible? Beck's curiosity had been instrumental in giving Hicks the opportunity to locate Jake in the first place. And Jake had tried to protect Beck, keep him out of it. His belief he had no other choice but give in to the agent's blackmail was the direct result of Beck's insistence on the need to conceal their relationship.

No, Beck was mad as hell, but it wasn't Jake he was mad at. While Jake had been relating his past run-ins with Ravenwood, Beck had summoned to mind the rumors he'd heard in Afghanistan. Tales of American weapons being sold to the insurgents and used to kill American soldiers. Seemed those tales were true, after all.

Beck's jaw hurt, and he became conscious he was grinding his teeth together hard enough his muscles ached. He forced himself to relax, even as he considered that he'd lost friends that way. Friendly fire had been the PR department's choice of the least embarrassing of two evils. After all, how could anyone ever take US troops seriously if they got killed by their own weapons, sold to the highest bidder by their own countrymen? No, better to claim a regrettable mistake had been made.

Jake was slowly climbing to his feet, bringing Beck back to the here and now. His shoulders were drawn up to his ears, and he'd put his hands in his pockets. Without meeting Beck's inquiring look, he scuffled toward the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Beck managed to make it not sound like an accusation, like he wasn't done scolding Jake.

"Pack my things." Despite his tense bearing, Jake accomplished a shrug. He was still refusing to look at Beck. "Get out of your hair."

Beck pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "Sit down, Jake. Don't be an idiot."

"But―."

"Do you want to get yourself killed?" Beck's anger flared as it found an outlet. "I said, sit down." He sucked in a deep breath to calm himself. "Please."

Jake did as he was told, if a little sullenly. The attitude would've been more convincing, Beck noted absently, if Jake hadn't also looked scared at the same time.

"I don't think Hicks will make trouble for you," Jake offered as he gingerly perched on the edge of the sofa, "not anymore. He hinted as much. So there's no need for you to get involved."

Beck scowled at Jake. "What kind of man do you take me for?" Did Jake honestly believe he was such a coward he'd run at the first sign of trouble and leave a friend to the wolves? Especially when said trouble was in part due to his own actions? "I am involved, whether you like it or not. No, don't." He held up a hand to forestall the protest he could see forming on Jake's lips.

Jake visibly swallowed down what he'd been getting ready to say, throat bobbing, and asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know." Beck moderated his tone to something less harsh. "Let me think for a minute."

Having ensured Jake wasn't going to to do anything hair-brained and stupid for the next five minutes, Beck directed his focus inward. He locked away his fears, a trick he'd mastered over years of combat. There was no room for his personal feelings; they'd only get in the way of rational thinking. And he was sure that, if he put his mind to it, he could come up with a better option, a scheme less dangerous than Jake digging in deeper as he waited for Ravenwood to mess up. Jake's plan left too much to chance—and luck. Luck could turn both ways, far too easily. No, they had to take the fight to the enemy. Tactics 101: offense is the best defense.

Beck sat forward in his chair, planting both feet flat on the floor and curling his hands over his knees. "I need you to tell me everything: what happened after you landed in the jungle? What did you see? What did you hear?"

"You too?" Jake barked an incredulous laugh. "What's the point? I've been over this with Hicks all day yesterday. He says it's not enough."

"Humor me, please."

Jake showed no sign of doing as Beck asked.

"I know you think it's useless," Beck prodded, "but we need to devise a strategy to get these people off your back. If we can take Ravenwood down at the same time, so much the better." And nobody else needs ever die again for their profits, he added silently.

"We?" Jake snuck him another sideways glance, a look so filled with disbelieving hope that Beck wasn't sure whether to be offended or hurt, or if he should smack Jake for being such a fool.

"Dammit, Jake, of course, 'we'," he snapped. "You think I'd let you struggle with this alone? Especially when it's partly my fault you're in this mess to begin with?"

Jake tilted his head, clearly puzzled by Beck's last words. Beck scrubbed a palm over his jaw. He was tired; while Jake had slept the day away, Beck had spent a restless night on the couch and gotten up with the sun.

"I had someone investigate you," he confessed. "Months ago. I think that's what allowed this Hicks to find you." He paused, shaking his head. "Even if it didn't, I still wouldn't abandon you. You're—." Again, Beck paused, racking his brain to come up with a description that wouldn't sound too melodramatic. He wasn't used to talking about his feelings.

He didn't need to.

"Thank you." Jake's heartfelt whisper barely reached Beck's ears.

For reasons he didn't want to examine too closely, Beck's throat tightened. He swallowed to get rid of the lump. "Now," he cleared his throat, "please, will you tell me? Don't leave out any detail, no matter how unimportant it may seem."

---

Chapter 10

The heat struck Jake as soon as he got out of the car: the glare of the July sun bouncing off of the concrete had turned the parking lot into an oven. Beads of moisture sprang up on his brow and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Truth be told, the heat likely wasn't the only factor making him sweat. The ants crawling around in his belly were reminding him he was about to do a very dangerous thing: walk straight into the lion's den armed with nothing except the story he and Edward had concocted, and do it without any backup. If something went wrong, if Ravenwood didn't believe him, he'd be on his own. At least the heat provided him with a good excuse to be sweating.

The contented prattle of a small aircraft's engine broke the afternoon quiet, and Jake paused to watch a Cessna Skyhawk take off. He figured, with it being broad daylight and regular companies using the airport, he wouldn't be accosted by an armed Ravenwood guard while he was in the parking lot—unlike those two earlier times when he'd arrived in the middle of the night.

He made a beeline for the familiar hangar door, proving his supposition correct when he reached it without incident. The door was locked and he rapped his knuckles on it.

He had to knock twice more before it was cracked open an inch, and a suspicious eye squinted at him through the gap.

"Hey, Payton." Jake strove to appear at ease, as if it was perfectly normal for him to show up uninvited at Ravenwood's base of operations.

"Jake?" Payton pulled the door open wider. "What the heck are you doing here?

"Need to talk to Goetz."

"He ain't here." Payton yawned and scrubbed a palm over his stubbled skull. Jus' me and Sloan."

Jake felt a twinge of disappointment. The answer wasn't unexpected—Goetz wouldn't be hanging out with the foot soldiers guarding a bunch of aircraft. But expectations hadn't prevented Jake from hoping the venture would go smoothly and he'd catch Goetz at the airfield. "Can you call him? It's important."

"I don't know that I should." Payton's voice trailed off uncertainly.

"Who's—What the fuck do you want?" Sloan had appeared behind Payton to see what was going on. As soon as he recognized Jake, he yanked Payton aside. The next instant, Jake was staring down the black barrel of a Glock. His heart rate sped up, and he resisted the urge to wipe his face dry again. Stay calm, he reminded himself. It wasn't as if he hadn't known the Ravenwood guys would be distrustful if he put in an unannounced appearance.

"Get the hell in, before someone sees you." Sloan gestured with the gun. Taking a breath, Jake squeezed past him into the hangar. It was a great deal cooler inside after the heat of the parking lot, but it didn't make him feel much better. The ants in his intestines had picked up their pace.

He tried to turn around and repeat his request he wanted to talk to Goetz. A hard object poking in his back, right above his kidneys, made him reconsider.

"Office." Sloan shoved him, and Jake stumbled a step toward the rear of the hangar. "Randy, call the boss. Tell him we caught his star pilot nosing round the premises."

"I wasn't—!" Jake began automatically. A repeat jab in his ribs with what he presumed was the Glock made him swallow the rest of his protest. Besides, he didn't need to convince Sloan of his intentions; he needed to talk to Goetz—and if Sloan was calling Goetz, he was already doing exactly what Jake wanted. Without further protest, he started down the length of the hangar, heading toward the office.

"Sit." As soon as Jake entered the office, Sloan gave him another shove and clamped a hand on Jake's shoulder to force him down onto the hard-backed chair in front of the desk.

"Look, I—."

"Shut up. Hands behind your back."

"Now, wait a—."

For the third time, Sloan didn't let Jake finish. He wrenched Jake's arms together painfully and, before Jake could voice any further protest, cuffed his wrists together.

"Ow," Jake complained, struggling to keep his fear down and stay in the role he was supposed to be playing.

Sloan snickered cruelly as he made himself comfortable on the desk chair, watching Jake through hooded eyes.

o0o

For the next five hours, the clock on the wall ticked off the seconds slowly. Jake's ass grew numb from the hard chair he was sitting on, and his shoulders protested the awkward position he was forced to keep his arms. Every time he tried to speak, Sloan, slouched across from him, lifted the gun a fraction, and Jake snapped his mouth shut again. There was nothing to do but wait and see what came next.

At least he was still alive, which he reckoned was something. And he and Edward had guessed it wouldn't be anywhere near as simple as Jake walking into the hangar, delivering his proposal to Goetz, and walking out and driving home. So Edward wasn't expecting Jake to call him with news until the day was out, at the earliest.

Not that Beck had liked it one bit that he'd had to let Jake seek out Ravenwood without support. Initially, when they'd brainstormed the plan, they'd counted on Hicks to provide backup, to protect Jake in case something went wrong. But when they'd put the plan to Hicks—who'd suggested they meet in a sunny park in downtown Rochester, like a bunch of conspirators in a bad spy novel—the agent had shaken his head. "I can't be involved in this."

Sloan got up, the movement snapping Jake back from the memory of the meeting with Hicks to his current situation. Wondering what Sloan was up to, Jake stiffened—and then relaxed when the other man merely went to the water cooler in the corner to get a cup of water. Jake licked his lips; the air-conditioned air in the office was making his throat tickle. Sloan didn't offer Jake any of the water—no big surprise. He returned to his seat behind the desk.

Jake wondered where Payton had gone off to—presumably he was on guard in the hangar, or keeping an eye out for Goetz. At least, he assumed they'd called Goetz. It was all he could hope for. If Jake could lay out his proposal to him, he stood a chance. Goetz was smart enough to see the advantages, and greedy enough he might fall for it. Jake just needed to hang on until Goetz got to the airfield.

To keep his fear at bay and press down on the panic that threatened to rise up inside him, Jake went over the plan in his mind again. After he'd bared his soul to Edward, told him the shameful secrets from his past, the other man had made him describe every single meeting he'd had with Goetz and Ravenwood so many times and in so much detail that Jake wasn't sure who'd grilled him harder, Hicks or Edward.

"I think you're right," Edward had said at last, hours into the night. "They're too smart to make the kind of mistake Hicks needs."

Jake had huffed miserably. "Told you it was hopeless." Admitting defeat had earned him a sharp look from Edward and he'd shrugged. "Sorry."

A twitch of the head as Edward got to his feet had indicated he'd accepted Jake's apology. He'd walked over to the kitchen table, where the files were, staring down at the manilla folder for a minute without opening it. "So we take the fight to them."

Jake's stomach growled, loud in the quiet office, reminding him he hadn't eaten anything since early morning. A glance at the clock told him it was now late afternoon. The growl was evidently loud enough for Sloan to pick up: he snorted in amusement, before considering Jake for a minute. Jake struggled not to shift on his chair again; the cold, calculating speculation in Sloan's eyes made him feel like a rat mesmerized by a snake's slitted stare, right before the snake struck.

Despite his efforts to stay still, Jake flinched as Sloan got to his feet abruptly. Ignoring Jake, Sloan walked out of the office without a word.

Instinctively, Jake tested the cuffs as soon as Sloan was gone. He chuckled wryly as he found the bonds were snugged tight around his wrists. He hadn't expected otherwise. Besides, he had no intention of making an escape—not until he'd talked to Goetz. He just didn't like the helplessness that came with being tied up, or being at the mercy of men like Sloan.

He had nobody but himself to blame for his predicament, though. After Edward had suggested they lure Ravenwood out into the open and had laid out his idea for how to do that, Jake's first reaction had been to refuse. "Even if it goes right, it could so easily cost you your career. And if it goes bad—." Jake hadn't finished, but he hadn't needed to spell it out. If the plan went wrong, Edward stood to lose a lot more than his career: he could end up in jail, or worse.

To Jake's shock, Edward had walked over to where Jake stood, propped against the back of the sofa. He'd rested a warm hand on Jake's shoulder. "My career and my freedom don't matter as much as your life, Jake."

Discomfited with the show of deference, Jake had barked an embarrassed laugh, and muttered that Edward was being given the short end of the stick. Edward hadn't reacted; he'd merely squeezed Jake's shoulder and told him to call Hicks so they could set up a meeting.

Sloan reappeared, carrying a cardboard box, the kind used by bakeries. He set the box down on the desk, in full view of Jake, and opened it. It was half-full with donuts. Slowly reaching in, Sloan gingerly lifted one of them out. Taking a big bite, he caught Jake's gaze as he chewed, silently challenging him, taunting him with his hunger. Jake glowered back. It'd have been funny if he weren't getting so damned uncomfortable. At some point while they waited, Jake's bladder had joined the rest of the chorus of protests from his body. He fidgeted uncomfortably on the chair.

It couldn't be much longer until Goetz got here, could it?

Jake was right; not long after Sloan had begun tormenting him with the donuts, a door slammed somewhere in the building. A minute later, footsteps clattered on the hard floor, coming closer. A second after that, Goetz waltzed in. He shot Jake a fiery scowl before addressing Sloan.

"What's this?"

Sloan licked the sugar off his fingertips and gestured at Jake. "Caught him snooping."

Jake puffed out an exaggerated a breath, hoping he wasn't overdoing the annoyance. "Wasn't snooping," he muttered.

"Shut up." Goetz cast him another dark look. "I'll get to you next." Jake shrugged, instantly regretting it as a sharp pain stabbed through his shoulders. He clenched his teeth together to bite back an involuntary yelp.

"And?" Goetz prodded Sloan.

Sloan explained how he'd come across Payton talking to Jake. "I'da shot him, but I figured you'd wanna talk to him first."

"You bet I do." Goetz turned to Jake. "Your story?"

Jake wriggled up straighter, ignoring the pain. He pointed out his cuffed wrists with a jerk of his chin across his shoulder. "You mind getting these off? They kinda hurt."

Goetz scoffed dismissively, but to Jake's relief, he waved at Sloan to untie Jake. As the steel cuffs fell away, Jake rolled his shoulders, joints crackling, and rubbed at his wrists. Pins and needles pricked his flesh as the blood flow was restored and he glanced ruefully at the red skin where the metal had chafed him. Sloan retreated to jam a shoulder against the far wall, leaving the interrogation to Goetz.

"I'm waiting," Goetz reminded Jake.

"Like I tried to tell your pitbull over there, I wasn't snooping," Jake began. "Ask Payton. I came to talk to you. I got a proposal to make." He shifted his gaze from Goetz to Sloan and glowered. "Not sure I still want to."

Goetz uttered a snort. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't appreciate people shoving guns in my face." Jake directed his attention back to Goetz. "Especially people who're supposed to be on the same team."

"You should've thought of that before you got it in your mind to drop by uninvited." Goetz crossed his arms and settled his butt against the desk. "Besides, you're not on our team."

"Whatever." Jake massaged his sore shoulders. "How else was I supposed to get in touch with you?"

"You weren't," Goetz snarled. "You're the hired help. You wait until we call you. Got it?"

"Sure." Jake back on the hard chair and gave Goetz a sulky look. "You're the boss." He tilted his head. "So, you wanna hear my proposal or not?"

Goetz considered Jake for a long minute, his expression unreadable. Jake reminded himself to keep breathing.

"I'm listening."

Jake heaved an inward sigh of relief—he must've played his role right. "I overheard you and that Colombian talking." Sloan started forward threateningly. "Hey," Jake held up his hands, "I was checking on the plane. If you don't want anyone to hear what you're talking about, you shouldn't be discussing business out in the open."

Goetz waved at Sloan to step away. "Go on."

"Sounded to me like you're having trouble meeting demand." Jake dropped his hands back in his lap. "I can help with that."

Goetz's brows rose.

"I know a guy," Jake continued. "An army major. He's got a beef. Got passed over for promotion a few times. Now he wants a nest egg before he retires. He can get hold of what you need, the missiles." Jake smirked. "For a fee, of course. I hear those Javelins are worth a buck or two."

"I've no idea what you're talking about." Contrary to his words, spoken mildly, Goetz's eyes had narrowed dangerously, and his face was flushed. He leaned forward, his scrutiny intense as he looked Jake up and down, as if trying to see into Jake's soul. "What are you up to, Jake? Tryin' to trick us?" Goetz straightened. "Sloan!" He barked the order without giving Jake the opportunity to deny the accusation. "Check him."

Sloan hauled Jake roughly to his feet. Jake's heart thudded against his ribs,a burst of adrenaline flooding through him. He was so prepped for fight or flight, it took a conscious effort not to resist when Sloan merely rucked up his T-shirt, likely checking for a wire, before running his palms along Jake's legs and ankles, patting him down.

Jake was suddenly glad Hicks had refused to give them any aid. When they'd asked, the agent had sighed deeply. "No. Officially, I can't know anything about anything."

"You bastard," Jake had snarled in response. Edward was risking everything so Hicks could put Ravenwood behind bars, and the agent would simply leave them hanging in the wind if the plan went wrong?

"For Heaven's sake, Jake, gimme break," Hicks had snapped back. "I've been trying to take down Ravenwood for years. Don't you think I already tried something along the lines you're suggesting?"

Jake had opened his mouth to argue further, but Edward had been faster. "What happened?"

Hicks had pulled in a breath, shrugging. "Ravenwood didn't buy it. Good people died. I haven't gotten permission to try again since."

"So, don't ask for permission," Jake had spat.

"Really?" Hicks had given him a parody of a smile. "A sting op without permission from my superiors? It'd be entrapment, get thrown out of court so fast it'd make your head spin. Then where would we be?" Jake had reluctantly had to admit the wisdom in Hicks' words.

Finished with his search, Sloan shoved Jake back down into the chair hard enough that Jake's teeth clacked together. "He's clean."

"Hm." Goetz considered Jake again, his eyes hard and difficult to read. Jake tried not to fidget.

"You're more perceptive than I figured." Goetz spoke slowly, and Jake held his breath. He'd laid out his cards, exposed himself. Goetz either snapped up the bait or decided Jake knew too much and needed to be disposed of. Probably by Sloan. "What's in it for you?" Goetz sat down on the edge of the desk again.

Relief so strong it made him dizzy flooded through Jake. He took a gulp of air, not entirely able to keep the breath from stuttering. Goetz didn't seem to notice. "Money, what else?" Jake injected as much mockery as he could into his tone, as if he thought the question a dumb one. "He's gonna give me a part of his cut, and hey, I figured you're gonna need a pilot to fly the things to South America."

Goetz uttered a snort. "Gettin' paid twice, are you?"

Jake crossed his arms. "I multi-task."

"Who is this major?"

"Can't tell you his name. Yet. You understand that, right?" Jake peered up at Goetz and waited until Goetz gave a reluctant nod.

"How'd you know him?" The questions came fast and clipped.

"Through a helicopter pilot, was in my class at Embry-Riddle." Goetz would know that was where Jake got his license. "Ran into the guy again in Iraq. We kept in touch since."

"Hm." Again, Goetz was silent for a minute or two. This time, Jake failed to keep motionless on the chair. He wanted to get out desperately: he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his fear contained and carry on pretending to be here for the money.

"Hey," he decided to help the issue along, "I know this is out of the blue. But this guy's for real." He paused a moment, before throwing in his final card. "He's willing to meet with you, or your boss, in person, to talk specifics."

He and Edward had agreed: Ravenwood would want to check out their potential new partner before they agreed to anything. Jake would have vastly preferred it if a simple chat had been all that was needed, that taping it would be enough to bring down Ravenwood, and Edward wouldn't be required to actually steal those missiles from the US Army. Hicks had cured him of his illusions pretty quickly.

"You can't fake this," he'd warned them. "They'll want to see the real merchandise, make sure you're on the up and up, or they'll never risk exposing themselves. And even then, you might never get to see the guys calling the shots. They're slippery bastards. For me to make it stick, I'd need to catch them red-handed: their paws on your missiles."

As if to prove to Jake that Ravenwood were a cautious bunch, Goetz pushed up from the desk and instructed him, "Stay put." He showed no indication of whether he was willing to take Jake and Edward up on their offer for a meeting. "Keep an eye on him." The last, as Goetz left the room, was addressed at Sloan, who smirked in Jake's direction, before taking up position in front of the door, the only way in or out of the office.

Jake got up from the chair creakily, pretending not to notice Sloan's tensing his grip around his gun. He'd been on that damned chair for long enough, and his legs were wobbly as he took a pace—although, Jake admitted, that might be from the stress as well. Glancing at Sloan from under his lashes, Jake deliberately reached for the donut box.

The chocolate-sprinkled donut he caught up was stale and not at all tasty, and Jake had trouble swallowing the dry crumbs. To be honest, he needed to pee far more urgently than he needed to eat—but he refused to display any sign of weakness in front of Sloan. He could hold it for a while longer. More than that, he reckoned he needed to demonstrate he wasn't cowed by Sloan; snatching a donut was the quickest way he could come up with. Well, that or going toe-to-toe with the guy, but he was sharply aware the Ravenwood guard was armed, and he wasn't.

At last, Goetz returned, giving Jake the excuse to drop the rest of the donut back in the box. "When can I meet this guy?" He held up a hand to forestall Jake's answer. "Just to talk to him."

"Give me a couple days." The donut settled more comfortably in Jake's belly. He was careful to keep his feelings from his face; it wasn't a done deal yet. Goetz grimaced at Jake's answer, the first indication Jake had that Ravenwood wanted this deal to be real. "He couldn't be sure you'd be interested."

Goetz nodded his acceptance. "I'll call you, day after tomorrow. That good enough?"

"Why don't I call you?" Jake attempted. Goetz laughed. "Okay, whatever you want."

Driving off into the dusk at last, it was an effort not to step on the gas and hightail it out of the airport. But Jake knew Goetz would be watching from the shadowed hangar: he'd been able to feel those cold eyes boring into the back of his skull every step of the way from the door to where he'd left his car.

As soon as he'd left the airport behind, though, and he was sure nobody was following him, Jake pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. He tumbled from the car before it had come to a full stop and vomited up the stale donut. Once his stomach had settled, he went somewhere a little more private to empty his bladder, sighing in relief. With his immediate needs taken care of, he climbed back behind the wheel, discovering he was shaking badly enough he was having trouble turning the ignition key.

He hadn't been this scared since Saffa.

o0o

Bo had suggested they use his bar for the initial meeting between Goetz and Edward. "Familiar ground," he'd argued, once he got over the shock of hearing what trouble Jake had brought and how Edward planned to solve it. "Time and place of our choosing." Edward had grudgingly agreed to it.

They'd driven over to Bo's directly from the park where they'd met Hicks, Edward curtly stating they needed help if they were to pull off his plan. He'd left unspoken the observation that, with the Feds washing their hands of the operation, Bo was the only one he could turn to. Jake had remained quietly hunched in the passenger seat during the drive, worried sick but unable to come up with any counter-suggestions.

The bar had still been closed when they arrived, but Bo was there, readying the place for business. He'd greeted them warmly as he unlocked the door, until he got a good look at Edward's somber expression and Jake's bleak one. His smile had faded. "Not a social visit, huh?" he understood instantly, stepping aside to let them in.

"So, I reckon he got you into trouble?" Bo had asked five minutes later, the slight jerk in Jake's direction making it clear who he was talking about. They were seated at a table out of sight of anyone passing by the bar, a bottle of scotch and three glasses between them.

"I'm not," Edward said quietly. "Jake is."

Bo rolled his eyes, as if he hadn't expected anything else. Old annoyances stirred within Jake. But Bo's next words took him off-guard. "Don't say I didn't warn ya."

Edward caught Jake's confusion and clarified, "Remember I said I had someone research you? " He offered Jake a regretful shrug. "I asked Bo. He had a friend put together a file."

"A file?" Jake swallowed, hard. That sounded far more ominous than what he'd imagined. He finally understood why Bo at times had seemed so ill-disposed toward him: Bo must've seen the information. But then—. "You already knew...?"

"Some of the things you told me?" Edward dipped his head. "Yes, I did."

"And you didn't...?" Again, Jake didn't finish the question. He was stunned: why hadn't Edward kicked him out the door long ago?

"Break it off? Obviously, no." Edward smiled gently. "None of it mattered to me, Jake. It was in the past."

Bo sucked in air through his nose, reminding them of his presence. "It didn't stay there, did it." It wasn't a question.

"No, it didn't." While Jake was still processing the fact Edward had learned more about Jake than he'd let on, Edward described the situation to his former sergeant, telling him Jake had tried to handle Hicks and Ravenwood alone, stressing Jake had done so in an attempt to protect Edward's career.

"Pffft. That's a nasty business." Bo reached for the bottle and poured them a fresh round. "What you gonna do? You got a plan, right?"

The smile that curved Edward's mouth had not been a pleasant one. "I do. And I need your help with it."

Once Edward had finished laying out the details for the sting operation he and Jake had concocted, Bo had shoved his seat back, chair legs scraping across the floorboards. "Goddammit, Beck. You wanna steal weapons from the US military and sell 'em to those mercenary smugglers? Are you out of your mind?" He angled forward, putting his face close to Edward's. "You're willing to risk everything you worked for? For this—this—." He aimed a finger at Jake, shaking with anger.

"That's enough." To the casual listener, Edward's voice might have sounded calm, composed. Under the surface, Jake detected the suppressed fury. It wasn't lost on Bo, either, and he snapped his mouth shut before he finished what he'd been about to say. A vein throbbed in his neck, indicating the effort it cost him.

Jake was unable to stay silent any longer. "This is a mistake." Bo and Edward had known each other a long time and his skin wasn't worth the sacrifice of their friendship.

"Hush, Jake." Edward didn't look at him, instead giving Bo back stare for stare, until Bo sank down on his chair. Calmly, Edward declared, "I'm not proposing we steal anything. I'm proposing we pretend to steal."

Bo barked a bitter laugh and grabbed his glass, throwing back the contents in a single gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "As if that'd make any difference to the brass."

"I know." Wry humor tugging at his lips, Edward puffed up his cheeks. "And I know I'm asking a lot. I'll understand if you don't want to get involved. But if you want to get mad, Jake's not the right target. That's the thugs making a fortune selling our missiles to the highest bidder. Missiles that one day may get our guys killed."

"Jesus." Breath whooshed from Bo's lungs. "Dammit, Beck, you fight dirty.

"I have no choice." It was Edward's turn to lean across the table. "Don't get me wrong, sergeant. I don't like getting dragged into this any more than you do. But we got a chance to shut these people down. And I plan to take it. I need you for that." He went on staring at Bo intently until the other man gave a reluctant nod.

It turned out all the guys Bo enlisted for their team had served under Edward at one time or another. As they scrambled to get the bar ready for the meeting, Jake eavesdropped on a number of exchanges mentioning 'Lieutenant' Beck, or, in one case, 'Captain' Beck saving everyone's life. "There we were, pinned down in a damned ditch in fuckin' Somalia, tryin' to keep safe a bunch of whimperin' do-gooders cryin' for their mamas. Capt'n kept his cool, sends a bunch of us round to flank the bastards, firing like mad to distract 'em. We ain't lost nobody that day."

The storyteller clammed up as soon as he became aware Jake was listening, grumbling something Jake wasn't able to make out, before the men dispersed to finish their tasks, leaving Jake to his own company. It was obvious Bo's men weren't impressed with him.

Jake didn't care; it was the price he had to pay for Bo's support. To safeguard Edward's secret, Bo had spun his buddies the tale that Jake had come to him for help, and that he—Bo—had been the one to involve Edward in the plan. For the rest, they'd been told the plain truth. As the men had filed in over the course of the day, and Edward had thanked each of them, most had shrugged him off, hiding embarrassment under brash declarations of 'getting the bastards'— while darting peeks in Jake's direction that ran the gamut from openly curious to deeply wary.

During an interlude in the frantic preparation, Jake had brought up the stories with Edward. "Exaggerations," Edward had muttered, looking pained. Jake had grinned, glad for the chance to get his mind off of his troubles. He'd heard enough to know that the guys held a great deal of respect for Edward—far more than usual, if he compared what they were saying to the way the troops he'd hung out with in Iraq used to bitch about their commanding officers.

At last, shortly before opening time, the preparations were finished. Two men were setting up a game of pool in the back, while the others were dispersing to various tables and bar stools, ready to blend in with Bo's regular customers.

They'd never have been able to pull off the operation without Bo's aid, Jake reflected. He'd proved a fount of ingenuity and ideas and, with the men scattered around the premises, Jake was reassured Edward would be as safe as he could be. Because, no matter that they'd picked a time and place of their choosing, Goetz would be mistrustful and cagey—and that meant dangerous.

"Are you getting this?" To an outsider, Edward gave the impression he was speaking into thin air, but Jake knew he was testing the microphones hidden in the padding of the booth and behind the framed black-and-white photos of Rochester harbor on the wall nearby. From the shelves behind the bar, nestled between the tequila and vodka bottles, a camera eye was pointing straight at the booth they were in, ready to capture any move Goetz might make.

A thin-faced man with gray tufts of hair sticking out over his ears ducked out from the stock room and gave Edward a thumbs-up. "Loud and clear." The sound technician disappeared again.

Jake resisted the desire to squint at the shelves to see if he could detect the camera lens. "Looks like you got a good crew together," he told Bo. The barman was lounging on a nearby stool, waiting for Edward to be done with the testing so he could open up.

In response, Bo flashed Jake a stare that clearly said Jake wasn't helping his case and that Bo still considered him to be an obnoxious moron.

Jake grimaced. He hadn't meant the words the way they'd sounded. "That's not...." He shrugged without completing his explanation. "Thanks."

Bo gave Jake another sharp look, before he lowered his head almost imperceptibly in acceptance. Jake breathed out; he liked Bo, and the barman's opinion of him mattered.

"Did you talk to Hoffman?" Bo directed his attention back to Edward.

Having confirmed the nearby microphones were in working order, Edward folded his hands together on the table's surface. "Yes."

He had insisted he inform his commanding officer of the plan, prompting Jake to remind him Hicks had said Ravenwood had friends in high places.

"Not Hoffman," Edward had shaken his head to underscore his assertion. "He's too above board to be in anyone's pocket."

Bo had uttered a noise that could've been agreement as easily as a denial, but otherwise had kept out of the discussion.

"Then why tell him at all?" If the colonel was such a straight arrow, Jake failed to see how the benefits of telling him outweighed the risk: the colonel could shut down the entire operation before they'd gotten started.

Edward had pointed out patiently he'd have to deceive his men to pull off the sting. "If things go bad, Hoffman can make sure they don't get caught in the fall-out."

"What did he say?" Bo prompted, when it seemed Edward wasn't going to elaborate on Hoffman's reaction.

"Did he agree?" Jake asked eagerly. A US Army colonel on their side would be as good as Hicks giving them support.

"He's ducking." Edward's reply dashed Jake's hopes. "Says he can't know what we're up to." He made a rueful face. "But he did give me a long lecture on how well documented any missile transport is, and pointed out, in some detail, the best method to get ahold of a load of Javelins without instantly setting off alarms."

Bo snorted a laugh, scrubbing a palm across his skull. "I bet you ten bucks he'll want the credit if this goes right."

"Yeah." Edward's mouth quirked crookedly again. "Success has many fathers."

"And failure's an orphan." Bo barked an additional harsh laugh. He slid from the stool and gestured at the door. "Time to get the show on the road."

Jake glanced at his watch: it was opening time, and a half hour until Goetz was supposed to arrive. He gnawed nervously on his thumb, until Edward nudged him with his knee under the table. Flushing, Jake dropped his hands. He hated waiting.

o0o

An hour passed and Goetz still hadn't put in an appearance. Jake's nerves were frayed raw; he was terrified he'd messed up setting up the deal after all, and that Goetz wasn't gonna show up. He couldn't understand how Edward could appear so cool—only a close observer would've caught the occasional twitch of a muscle in Edward's jaw, the single outward sign of his inner anxiety.

The door outside opened again to admit new customers and Sloan barged in. Jake fought to suppress a sigh of relief. "They're here," he muttered under his breath. Edward didn't give any sign he'd heard, other than a slight twitch of his hands where they lay on the table.

Sloan surveyed the bar, his height giving him a good overview of the entire room. By now, the bar packed a sizable crowd of customers, most oblivious to what was going on. Spotting Jake and Beck, Sloan backed out.

What the hell? Jake didn't dare look at Edward.

Five minutes later, Goetz came in, followed an instant later by Sloan. As Goetz made as straight a line for Jake's booth as he could, weaving through the crowd, Sloan hoisted himself up on an empty bar stool, gesturing to Bo for a beer.

"Jake." Goetz nodded curtly, before turning toward Edward. "And this is...?"

"Beck," Jake finished for him. "The man I told you about." He sketched a wave. "This is John Goetz."

Edward took in Goetz, appearing unimpressed. "You're the man in charge?"

Goetz uttered a wry snort. "You could say that. At least as far as you're concerned."

"Hm." Edward made a scornful noise, cocking his head as if considering Goetz further. "I guess you'll do." He arched an eyebrow. "I do hope your bosses pay you well."

"What?" Goetz looked confused at the question. "Enough. Why?"

"Plausible deniability, and all that." Edward smiled mockingly. "If I were setting you up, it'd be your ass in the wind, not theirs."

Goetz's confusion changed to worry and he cast an uncertain glance toward Jake. He made as if to say something, and then apparently thought better of it.

Edward went on in the same mild tone, "Fortunately, for you, I'm not. I have the same interest as you do in keeping this meeting just between us." He shifted his attention to Jake. "Why don't you get us a bottle of Jameson? And then make yourself scarce while I talk to Mr Goetz."

Jake got to his feet slowly, ignoring the smug twitch of Goetz's mouth as Jake was treated like a drudge. As Jake walked over to the bar, Edward invited Goetz to the seat Jake had vacated. "Please, sit."

Goetz could smirk all he wanted. Jake's reluctance had nothing to do with the cavalier tone Edward had used to send him away—he was supposed to merely be the middle man, after all. No, he simply didn't want to leave Edward alone with Goetz. The man was a slippery bastard. But he'd been forced to admit that it would be weird if he stayed for the negotiations.

Procuring a bottle and a pair of glasses from Bo, he took them over to the booth. Glancing around as he set the bottle down, he did a mental count of the men watching Edward's back. They blended in well; if he hadn't known they were there, he'd never noticed anything unusual.

With the whiskey delivered, Jake withdrew to a stool at the far end of the bar. From there, he could oversee the whole room. To keep his gaze from drifting constantly to where Edward was talking to Goetz, which might draw attention to the pair, he contented himself with staring at Sloan, sneaking furtive glances at Edward from under his lashes instead.

Without being able to pick up a single word that was said over the general din in the bar, those peeks told Jake that Edward was having an intense talk with Goetz. For a while, Jake wasn't sure if the negotiations were going as hoped—Goetz shook his head unhappily a few times. At last, Goetz pushed to his feet. Jake tensed. From the corner of his eye, he caught Sloan reacting similarly.

Edward followed Goetz's example, sticking out his hand. Clearly surprised, Goetz gawked down at it, as if he didn't know what to do. Giving a shrug, he extended his own hand to shake Edward's.

Did that mean they'd struck a deal? Jake chose to take it as a good sign, and as his clue to rejoin the two men at the booth.

"You take it up with your superiors. But remember: this is a one-time offer," Edward was saying to Goetz as Jake reached them. He kept his voice low. "Jake'll let you know when the exchange can happen. You can confirm your agreement of the price to him."

He slid Jake one of the cardboard coasters that lay scattered on the table, a phone number written on it in sloppy digits. Jake recognized the handwriting: it was the same as the note with the new coordinates that he'd been given on his second flight confirming the note had been written by Goetz.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Edward concluded.

Goetz grunted something that sounded like agreement. He swiveled on his heel, jerking his head for Sloan to follow him. A minute later, the door fell shut behind the pair.

Jake slid into the booth, taking the seat Goetz had vacated. The vinyl was still warm. "How did it go?"

Edward awarded him one of his rare full smiles. "Exactly as planned." He pointed his chin at the door. "Greedy as hell, that one. I wouldn't be surprised if he's arranging an extra cut for himself, telling his superiors my price is higher than I asked for."

Jake sniffed: it certainly wouldn't surprise him, either. He wanted to ask for details, wanted to know if the recording devices had picked up the conversation. But they'd have to wait for closing time. He was satisfied on one point, though: Edward had raised his head and, twisting to follow where he looked, Jake saw the gray-haired technician ambling out of the stock room. He gave them a slight nod to indicate he'd caught and taped everything. His expression was grim, jaw set with anger, as he accepted the shot Bo pushed at him, clearly unhappy with what he'd heard.

Ten minutes passed while Jake and Edward waited silently. Then the door opened, and Jake recognized another member of Bo's team walking in. The new arrival also sought Edward's gaze, nodding once in confirmation. They're gone, that nod said.

Jake exchanged a glance with Edward, letting out a long, slow breath. Looked like Goetz had swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker. Now all that remained was for his bosses to agree the plan.

---

Chapter 11

The sky was overcast, low-hanging clouds threatening rain. Beck pulled the jeep he'd commandeered over onto the shoulder of the country road and killed the engine. He got out, surveying the scene in front of him. An old pickup stood a dozen yards ahead of where he'd parked, half on the shoulder and left at an angle that would allow it to be quickly be moved to block the road. A cluster of men, half of them active reservists in uniform, the rest dressed in army surplus kit, milled around the pickup with the quiet ease of veterans readying for action. At a cursory glance, the smattering of camouflage and olive green made them look like real soldiers. Beck was pleased to detect no weapons in sight, though he knew they would be close to hand. He'd prefer to do this without the use of force—as, he knew, would every single man on the crew Bo had put together.

He easily picked out the tall, broad form of his old friend among the ex-soldiers. Catching Bo's eye across the distance, he nodded grimly to convey his compliments: the set-up looked good. Bo snapped out some last minute instructions to his team, before coming to meet Beck between the jeep and the truck.

"All set," he said, confirming Beck's impression. He hesitated visibly, made as if to say something else, apparently reconsidered, and remained silent.

Beck tugged at his fatigues. Bo didn't need words to express his doubts; they were clear from his expression. And if Beck had had any say about it, he wouldn't have done it this way, either. In the beginning, he'd hoped Ravenwood simply striking a deal with a battalion's HHC XO to deliver two dozen Javelins would give Hicks all the proof he needed to get the mercenaries convicted. Hicks had quickly dashed those hopes, stating he'd have to catch Ravenwood in the act of buying, or they'd be back to square one as soon as Goetz and his buddies lawyered up.

"I can't risk them making off with legit US Army ammo," Beck had protested, horrified.

"I agree." Hicks nodded. "That's why you need Jake."

Beck had liked that idea even less. Jake had already exposed himself to Ravenwood far more than Beck was comfortable with; he didn't want to put him in their sights further. "No."

To Beck's chagrin, Jake ignored him and asked Hicks, "What do I need to do?"

"Jake...." Beck cautioned.

"I'm not letting you drag the coals out of the fire by yourself any more than you'd let me." Jake's eyes flashed passionately, daring Beck to deny him.

Beck held up a placating hand. "Okay. You have a point."

"If you plan to continue this scheme," Hicks clarified, without needing to be prompted further, "Jake has to be the pilot flying Ravenwood's plane. That way you," he dipped his head at Beck, "can be sure to keep control over the weapons. Even if, for some reason, they make off with the cargo."

"Unless they decide to shoot the pilot," Beck objected glumly.

"They won't." It was Jake who answered him. "Edward, if they had someone capable of flying the plane, they wouldn't have needed me in the first place."

And that had settled the matter of Jake's involvement. At least Beck could be reasonably sure nobody at Fort Drum would throw up a stink if the weapons transport was late. Hoffman had given him the idea to mark the transport as a training exercise in dealing with road snags and detours. The guys at the armory had been told not to be alarmed if the missiles didn't arrive at the officially scheduled time. If everything went as planned, nobody at the base apart from Hoffman would ever be any the wiser as to the real reason for the delay.

If something went wrong—. Beck prevented the train of thought from running its full course. He knew the risks; everyone who'd signed up did. And each man on his team had come to the conclusion that the potential reward—stopping Ravenwood from dealing arms to enemy insurgents—outweighed those risks. If they hadn't, they wouldn't have been here.

The distant rumble of heavy diesel engines broke the quiet of the afternoon. Bo met Beck's gaze and, at Beck's tiny nod, muttered, "Let's do this." He turned away to warn his crew to roll the pickup in place, but didn't need to give the order: they had heard the convoy approaching as well and were already moving. In seconds, the truck blocked the road completely so no other vehicle would be able to squeeze by.

They waited, Bo standing silently beside Beck while the sound of the engines grew louder. Beck's mouth went dry. So much hinged on his ability to convince the lieutenant commanding the transport to give up the missiles. And he didn't even know who the officer in charge was. It had made it difficult to prepare what tack he should use.

He went over his options in his mind a final time. No matter what, he wanted to keep the men escorting the missiles out of the actual operation. Unlike Bo's vets, they hadn't volunteered for this, and Beck didn't want to leave them trapped between the proverbial rock and hard place. It wouldn't be fair to any of them. His best bet was to simply pull rank and order the lieutenant to relinquish the weapons to Beck as a senior officer. At least that way he'd be able to protect the hapless officer's career in some small measure.

If it didn't work, if the lieutenant wanted to confirm Beck's orders with the base—. Beck briefly closed his eyes. If it didn't work, they'd have to take the missiles by force; he simply couldn't allow the convoy's commander to compel him to abandon the sting. It'd be impossible to set up a second time, even if he could convince Goetz to give him another try. And Jake was with Ravenwood, preparing to fly the smugglers' plane from their Ohio base to the rendezvouz point, an abandoned airfield in upstate New York. If Beck didn't deliver, he had no doubt who'd bear the brunt of the mercenaries' anger.

The transport was rolling around the bend in the road and coming into view: two deuce-and-a-halfs, accompanied by a pair of humvees, one in front, and one bringing up the rear. Finding the road barred, the convoy slowed to a stop. Beck's heart sank as he recognized the lieutenant who jumped from the passenger seat of the leading humvee and he cursed his luck. Of all the officers the army could've put on the escort, they had to pick the smartest one. He instantly abandoned his plan to try and pull rank; Lieutenant Sorey was far too clever to fall for such a ruse. He'd wonder what reason Beck would have for taking his missiles, especially with the ragtag crew behind him; it'd be impossible for Beck to fool Sorey into accepting them as being assigned from another battalion or brigade. No, only two options were left him: convince Sorey to give up the missiles willingly, or take them by force. The first could prove to be impossible, and the latter could so easily result in bloodshed.

Not for the first time, Beck wondered what arrogance has possessed him to believe he could pull off the sting operation. But he was committed; no way to back out of it now.

In spite of feeling he was leading everyone into a catastrophe, Beck was proud to see that the lieutenant, supposedly on friendly soil, took no chances. Coming upon half a dozen grim-faced men and an old pickup blocking his path, he was evidently sharply aware he was carrying a valuable load. Eyes narrowed under his helmet as he surveyed the situation, Sorey gave orders to his men to get out of their vehicles. They spread out, weapons at the ready, the soldiers tense, unsure of what was going on and eying Bo's men warily. Bo's men stared back impassively, seemingly unimpressed with the display of arms.

"Lieutenant!" Squaring his shoulders, Beck strode forward into the open ground between the pickup and the front humvee, pointedly ignoring the muzzles swinging in his direction. He knew he had to resolve the matter quickly with Sorey; half the troops were new recruits and one nervous finger on a trigger could spiral the whole undertaking out of control.

Sorey turned in his direction at the hail. "Major Beck?" Both eyebrows crawled up to the young lieutenant's hairline as he recognized his commanding officer. "What—?" He caught himself and saluted. "Sir."

Beck acknowledged the salute. "At ease, lieutenant." Sorey relaxed a fraction, although he and his troops still regarded Beck and Bo's crew warily. Beck felt a fresh surge of pride in his men: faced with an abnormal situation, it required more than the simple if unexpected presence of a familiar officer for them to let their guard down.

"Lieutenant Sorey, I'm going to need to borrow your transport."

Sorey blinked, puzzled. "Sir?"

Beck gave him a small, reassuring smile. "I'll explain everything." He took Sorey to the side, where they couldn't be overheard by the humvee's driver, a corporal, or any of the other men in Sorey's command, and described the situation in a low voice.

"Sir? I don't understand." The lieutenant looked dubious as Beck finished. "Why does NSA need us? Isn't this their, um, their jurisdiction?"

Beck puffed out a breath. "It's... complicated."

"And—and," Sorey dropped his voice to a whisper. "What about Posse Comitatus? We're not supposed to—."

"Lieutenant." Beck broke in before Sorey could fully express his objections. Sorey had a good argument. Irrelevant, under the circumstances, but good. However, Beck didn't have time to debate the issue further with him. Behind him, he sensed the growing impatience from Bo and his crew, the men starting to fidget as they waited. While the country road they were on saw almost no traffic, they needed to remove the roadblock as soon as possible. Any second, someone could drive into their hijack and it'd blow up in all their faces. Time to apply a different tactic. He caught the lieutenant's eyes, holding them. "Do you trust me? Do you trust that what I've told you is the truth, even if I can't tell you all the details?"

Sorey's face was pale as he met Beck's gaze unwaveringly, scanning his commanding officer's features intently. Beck imagined that, when all this was over, he'd have to have Sorey transferred. Their chain-of-command relationship would've changed irreparably into something unworkable—assuming, of course, he would still be in a position to command anyone.

At last, Sorey pulled himself up straight, squaring his shoulders. He swallowed. "Yes, sir, I do."

Beck released the breath he hadn't aware he'd been holding.

"Thank you. Now," Beck glanced past Sorey at the rest of the transport, "let me make myself clear: I don't want you or your men involved in the operation. If anything goes wrong—." He shook his head, leaving the rest unsaid. "You'd be a great help to us if you could radio the base to explain you've run into an obstruction and the transport will be late." None of it would be a lie, and the base would be expecting the call. "And just so there's no mistake, lieutenant, this is not an order."

Again, Sorey didn't answer right away. Then he said, "I will, sir. I'll be glad to help." He paused another moment before adding softly, "A good buddy of mine died in Zabul. Helicopter he was in got shot down. They never did explain how the insurgents had gotten hold of a US rocket."

Beck offered him a nod of quiet understanding; there were far too many such stories. Sorey went to tell his men to abandon the trucks and wave his radio operator over.

Waiting for Sorey to give his orders and make the call, Beck's thoughts had time to drift to Jake. Suppressed fear made itself known afresh, worming its way into his heart. He hoped Jake was right, and that Ravenwood needed him too badly to harm him.

The lieutenant returned a minute later to inform Beck he'd made the requested call. Beck locked away the fear, the odd calm he always felt shortly before action descending over him.

"Lieutenant, I think it's best if you and your men stay here, with the humvees."

"Sir...." Sorey hesitated. "Sir, all due respect, but I'm not comfortable letting these missiles out of my sight."

Beck gave him a sharp look, wanting to deny the lieutenant his request. He'd prefer Sorey and his squad to stay as far away from the engagement as possible—but the lieutenant had a point. And would he have expected anything else? "Fair enough."

The transport troops could wait with Hicks, Beck decided, as he sketched a wave at Bo to clear the road. They wouldn't be directly involved, yet Sorey could still keep an eye on the ordnance that was his responsibility.

Five minutes later, the pickup had been cleared off the road and Bo's crew were spread out over the two army trucks, while Lieutenant Sorey's men were crammed together into the humvees. Engines were fired up, and Beck's jeep led the convoy along the quiet backroads toward the airfield, Bo in the pickup bringing up the rear.

o0o

By the time the sun began to set, the weather had cleared up, and the scattered clouds on the western horizon were colored a bloody red. Though Beck wasn't generally given to paying much attention to superstitions, a shiver ran down his spine as he noticed the sky, and he prayed it wasn't a precursor of events to come.

He also wished he knew how Jake was doing.

Unable to keep his nerves under the tight control he usually managed, he made another round of the perimeter his men had put in place, confirming yet again that everything was in order, and everyone knew what to do.

The borrowed missile convoy had arrived at the abandoned airstrip several hours earlier. Plenty of time before the rendezvous to dig in strategically and test the radio and other recording equipment they'd brought. The plan called for Beck, flanked by Bo and two other guys—one a former corporal-turned-electrician named Joe Estes, the other Pete Jacobson, a private who'd gone into the trucking business after leaving the army—to openly meet with Goetz and the Ravenwood men. The remainder of Bo's crew were to stay hidden among the rusty oil drums and discarded refuse heaped around the half-collapsed single building the old airfield still boasted. They'd provide backup, but wouldn't interfere unless the meeting went south. Hicks and his contingent of agents were holed up in a barn half a mile up the road, along with Lieutenant Sorey and the rest of the real soldiers. Hicks'd be listening while the exchange went down, recording every word, until Beck gave the agreed signal. Then the Feds would swoop in to make the arrests.

It would be tricky and dangerous, and a thousand things could go wrong.

Good people could get killed.

Using this particular airstrip in the middle of nowhere had been Hicks' suggestion, and Beck had readily agreed. A place and time of their choosing was preferable to dealing with Ravenwood on the mercenaries' home turf in Ohio, with the added bonus, as Hicks had pointed out, that there wouldn't be any civilians around to get caught in any crossfire if the deal went sour. Hicks, Beck and Jake had scoped the site out earlier in the week. While Jake had scuffed the toe of his boot unhappily at the potholed tarmac that had once been a landing strip, he'd declared it doable. That had cinched the decision, although Jake later reported Goetz wasn't at all happy about it. Fortunately, the Ravenwood mercenary possessed more greed than discretion, and had eventually agreed to do the exchange on Beck's terms.

The last of the light was fading from the sky and stars were popping out between the clouds. "Major." Bo, who'd been scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars, called for Beck's attention. "They're coming."

Following where Bo pointed in the black expanse of sky, Beck detected the blinking navigation lights of a small aircraft heading quickly in their direction. A minute later he could hear the engine.

"Let's light it up." Beck jogged toward his jeep. He switched on its headlamps to illuminate the building and the army trucks, trusting that Bo and the other two men would take care of the rest of the lamps they'd placed, in accordance with Jake's instructions, along the battered strip of tarmac.

The aircraft, a sleek business jet that was a white blur as it passed, dipped low and flew across the airfield once.

One by one the lamps were switched on, starting with those on Beck's end of the airstrip. Ten seconds later, Joe lit the last one at the far side. With the airstrip now clearly marked, the sound of the aircraft's engine changed pitch, though it had gone too far out for Beck to keep visual track of it in the darkness. An instant later, the plane roared out of the night a second time, like a ghostly bird, and touched down lightly on the tarmac. It bounced once, twice over the potholes, and Beck held his breath until the pilot—Please let it be Jake—got the plane under control and reduced speed.

Reaching the end of the strip, the pilot rolled in a circle, slowly bringing the aircraft around on to the wide swath of tarmac in front of the dilapidated hangar. Bo and the two ex-soldiers, a little winded from jogging back after lighting the lamps, were taking up position behind Beck, a silent warning to anyone looking out from the aircraft.

As the plane taxied to a halt alongside where Beck waited with the trucks, he squinted into the gloom, trying to see into the cockpit. He puffed out a relieved breath, feeling Bo's quiet support at his shoulder at the same moment, as he caught a glimpse through the windshield of a familiar profile. At least Jake was indeed flying the plane. Beck had been afraid Ravenwood might have gotten wind of their plan and disposed of Jake as soon as he'd arrived at Cuyahoga, or had replaced Jake at the last instant with a pilot they trusted better.

Jake shut down the engines and a hushed silence fell over the airport. A small door in the plane's side, in front of the wing and half-hidden from view from where Beck stood, swung open. Steps were lowered from the gaping hole, and four armed men dressed in black jumped from the craft. Beck recognized one of them as the blond who'd come with Goetz to the negotiations in the bar. Sloan, he recalled.

The mercenaries spread out in a semi-circle, eyes shifting warily over Beck and the three men with him. Sloan stomped toward them, gesturing angrily. "What the hell is this?"

Beck sensed Bo stiffen and grumble something unintelligible. "Easy," Beck muttered from the corner of his mouth, afraid Joe and Pete would take their cue from the ex-sergeant. He craned his neck and bored a stare into Sloan's as the mercenary pushed forward into his personal space. "You expect me to transport two dozen missiles by myself?" he asked, not bothering to mask the distaste he felt.

Sloan uttered a grunt. He pulled back, shooting a final glare at Beck's entourage, before retreating toward the plane and calling out an all-clear. Beck started toward the plane, seeing Goetz now descending the steps. With a small gesture of his hand, he ordered Bo and the others to stay where they were. He stopped a dozen or so paces from the aircraft, just beyond the tip of the nearer wing, waiting impatiently for Goetz to join him. Movement behind the other man caught his eye and he suppressed the smile that wanted to break free: Jake was coming down the stairs, looking whole, if tense.

Hearing the clatter of feet on the metal steps behind him, Goetz swung around. "What are you doing? And don't give me any of that 'checking the plane' crap!"

Beck went rigid, his smile gone. He struggled not to reach for his sidearm, ready to draw it if needed.

"It's SOP for a pilot to do a visual check of the aircraft after landing on that." Jake scowled at Goetz as he jabbed a thumb across his shoulder at the rough airstrip. Beck caught the way Jake's gaze briefly flickered toward him where he was standing a dozen yards further on.

Careful, Jake.

"I don't give a crap." Goetz flapped a dismissive hand. "Get your ass back into the damned cockpit. I wanna take off soon's we're done." He turned toward Sloan. "Make sure he stays where he is." Sloan nodded grimly.

"Hey, it's your skins, too." Jake offered the Ravenwood leader a shrug and climbed back up the steps, disappearing from sight.

Dammit, Beck swore under his breath. He'd counted on Jake being near him and Bo, more or less safe, when he called in Hicks. He racked his brain for any excuse to demand Jake join them for the handover, and came up empty—at least as far as reasons Goetz would accept without question.

Putting Jake from his mind as much as he could—he'd learned long ago not to spend mental energy on issues he couldn't do a thing about—Beck switched his attention to Goetz. "You got my cash?"

Goetz made a wry face. "You got my missiles?"

"Of course." Turning sharply on his heel, indicating he expected Goetz to follow him, Beck marched over to the trucks. He threw aside the canvas cover, revealing stack upon stack of wooden crates.

"Hm. Barsotti!" Goetz waved over one his cronies. "Check those out." The man he'd hailed—roughly Beck's height, with dark, disagreeable eyes—jumped into the back of the truck. Jake had told him he'd once had to share a room with Barsotti; seeing the man's disposition, Beck understood better why it had been a less than pleasant experience.

Using a small crowbar, Barsotti cracked open two cases selected at random. In the privacy of his mind, Beck thanked Hicks for advising them to make it look real. These thugs certainly were a distrusting lot.

Several minutes passed. Beck restrained himself from looking at the plane. Was Jake still inside? Or had he found a way to sneak out? He trusted that Bo was keeping an eye on that side of things and would let him know if he could.

At last, Barsotti was satisfied. "Looks good to me," he told Goetz with a grunt as he jumped from the truck.

"Get them repacked and loaded." Goetz's tension visibly left him and he smirked at Beck. "We're in business, Major."

Behind him, Barsotti and two of the unnamed Ravenwood troops started pulling crates from the trucks, popping off the lids and removing the missiles carefully one by one.

"What—?" Beck couldn't help voice his surprise out loud.

"Gotta repack." Goetz gestured vaguely behind him at the aircraft, where one of his men had released the hatch to a tiny compartment near the tail end. Beck blinked. It looked far too small to hold much of anything, let alone two dozen precious missiles. When Jake had mentioned 'cargo lockers', Beck had envisioned something more conventional.

Seeing Beck's expression, Goetz uttered a laugh. "It's tight, but they'll fit." He sounded confident enough Beck was sure Goetz spoke from experience. He fought not to show his dismay at the realization these probably weren't the first Javelins Ravenwood had stolen this way.

One of the Ravenwood gunmen came jogging up, distracting Beck from watching the missiles being rewrapped. He carried a small, bulky backpack that looked heavy, which he passed on to Goetz. "Your agreed fee." A slight, smug grin twitched at Goetz's lips as he held the bag out to Beck.

Thinks he's so smart, Beck thought grimly, remembering his impression that Goetz would quote a higher price to his superiors than Beck had asked and pocket the difference. He stared at the backpack without taking it. Where was Jake?

"Well?" Goetz jabbed the bag in Beck's direction impatiently. "What's wrong with you? Take your goddamned money."

Getting desperate, Beck glanced at the activity surrounding him. Goetz's men were trotting between the trucks and the plane, carrying bubble-wrapped missiles toward the cargo locker under the watchful eye of Bo and the others. They'd as good as finished with the first truck and would soon start on the second. And he still couldn't see any sign of Jake anywhere. Should he stall for more time? He could insist on counting the money; that would be a demand Goetz would understand. On the other hand, stalling would also allow Ravenwood to finish loading the plane and, if Jake hadn't succeeded at getting out, increase the risk of them getting away with the missiles.

"No." Getting Jake out was no longer an option. "It's over." He raised his voice a fraction, guaranteeing his words would be caught over the radio. "Hicks, now!"

Within half a second, distant sirens started howling. "What the fuck...?" Goetz lost precious seconds to confusion, disbelief evident in his face.

"Put that crate down!" Bo's best sergeant voice roared over the clamor of advancing sirens and outraged cries from the mercenaries. Beck flinched as someone dropped the crate they were carrying with enough force to splinter the wood. He hoped the Javelins inside were packed securely that the impact hadn't damaged them. Implicit approval aside, Hoffman would not be pleased if he returned with broken equipment.

"You set us up!" Goetz took a swing at Beck with the backpack, his face flushed with anger as his brain caught up with what was happening. Beck instinctively ducked to avoid being hit with the money, the move throwing him off balance enough to gain Goetz a moment's respite. He used the time to start running in the direction of the plane, aiming for the stairs. Sloan was nowhere in sight, and Beck assumed he'd retreated into the aircraft at the first sign of trouble.

"Give it up, Goetz," he shouted, pulling his sidearm and aiming it at a spot between the mercenary's shoulder blades.

"Like hell," Goetz snarled, popping off a shot across his shoulder without bothering to see where he was firing. Beck dove for cover behind the wheel of the truck.

Goetz's shot went high, harmless, but guns rattatatted in response as the rest of Bo's team returned fire. Bullets clacked against the plane's hull.

Jake's in there, Beck's mind squeaked in horror. "Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

The guns stopped rattling.

Goetz had rounded the wingtip and was closing the last half dozen feet to the steps. Despite his own order, Beck raised his sidearm, taking aim. He hesitated with his finger on the trigger. Crap, he couldn't shoot Goetz: Hicks had made it very clear that they needed him alive. He lowered his weapon without firing.

Where the hell were the cops?

As if on cue, squad cars, their lights swirling crazily, raced up. Tires squealed as the drivers stomped the brakes. Doors slammed open and agents poured out.

"Federal agents!" a loud voice hollered. "Put your weapons down now!"

Blatantly ignoring the command, Goetz let off another couple of rounds and bolted into the plane. He yanked up the stairs, clearly not giving a damn about the men he was leaving high and dry on the ground.

Beck raced around the aircraft's wing as fast as he could, indifferent to his own safety. He wasn't prepared to let Goetz get away. The top section of the door was still standing open, the cabin a dark cavern behind it. Beck slowed, keeping his gun trained on the gaping maw.

"Major!" Hicks trotted over, wearing a bullet proof vest that said "POLICE".

"Jake's in there!" Beck glanced at the agent as he indicated the plane. "He—." The next thing he knew, Hicks was dragging him under the belly of the aircraft as bullets slammed into the concrete where he'd been standing a fraction of a second earlier.

"Don't be stupid, major." Hicks offered him a look that was part pity, part frustration.

Beck took a deep, shuddering breath, giving himself a shake. The agent was right; he'd been getting ready to throw himself in blindly after Goetz. Getting killed wouldn't do Jake any good. He needed to be smarter than that.

o0o

Disregarding Goetz's orders to return to the cockpit, Jake had remained crouched in the shadows near the door. Seeing Edward had sent a surge of relief through him: so far, the operation was going according to plan.

He craned his neck to watch Goetz and Edward talk, ever mindful of Sloan hovering at the bottom of the steps. Goetz's second-in-command was clearly on edge, his attention constantly shifting from the Lear to the trucks to the surrounding area and right back to the plane. Jake quickly realized there'd be no chance to sneak out of the plane unnoticed.

He pulled away from the opening, surveying the rest of the small craft. What other way out could—? Dumbass. He smacked his forehead. Where had he mislaid his brain? The Lear had an emergency exit positioned over the wing on the far side from all the action. The aircraft's body would nicely shield him from view—at least until they started packing the Javelins into the locker installed on that side of the aircraft. So he better move fast.

Jake hurried over to the last window on the left, nearly losing his footing on the bags and jackets his passengers had carelessly strewn around the cabin. He crouched in front of the window exit, eyeing the release mechanism. Sloan was right at the bottom of the steps, on full alert. Would he be able to remove the emergency panel without making any noise? Of, if he couldn't, could he do it fast enough that he could jump out and get away before Sloan figured out what he was up to?

Even as Jake tried to decide on his next move, sirens went up somewhere far off, the shrill noise muted by the cabin's hull. "Crap," Jake muttered. The time for stealth had passed. He grabbed for the release handle, readying to pull it.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sloan was springing up the stairs and crossing the cabin faster than Jake would've guessed he was capable of. He yanked Jake back by the collar of his shirt, flinging him across the cabin before Jake could get his feet under him to resist.

Outside, someone fired off a single shot. The next second, bullets rattled on the plane's hull and zinged through the open door. Jake curled into a ball where he'd landed, not far from where the bullets were striking the fuselage. He heard a shout. "Hold your fire!" and he thought he'd recognized Edward's voice. The hail of bullets stopped immediately.

Struggling to draw breath, Jake scrabbled at the nearest seat for support, the smooth leather slick under his fingers. Sloan snatched at him again. "Get this goddamn plane running!"

Outside, tires screeched, and people were yelling, "Federal agents!"

Sloan shoved Jake toward the cockpit. "Get movin'!"

Jake stumbled against the cockpit door. He wished he'd been able to bring the gun Bo had offered him, but he'd known Goetz would never have allowed him to bring it on board. "No." He pulled up straight.

"What?" Sloan gaped incredulously at him. "Are you crazy?" Fisting a handful of Jake's shirt, he hauled Jake toward him, shaking him. "I said, let's go." The cool muzzle of Sloan's Glock pressed up under Jake's jaw. Jake swallowed, his mouth dry.

"Go, go, go!" Shouting, Goetz barreled inside, his momentum nearly slamming him into Jake and Sloan. He pulled up short as Sloan swung the two of them out of his path, before reached back around to wrench up the fold-out steps. "What the fuck's going on?"

"This asshole refuses to fly," Sloan growled, his eyes never leaving Jake's face as he pushed him harder against the bulkhead facing the front seat.

Goetz switched his attention from Sloan to Jake. "What?" The stunned look on his face would have been funny, if not for the way Sloan was grinding the gun against Jake's jaw.

"Face it, Goetz. You lost." Jake snuck a glance in Goetz's direction before he met Sloan's scowl again. "What are you gonna do? Shoot me?"

"There's a thought." Sloan cocked his weapon.

"Wait!" Goetz seized Sloan's shoulder. "If you shoot him, who's gonna fly the plane?"

"Me."

"Right." Goetz uttered a snort full of contempt. "I don't think so. Put that gun down."

Sloan scowled, but he lowered the Glock and took a step backward. Jake worked his jaw as Goetz considered him for a second, his expression not promising anything good, despite the temporary reprieve.

"Here!" Goetz shoved the heavy backpack he'd been carrying towardJake. "There's two million in there. All yours, if you get us the hell out of here!" The last words were hissed urgently.

Jake let the bag drop. He had no intention of taking Goetz's money, or of helping Goetz and Sloan escape. And even if he did, he knew he'd get little chance to enjoy his two million. Soon as he landed them somewhere safe, they'd kill him and take the money. He shook his head. "Nope. Not gonna happen."

Heavy boots slapped on the concrete outside, drawing closer. The sound made Jake aware that the shouting had died down.

"Major!" Jake recognized Hicks' voice.

Edward's reply was closer than Jake had expected and barely suppressed panic was audible in his tone. "Jake's in there."

At the sound of their voices, Goetz abandoned his attempt to convince Jake to take the plane up and twisted around. He fired off a couple of shots through the open door. Sloan raised his gun, pointing it at Jake once more. "Goddamn snitch," he snarled. "Told John we couldn't trust your sorry ass." His finger tightened.

"No!" Goetz's shout rang out at the same time as Sloan pulled the trigger.

The sound of the shot in the small confines of the Lear's cabin was deafening. Red-hot pain seared through Jake as the bullet pierced his flesh and the impact was enough to slam him into the bulkhead. Dazed, he slid bonelessy to the floor, aware of something warm and wet soaking his shirt. Through the roar in his ears, he dimly heard Goetz swearing, "You moron! He was our only leverage!"

Jake smiled. They weren't going anywhere. He tried to move, and fresh pain flared out from where the bullet had struck him. Unable to hold in a moan, he slipped into unconsciousness.

---

Chapter 12

Huddled under the plane with Hicks, Beck felt the shot as it reverberated through the aircraft's fuselage, and the subsequent thump as a heavy object fell down, as much as he heard it. He winced involuntarily.

"You moron!" That was Goetz. "He was our only leverage."

Ice formed under Beck's ribs. Sweet Mother of God; Goetz had to be talking about Jake. No longer caring if he risked coming under fire, Beck began to crawl out from under the aircraft's belly.

"Major!" Hicks caught him by the elbow to hold him in place.

Beck attempted to shake off the agent's hand, but Hicks proved to have a surprisingly strong grip for such a thin man.

"Please, major," Hicks pleaded, "let me deal with this."

Beck paused, giving Hicks a hard look, before releasing a heavy breath. He nodded unwillingly. What else could he do, other than storm the plane single-handedly and likely get himself killed? But Lord, he wished he'd taken that shot at Goetz when he'd the chance...!

Apparently confident Beck now wasn't going to do anything half-cocked, Hicks squirmed past him. Careful to stick only his upper body out in the open, so his agents could see him while he'd stay hidden from those inside the aircraft, he sketched a wide wave. "Everyone, back off."

With a start, Beck became aware that the earlier ruckus had subsided. He'd been so focused on Goetz and the aircraft, and Jake inside it, he hadn't noticed Hicks' agents had rounded up the Ravenwood troops, cuffing them and forcing them to sit cross-legged in a row in front of the squad cars. Two agents were guarding them, while the rest had spread out to surround the plane. Their numbers were supplemented by Bo's team and, Beck saw with consternation as he peered out from where he was lying under the fuselage, Lieutenant Sorey and the weapons transport.

He shook his head in dismay. The situation was like old dynamite: unstable and primed to blow at any second.

And Jake.... God, don't let him suffer for my sins, Beck prayed silently. He should never have let it come to this, should never have gotten involved with Jake beyond that first night. Then Hicks wouldn't have located Jake. And even if he had, Jake would've been able to tell him 'no'. He would've been alive and free, not lying dead or dying in a damned corporate jet right over Beck's head.

He chafed to know what was going on inside the plane. After the single shot, and Goetz's angry shout, everything had gone quiet.

At Hicks' order, the federal agents and Bo's crew had begun to slowly withdraw behind the natural perimeter of the various vehicles. The soldiers stayed where they were. "I said, everyone!" Hicks shouted, giving another sweep of his arm to underscore his demand.

"Lieutenant," Beck called out, adding his own voice to that of Hicks. "Please do as Agent Hicks says."

"Yes sir!" Sorey quietly gave his men an order. Another minute or so passed, and the soldiers also melted into the shadows. A strained silence descended over the airfield.

"Goetz!" Once everyone had removed themselves from sight, Hicks stuck out his head and hollered up at the cabin. "You're surrounded. Give it up."

"No fucking way!" The answer was immediate. "I got a hostage!"

Beck stiffened involuntarily, heart hammering: Goetz meant Jake. Was he bluffing? Hicks, sensing the way Beck had tensed, pinned him with another backwards glare, telling him without words to stay put. Beck didn't want to: if Jake was still alive, every second could count. They had no time for lengthy negotiations. They also had no choice. Unwillingly, Beck inclined his head slightly, yielding control to the agent.

Above them, unaware of their silent communication, Goetz went on listing his demands. "I want free passage out of here." He paused, and Beck detected the mumble of voices, but he couldn't make out any words. "And a pilot to fly this goddamn plane."

A fresh shiver ran through Beck, chills running up and down his spine. If Goetz needed a pilot.... Was Jake dead already?

"No can do." Hicks paused, giving Goetz a chance to reply. There was no reaction from the aircraft. "See, Goetz, I know you're just a middleman here. There's no need to make it any worse for yourself than it already is."

More silence. Then, guardedly, "What're you talking about?"

"Are you really prepared to take the fall for your bosses? Do you deserve that? Do they?" Hicks waited few seconds to let Goetz stew on that. "Come on out, and we'll talk deals."

"John, don't listen to him!" A second voice, low and urgent, drifted from the open cabin door. Beck assumed it was Sloan. "I can get us out of here. I know I can."

"You?" Goetz barked a harsh laugh. "You're the idiot who shot the fucking real pilot in the first place."

Beck's eyes stung as his fears were confirmed. He squeezed them shut, trying to quell the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. Please, let it be a lie. Let Jake be all right. Even as he silently sent up the prayer, Beck knew it was a vain hope. He'd heard the shot; he'd heard the desperation in Goetz's voice when he claimed to have a hostage, and how much it had sounded like he was putting on a front.

He was still trying to master his feelings when he heard a scuffle overhead. The plane shook on its carriage and someone cried out in pain. There was another heavy thud that sounded like a body hitting the floor. Beck ducked reflexively.

"I'm coming out," Goetz shouted. A moment later, two guns clattered onto the concrete next to the aircraft, slithering a couple feet along the tarmac before they came to a stop. The steps were lowered slowly, creaking as someone put weight on them, and a boot emerged in Beck's line of vision, followed by a second. Slowly, Goetz walked into view, hands held high.

The instant Goetz set foot on the ground, agents rushed in, tackling him to the concrete, wrenching his arms together and slapping on handcuffs. Beck didn't stay to hear them reading Goetz his Miranda rights; he squeezed past Hicks and, scrambling out from under the aircraft, hurled up the steps.

Inside the cabin, it was dark, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. He pushed forward and immediately tripped over a body lying crumpled right inside the door opening. "Jake?" Leaning over, Beck caught a glimpse of blond hair: Sloan, dead or unconscious. Beck didn't bother to check; he didn't care. He stepped over the body, calling softly again, "Jake?"

He found Jake wedged between a bulkhead and a leather seat, feet sticking out into the aisle, chin resting on his chest. He wasn't moving. "Jake!"

Beck searched for the switch to the seat light and fumbled it on. The dim light springing out was enough to show Jake's shirt was soaked with blood, and when Beck bobbed his head low, he saw Jake's eyes were closed. No no no, a voice whimpered in Beck's mind.

"Jake?" His fingers shook as he leaned in to lightly touch them to Jake's neck. He found a pulse, slow but steady. "Thank you, God," he murmured, before raising his voice to call, "I need a medic here!" His voice was hoarse and a lump had lodged in his throat.

"Is he...?" Hicks asked from right behind him.

Beck started. He hadn't been aware Hicks had followed him inside. As Beck briefly glanced backward, Hicks clicked on more of the lights.

"He's alive." As if Hicks would care. Beck couldn't tell how badly Jake was injured, though; there was a lot of blood, but it was hard to tell how much or exactly what the damage was. "Medic!"

"I'll call in the EMTs." Hicks started to move away, aiming for the door.

Beck grappled around, snatching at the cuff of Hicks' pants. The EMTs were half a mile off, waiting for the site to be secured. "There should be a medic with the transport."

Hicks touched Beck's shoulder briefly. "I'll find him."

After Hicks had gone, Beck's hands fluttered over Jake's body, unsure what to do. The bullet had hit Jake in the shoulder, as far as Beck could tell without moving him. He wished he'd put on his combat gear instead of fatigues—at least he'd have had gauze with him to stop Jake's bleeding. He risked another quick look behind him. Where was the damned medic?

Jake whimpered softly. Beck immediately turned his attention back to him, scrabbling for his hand. "Jake?"

Jake's eyes fluttered open, unfocused. "Edward?"

"I'm here." Beck squeezed Jake's fingers lightly. "You're gonna be okay. Don't worry." He attempted to put as much confidence into his voice as he could, grateful to discover he succeeded at sounding more certain than he felt.

The aircraft rocked again. "Sir?" Beck looked up. A young soldier stood on the top step, clutching a first aid kit in his arms.

"You the medic?"

"Y-yes sir. Corporal Lavelle." The corporal looked scared, and Beck wondered if he'd ever had to treat anyone for a real battlefield injury.

He drew in a calming breath. He couldn't let the corporal see his own fear; he seemed ready to bolt as it was. "Over here, corporal. I got a man down. I don't know how bad. He just regained consciousness."

"Did we...?" Jake attempted to move and his question ended in a groan.

Kneeling next to Beck, the medic reached for Jake past Beck's shoulder. "Please, sir, don't move."

"Yes, we did," Beck answered Jake's unfinished question. He shuttled out of the corporal's path until he was arched around the leather seat, able to hold Jake's hand without blocking Lavelle's access. He was gratified to see that, once the young medic set to work, he overcame his skittishness, his hands moving over Jake confidently. "We got them. Red-handed, with their paws on the missiles. Exactly what Hicks wanted."

Jake huffed a laugh that quickly changed into another moan of pain.

"Shh...." Beck stretched past Lavelle to brush the hair back from Jake's forehead. The medic was giving him a curious blink, but Beck was only half-aware of what the gesture must look like, and frankly, he didn't care. "How is he?" he asked.

"It's not as bad as it looks, sir." Lavelle turned his focus back to Jake. "I mostly stopped the bleeding. I think he fainted from pain and shock as much as blood loss."

Beck lowered his head in acknowledgment and to hide the tears of relief that filled his eyes. "Thank you, corporal."

"Excuse us?" A new voice called Beck's attention and he blinked rapidly to chase away the moisture. Once he felt confident enough to raise his head, Beck saw a pair of civilian EMTs had climbed into the cabin. Help had come.

"Jake? I'm gonna have to let go now." Jake's grip tightened on Beck's. Beck's chest clenched, and his eyes stung with fresh tears. "Jake, the paramedics are here to take you to a hospital. They'll take good care of you. I won't be far, I promise."

"Okay." Jake's agreement came out as a whisper. He unwrapped Jake's fingers from his, and squeezed past the crouching EMTs. They weren't paying him any attention, already in deep conversation with Corporal Lavelle.

Taking a deep breath and trying to regain his composure, he made himself walk out of the plane. Much as he wanted to stay and be as near to Jake as he could, he knew better than to get in the way of the emergency personnel. They knew what they were doing better than he did. Besides, he had two truckloads of missiles that were his responsibility.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair as he descended the stairs, noticing belatedly that his palms were sticky with Jake's blood. He puffed out his cheeks, feeling cold; he'd come so close to losing Jake for good.

Shoving the thought of what could've been to the rear of his mind, he strove to concentrate on his duty: he had to make sure the Javelins were taken on to their destination ASAP. He looked up, planning to find out where the missiles had got to and—Beck stopped dead in his tracks, jaw dropping in shock. While he'd been inside with Jake, the small, quiet airfield had been transformed into an angry anthill. Federal agents wearing windbreakers declaring they were NSA or ATF, and some that said FBI, were crawling around the aircraft, through the sagging hangar, and over the army trucks. Hicks must've pulled out all the stops. Flashlights blitzed in rapid succession, some agents taking photos and cataloging everything, while others, holding notepads, were talking to Bo and Joe and Pete. Lieutenant Sorey was scowling unhappily at a pair of ATF agents breaking open the last of the crates Goetz's men hadn't yet had a chance to unload.

"Major Beck, sir!" he called as soon as he caught sight of Beck. "Sir, they won't let us—."

"It's evidence," one of the agents declared pompously, not allowing Sorey to finish his complaint. To Beck, it sounded like they had had the argument more than once already.

Beck stiffened his spine as he marched over. "Those missiles are also United States Army property." If the situation required, he could do pompous with the best of them. "They—."

Catching sight in his peripheral vision of a stretcher being lifted up into the plane, he forgot the rest of what he'd be about to tell the agent.

"Sir?" Sorey asked. His expression had grown even unhappier.

Beck scanned the area around the plane again, not listening to the agent, who was now expounding on the importance of preserving the chain of evidence. "Hicks!" he snapped, as soon as he spotted the agent with a pair of photographers working near the aft of the plane, presumable taking pictures of the locker.

At Beck's urgent wave, Hicks trotted over. "What's the problem?" He took a good look at the various expressions of the men standing around the opened crate. "Ah, I see." He raised his eyes skyward, his expression aggravated. "Agent Hill, please make sure you release these crates, and their contents, into Major Beck's care once you're done processing the scene."

"But—." Hill began. Hicks didn't let him finish.

"Photograph them, catalog them, hell, try to fingerprint them if you feel so inclined. Once you're done, every single missile you see is the major's responsibility. Understood?"

Hill gave Hicks a pained grimace. "Yes sir."

"Good." Hicks switched his attention to Beck. "That solve your problem?"

"For now, yes." Beck wished all the difficulties he expected to be having in the next weeks could be solved so easily. "Thank you." But Hicks had already hurried off.

"How's Jake?" Bo sidled up next to Beck, keeping his voice to a low whisper designed to only reach Beck's ears. Beck looked around and saw there was renewed movement near the door of the plane. One of the EMTs was walking out backward, taking cautious steps down the staircase. A heartbeat later, Beck saw they were ready to lift down the stretcher with, he presumed, Jake strapped to it.

"Medic says he'll live." Beck kept his eyes fixed on the activity near the aircraft, where an ambulance had rolled up. He took a step in its direction, and then paused. Duty warred with desire; his heart screamed to go with Jake, while the soldier inside refused to abandon the missiles.

"Major Beck, sir?"

Bo nudged his ribs with a gentle elbow, drawing his attention. Beck realized Sorey was trying to talk to him. With an immense effort, he turned his back on the ambulance, swallowing hard. "Yes, lieutenant?"

Sorey shot a quick look across Beck's shoulder. "Sir. If you want—." He cleared his throat. "Soon as those agents are done, I'll take care that those missiles get packed and reloaded, and transported securely to base. As per my orders." He let his voice drop, cocking his head a fraction, and added in a less formal tone, "The delay is just... part of the exercise, isn't it, sir?"

Bo snorted a laugh. Beck gaped at the lieutenant, at first not comprehending. Then he quirked up his mouth in a smile. "Yes, Lieutenant Sorey. It is indeed."

"Sir." The lieutenant offered him a smart salute, which Beck returned crisply.

"Thank you, lieutenant."

Reassured the missiles would be safe with Sorey, and making a mental note to find out when the lieutenant would reasonably be up for promotion next, Beck nodded in Bo's direction to show his gratitude for his friend's help, before swiveling on his heel to jog over to the ambulance. The EMTs were finishing loading the stretcher into it and a dark shock of hair was all Beck could see of Jake. One of the paramedics stepped forward, trying to block Beck from climbing into the rig. "I'm sorry, sir—."

Beck pinned him with a stare. "Where are you taking him?"

"Cortland Regional." One glimpse of Beck's expression had changed the paramedic's mind about objecting to his presence. "Closest hospital that can handle a GSW."

"Let's go." Beck didn't bother to ask for further details, simply jumped into the ambulance, not caring if anyone wanted to stop him. A minute later, he was crammed in the narrow vehicle, crouched next to the stretcher and once again holding one of Jake's hands between his. Sirens started up and the ambulance rumbled off.

---

Chapter 13

Bored out of his skull, Jake clicked the remote, flipping through the channels on the small TV bolted to the wall across from his bed. He hoped against hope to find something that would keep him entertained, even for a short while. Lying in a hospital bed for a week with nothing to do but heal, he'd quickly discovered that daytime television was unbelievably dull.

He couldn't wait to get out and go home; other than various medical staff checking up on him several times a day and the orderlies delivering meals, he didn't get any visitors. Even Edward hadn't bothered to come check on him....

No, that wasn't fair, Jake reproached himself. Edward had been with him when they'd whisked him away from the airstrip, and he retained a very fuzzy memory of Edward's relieved face after he woke up from surgery. He'd been too spaced out with pain medication for any real conversation, though, and he hadn't seen or heard from Edward since. The silence worried him in a way no dull TV could banish.

Was Edward in trouble with his superiors? Or had he not come because he didn't want to see Jake? After all, if his career was in shambles, whose fault was that?

Bo had dropped by a couple of days ago, but he hadn't been able to tell Jake anything much, either. Edward had gone back to base, he'd said, to "deal with the fall-out". It had sounded sinister to Jake, and the fact that he'd seen hide nor hair from Edward in the—he calculated quickly—six days since he'd woken up after surgery didn't bode well.

Jake wished someone would tell him what was going on with Ravenwood as well. Had they gotten the evidence Hicks wanted? The TV news had been oddly mute; he'd have expected to see reports if arrests had been made. Perhaps they'd failed, and the army, embarrassed about its involvement, had made sure everyone kept mum.

In which case, it made sense Edward hadn't visited Jake while he recuperated. For all Jake knew, Goetz had walked free and Edward was the one in jail.

Something somebody said on the screen interfered with his black mood, the words filtering through his subconscious so slowly he had to backtrack several channels until he came across the source.

"Police raid security firm's offices." The headline scrolled across the screen from right to left. He jacked up straight, ignoring the twang that went through his shoulder at the sudden move. Glum introspection forgotten, he listened to the pretty young reporter who looked earnestly into the camera.

"As has been revealed this morning," she announced, "in the past days, federal agents have taken possession of a number of files and computer disks belonging to Ravenwood, a private contractor providing security to high profile firms doing business in hot spots such as South America and Iraq." She was standing in front of a modern steel-and-glass office building that Jake didn't recognize, but that he presumed were Ravenwood's corporate headquarters.

Had they done it after all? Had the sting operation succeeded? Outside the hospital, a few stories below, an ambulance's siren wailed closer, drowning out the TV. Fingers shaking with suppressed excitement, Jake fumbled with the remote to turn up the sound.

A male voice-over had taken up the narrative. "Earlier today, at a press conference in Washington, DC, the lead investigator on the case explained." The image changed to a recording of Hicks. The agent came across as both self-satisfied and uncomfortable at the large number of microphones clustered together in front of him.

"Um," he cleared his throat, "after a long and extensive investigation, my office gathered enough evidence of illicit arms dealing, as well as other irregularities, to seize the company's records for further scrutiny." He peered straight into the camera, unsuccessfully keeping the twitch of lips under control as he added, "We have already arrested a number of Ravenwood operatives, who are cooperating with the authorities, and we expect more arrests to be made shortly."

Jake uttered a quiet snort at the statement. Would seem Hicks' estimate of Goetz had been accurate: from what the agent had said, it sounded as if the Ravenwood squad leader had folded like a cheap suit when faced with a lifetime in jail—or, possibly, the chair; Jake wasn't sure what federal law said about people who smuggled arms to insurgents the US was technically at war with.

"Good-looking fellow, ain't he?"

Jake started at the familiar voice coming from an unexpected direction. Hicks was propping up a shoulder against the doorframe to his room, pointing with his chin at the television to illustrate whom he meant.

Jake grimaced, half caught between annoyance at being surprised by Hicks' presence yet again, and amused at Hicks' estimation of his own appearance. To be honest, the Hicks on the news had looked like he hadn't slept more than an hour in the last week. The Hicks who walked further into his room looked just as tired, but the expression on his drawn features also resembled that of a cat who'd gotten into the proverbial cream.

"So, you got what you wanted, huh?" Jake muted the TV to a background murmur.

"Yes." Hicks draped the coat he'd been carrying over his arm over the foot of Jake's bed. "Federal prosecutor made a deal with Goetz—yes, yes, I know," he added when he caught Jake's unhappy twitch. "But you always knew it wasn't Goetz I wanted. There are dozens of guys like him: take one out, and someone else will simply pop up in his place. It was the root of the evil I wanted to dig out."

"The guys in the suits," Jake supplied.

"Yes." Hicks waited for Jake to signal his acceptance before continuing. "Anyway, Goetz couldn't spill his guts fast enough, giving us names, places, dates, providing enough probable cause for what you saw there." Hicks jerked his head at the TV, where a cereal commercial had replaced the newscaster. He gave a disbelieving shake. "After all these years of hard work, it's incredible how fast the whole thing unraveled in the end."

"Congratulations." Jake failed to keep the bitterness fully out of his tone. It might be Hicks' moment of triumph, but at what price?

Hicks' head snapped up, his eyes scrunching together. Jake's acerbity hadn't been lost on him. "Couldn't have done it without you, Jake."

Lips pressed together, Jake studied the agent, searching for signs of sarcasm. He saw none. Giving Hicks a dubious look, Jake tried to believe he'd actually been sincere.

Hicks sighed, spreading out his hands in an apology. "I know I've been hard on you. That's why I wanted to tell you personally: you and your friends are in the clear. The prosecutor has announced he has no interest in going after any of you."

Anxiety he hadn't been aware of flowed out of Jake. When Edward had asked Hicks give them immunity, the agent had rebuffed him. "Can't promise you that." He'd given them a pained grimace Jake hadn't believed. "I'd expect the NSA to be far more interested in taking Ravenwood out of play than going after a bunch of vigilante Americans." He'd snorted wryly. "With the military? You're on your own, major."

Neither Jake nor Edward had liked it, but they'd been left with little choice. Luckily, it would seem Hicks' assessment had proved correct.

"In fact," the agent went on, unaware of where Jake's thoughts had gotten to, "I doubt we'll need you to testify in court at all." He let his hands fall, stuffing them into the pockets of his pants. "Between your statements during the debrief, the audio and video footage we gathered at the airfield and during the negotiations your major had with Goetz, plus all the paper trails we'll undoubtedly unearth from Ravenwood's records? I'd say you're free to go."

"Go where?" The words were out of Jake's mouth before he could stop them.

"Wherever you want." Hicks angled forward curiously. "Why are you complaining? You got your pilot's license back, I got you off the State Department's watch list, and I ended the surveillance of your family in Kansas the day I located you in Rochester."

"You what?" Jake shot up, hissing as a fresh stab shot through his healing shoulder. "You bastard." It shouldn't have come as a surprise; it was one reason he'd never dared call home after leaving Jericho, but to hear it confirmed so matter-of-factly...?

Hicks scrubbed a tired palm across his face. "Jake, let it go. It's over. Go back to Rochester to live a secret life with your lover. Go home to Kansas. Go... wherever. I no longer care." He snatched up his coat and draped it back over his arm. "Soon as I walk out of this room, you'll never see me again."

Jake stayed silent. He didn't know what to say. Don't let the door hit you on the way out sounded too ungraceful to mark the occasion. On the other hand, he couldn't bring himself to say "Thanks". Hicks had admitted to keeping track of Mom and Dad, had gone to the trouble of investigating Edward and God knows who else from his past, had gotten Freddy killed....

"Oh, hello, major." Hicks' voice drifted in from the hall. The agent had gone and Jake accepted he'd missed his chance to have the last word.

"Agent Hicks," came the curt reply.

Jake's heart leaped into his throat as he recognized the second speaker. He instantly forgot his resentment toward Hicks, or the news of the raid on Ravenwood's headquarters. He leaned forward eagerly, reaching for the blankets to throw them off and jump out of bed.

Before he could do more than cast the covers aside, Edward strode in. "Hey."

Jake grinned goofily, so glad to see Edward that he instantly forgave him for not calling or visiting during Jake's entire stay at the hospital. "Hey." He pulled the blankets back across his legs, the air-conditioned air chilly on his bare skin.

"How've you been?" Edward's gaze slid from Jake's, his posture contrite. "I would've come sooner—."

"Don't sweat it," Jake interrupted, not sure he was ready to hear Edward's excuse. "And I'm good. Doc says I'm healing okay. Thinks I can get out of here soon." He sketched a wave at the bland hospital room, bare of any distraction apart from the TV, and huffed a laugh. "Sooner's better than later, in my book."

"Uh-huh," Edward made a commiserating noise. He didn't say anything else, just went on watching Jake from near the door.

He looks tired. Jake frowned as he took in the lines on Edward's face that spoke of little sleep. "Are you... in trouble? Bo said—."

Edward started shaking his head, preventing Jake from finishing his question. "Sometimes, Bo's such a blabbermouth." He walked toward the window and settled his butt on the sill, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Surprisingly, there wasn't any problem. Lieutenant Sorey—." He broke off as Jake gave him a puzzled look. "The officer in charge of the missile transport," Edward clarified.

"Right." Jake motioned for Edward to continue.

"Lieutenant Sorey stuck to the story—." Again, Edward broke off, giving a quick smile at the inadvertent rhyme, and Jake laughed. "Colonel Hoffman backed him up." Edward's brief mood of levity was gone as fast as it had come on. "As far as the army's concerned, those missiles never left the lieutenant's custody, and the delay was all planned, all part of the exercise."

"That's good, right?" Jake asked cautiously."You're in the clear? No... fall-out?" Ever since Bo had gloomily mentioned the potential of a backlash, he'd been afraid for Edward.

Edward dropped his hands to his sides, curling them around the edge of the sill. "I believe so."

Jake fell back into the pillows, letting out a long breath. "I don't think Bo likes me," he confessed in a mutter.

"That's not true." Unfazed by the seeming non-sequitur, Edward pushed away from the window. He dragged over the visitor's chair and sat down next to Jake's bed. "It's not about you. Or about liking you. Bo's a little... overprotective." His face lit up in a rare grin. "Think of him as a big, black mother hen."

Laughter bubbled up in Jake's chest at the mental image Edward's words invoked and he allowed himself to feel reassured. Bo's attitude had bothered him over the last days—weeks, actually, ever since he'd witnessed Bo and Edward arguing. Those two had such a history together, and Jake didn't want to come between them.

Edward bent forward so he could rest his hands on edge of the mattress, folding them together thoughtfully. Jake reached out, intending to place his hand over Edward's. Edward looked up as he moved, startled, and Jake suddenly remembered where they were. He jerked away.

"Sorry."

"It's not—." Edward cut short what he was going to say and pulled in a deep breath, releasing it in a rush. He made as if to reach for Jake in turn, changed his mind, and let his hand fall onto the mattress. "It's not fair that I put this burden on you, Jake. This terrible secret. If I hadn't—."

"Don't. Please." Jake wriggled to sit up straight again. "I used to get in trouble all the time by myself, long before I met you. Anyway, didn't Hicks tell you?"

Edward gave a small shake of the head. "Haven't spoken to him since that night, until just now. And he just said hello, and went on his way."

"They got them, for real." Jake's excitement bled through into his tone. "Ravenwood. Prosecutor's going ahead with the case. And," he grinned smugly, "we're off the hook."

Edward smiled back. "I overheard that part."

Jake stiffened, eyes narrowing sharply. "You were listening?"

Mouth quirking, Edward rolled a shoulder guiltily. "For a short while. I didn't want to interrupt." His smile faded and again he made as if to touch Jake. "It's good advice he gave you."

Jake blinked, puzzled, trying to replay his conversation with Hicks in his mind. "What would that be?"

"For you to go home." Edward's voice was soft. "To Kansas. Make good with your father."

Jake tried to marshal his thoughts to object, and Edward raised a hand to forestall him. "Jake, I've seen how you perk up and pay attention whenever Kansas gets mentioned. I've seen the wistfulness in you, much as you try to hide it."

"You don't understand." Jake glanced away, his throat tight. "What I want doesn't matter." He plucked at the blanket. "Dad would—."

"Would be very happy to see you, I'm sure."

Jake scoffed. "You don't know my father."

"Jake, you could've died last week." Edward pulled in a shaky breath that betrayed a hint of his emotions. "How do you think he would've felt if he—."

"That's not fair!" Jake scowled angrily, jaw clenched.

"Maybe not," Edward admitted with a nod. "But life's short, Jake. Remember that."

Silence descended on the room, only the murmur of the TV in the background and a dull siren as yet another ambulance pulled up to the ER entrance breaking it. Jake had no idea what to say. Could he go to Jericho? Would Dad chase him out of town if he did? He didn't think he could handle the heartache again if he did.

"Anyway," Edward coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat. "You'll have enough time to think about that later. I wrenched a few extra days' leave out of Colonel Hoffman, and the doctor tells me he's ready to let you go as long as you have someone to take care of you." He sat up straighter. "What do you say?"

Jake blinked, the words slow to filter through his distracted mind. "Oh yes!" He cast off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Edward grinned in response.

o0o

Beck parked in front of Bo's Bar, climbed out and locked his car. He should've gone straight to the base—he risked arriving late as it was—but there was one last thing he needed to do before he could leave Rochester. He glanced up at the bar, its neon sign off, as he rapped a beat on the door. He waited for a couple minutes, until Bo materialized from the darkened bar.

"Are you plannin' on making this a habit?" he groused, meaning Beck dropping in ahead of opening time.

Beck shrugged ruefully; Bo didn't mean the complaint as it sounded. "Sorry. I've to leave soon, but—," he hesitated a fraction, "I need another favor."

"Hmph." Bo pulled the door open wider and stepped back, allowing Beck to squeeze in past him. "As long as it's not another illegal operation...?"

This time, Beck uttered a wry snort. "No. Something quite a bit more prosaic."

Five minutes later, Bo had poured Beck a glass of his customary scotch, and opened a bottle of beer for himself. "So what can I do for you this time?" They'd spoken several times during Beck's leave, and there wasn't much left to say regarding the operation to take down Ravenwood's smuggling activity, or Bo's role in it.

Beck dug through his pocket and located the set of keys he'd stashed there there. He laid them on the bar. "Keep an eye on the apartment for me while I'm gone?"

"Gone?" Bo glanced at the keys for a second."You shippin' out?" He left the keys where Beck had put them.

"Yes. Iraq, this time."

"Damn." Bo pointed at the keys with a jerk of his chin. "What about Jake? He not looking after the place?"

Beck shook his head, smiling sadly. He'd dropped Jake off at the bus station two hours ago. Jake would be miles across the state, on his way to Kansas. Beck didn't expect him to come back. "Jake's gone home."

Bo's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again. Finally, all he said was, "Sorry to hear that."

"It's—." There was something in Beck's throat making it hard to speak, and he threw back the last of his scotch, feeling the liquor burn a path to his stomach. The night Jake had told Beck everything, his voice had held such unspoken longing when he'd spoken about his family, it had made Beck's heart ache for him, and he was glad when Jake had announced he wanted to go home after all, to see if he could patch things up with his father.

He simply couldn't imagine that, once Jake had regained his old life, he'd ever want to return to the secrecy and subterfuge that had been such a major part of their lives over the past year. That was why Beck had kept his upcoming deployment a secret from Jake—he hadn't wanted Jake to feel pressured into making false promises.

"I'm okay," he assured Bo, once he could speak.

It wasn't entirely true: he didn't feel okay. In fact, he felt hollow and raw, like something had been ripped from him. But he would be okay: once he got to Iraq, and the daily grind of staying alive occupied his every waking hour, he'd have little time to dwell on what he'd lost.

It was after his tour, what he'd do once he returned stateside, that Beck didn't particularly want to consider.

The door rattled as someone yanked the handle. Bo peered up at the clock. "Hell. Be with ya in a sec." Abandoning Beck to his own reflection in mirrored shelves, he rounded the bar and went to open up, unlocking the door and flicking on the neon sign along the way. A group of guys, their girlfriends tucked under their arms, filed through the door, clamoring loudly for beers, turning the quiet of the empty bar into the din of a successful business.

Beck waited until Bo was done serving his new customers, staring at the keys where they lay on the counter.

"Why don't you give up the place?" Bo asked once he returned. "Be cheaper than paying rent for a place you don't live in."

Beck raised his shoulders. It was a question he hadn't been able to answer for himself, either. How could he ever hope to explain it to his friend? All he knew was he wasn't ready to sever all ties so ruthlessly. Jake had packed his own set of keys and—. Beck blocked his train of thought from continuing. No use in harboring false hope. "Don't know. It's—." He shrugged again.

Bo offered to pour him more whiskey. Beck shook his head 'no': he still had to drive back to Fort Drum. Bo screwed the cap on and put the bottle away, and finally snatched the keys off the counter. He locked them in a drawer under the bar. "I'll keep an eye on the place for you," he promised.

"Thanks. Appreciate that." Task completed, Beck slipped off his stool. He paused. "And Bo?" The bartender met his gaze. "Thank you." Though he'd thanked Bo and the other guys for their assistance earlier in the week, buying the men a few rounds as they celebrated their role in the success of bringing Ravenwood to justice, he figured that, after everything Bo had done, it couldn't hurt to extend his gratitude again—even if it seemed to embarrass him.

Bo held Beck's gaze for a heartbeat, before he turned away with an aw-shucks shrug. He rubbed an open palm over his skull roughly. "Just take care, 'kay?"

"Will do." Beck smiled inwardly as he walked out of the bar and back to his car. It was early evening, the sun still out, but hanging low enough in the western sky that he cast a long shadow ahead of him.

As he drove east out of town, pointing his car toward the base, Beck again boggled at the fact that he had a command to go back to. It was a great deal more than he could've hoped for. He hadn't missed the curious way the army medic had looked at him while treating Jake, or that Lieutenant Sorey had deliberately offered him the opportunity to go with the ambulance. At the time, with Jake's blood drying on his hands, he hadn't cared one jot what his behavior had told the men, or what conclusions they'd draw, or what they'd do with the information.

Those concerns didn't occur to him until, assured Jake would be okay, he'd headed back to base with his heart in his boots. Even if they didn't court-martial him for illegally appropriating the Javelins, he'd been certain they'd kick him out for admitting to a sexual orientation the army didn't want to know about. He'd gone to great lengths to keep it secret for so many years for precisely that reason.

To his consternation, when he signed in at the gate, there had been no MPs waiting for him, no commanding officer demanding he confirm what they'd been told was true. Instead, he'd run into a flurry of unrelated activity: new orders had come down, and the battalion was preparing for imminent deployment overseas. He'd been told to report to Hoffman asap. On the way, he'd decided that meant the colonel wanted to give him the bad news in person, but Hoffman had only been interested in hearing his opinion of the 'exercise', and what he'd thought of Lieutenant's Sorey's performance.

"I'd say it was excellent, sir," Beck had told Hoffman wholeheartedly—ignoring that, once the shooting had started, Sorey had wilfully disregarded the implicit command to stay out of the actual operation.

Dismissed from Hoffman's office with the stern advice to start packing immediately, Beck had bumped into Corporal Lavelle in the hallway. The young soldier had stopped him with a hesitant, "Sir?"

Once he'd gotten Beck's attention, he'd glanced around quickly and asked lowly, "Sir, your... friend, is he—?" The hesitation had been brief enough that Beck had only picked it up because he'd been listening for it.

"The doctors except a full recovery," Beck had reassured him. "In no small part thanks to you."

Lavelle had grinned, relieved. "My pleasure, sir."

The drive to Fort Drum this evening proved uneventful, giving Beck plenty of time to ponder all that had happened. As he reached the turn-off to the last mile, Beck replayed the conversation he'd had with Bo during the party earlier in the week, when his brain had still been trying to come to grips with the unexpected turn of events. "Perhaps, major," the sergeant had declared with a wink, "you underestimate your men. Good officers are rare. Every soldier knows this. And once they got them, they know how to keep 'em."

Beck's mouth had fallen open, and he'd only just started denying Bo's charge when Jake, not yet fully recovered from his injury, had sidled up and told him he was growing tired and wanted to grab a taxi to go home. Bo had seized the opportunity to melt into the throng of men without giving Beck a chance to argue further.

Beck had refused to let Jake go alone, of course. He'd been mindful of Jake's injury, too, as they'd made love that night, for the first time in too many weeks. The next morning, over breakfast, Jake had hesitantly told Beck that, yes, maybe he should go home to Kansas. "For a short while."

Seeing Jake get on that bus, his arm in a sling and his scruffy messenger bag dangling from his other shoulder, had been painful—more painful than any shrapnel wound Beck could remember. It had also felt right. Besides, he'd be halfway across the globe soon. What point could Jake staying in Rochester possibly serve?

Beck pulled up to the gates into Fort Drum, absently acknowledging the salute of the guard as he showed his pass and drove through. Making his way to his quarters, and a few hours of shut-eye before he'd have to join the rest of the battalion in Iraq, he couldn't help wonder: would he ever see Jake again?

Disclaimer: this story is based on the Junction Entertainment/Fixed Mark Productions/CBS Paramount Television series Jericho. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without the author's consent.

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