by K Ryn
"Reports just came in from forensics," Simon continued. "There was some kind of a sedative in that cup we found. One of the SWAT team remembers Sandburg walking around with a similar cup before he headed over to the truck. That means this guy was there, right under our noses the whole time."
He paused, and this time Jim nodded, but still said nothing.
"Our mystery man left a set of prints behind. On the door. Either he's getting sloppy or he..."
"He wants us to know who he is," Jim interrupted. "He said the game was nearly over. Will be by sunrise tomorrow. That's how much time Sandburg has."
"Brown's running the prints now..."
"Tell him not to bother. He's going to turn up a dead man."
"A dead man?" Simon's eyes narrowed. "You know who he is?"
"I recognized the voice. Andrew Dirkson. I was partnered with him for three years in Covert Ops. Nine years ago he was with me in South America. It was about a year before the mission that stranded me there... We were running two teams. I had one, Dirkson had the other. There was a special op... my group came back, his didn't. We went back in looking twice, but we never found any trace of them."
"So, as far as you knew, he's been dead for the last nine years?"
Jim nodded, his face grim.
"Covert Ops," Simon murmured. "No wonder he's been slipping through our fingers. If he's as good as you..." Simon's voice trailed up as he eyed Jim closely. "Is he as good as you? Can you take him?"
Jim met his gaze for a moment before answering. "I used to have an edge. I'd better still have it, for Sandburg's sake."
"I don't get it," Simon said in confusion. "If this guy was your partner, where's he been all this time? Why's he after you now? And why all this set up, if that's what it's been? Why not just go after you directly?"
"We were partners. We were never friends, but we made a good team," Jim answered softly, his eyes staring out the window again as if seeing into the past. "Then the Ops got trickier. More dangerous and more deadly. Dirkson seemed to change somehow, to thrive on it. He got to where he enjoyed the killing."
Jim shook himself slightly and looked back into Simon's eyes.
"I guess you could say we had a falling out. A difference of opinion on how things were supposed to happen. By the last mission we were barely speaking to one another, except on duty. Even then..." Jim's voice trailed off for a moment before he continued. "Dirkson's part of the mission was supposed to be support. He didn't like the fall-back position. He suggested another course, but I had the command and voted him down. Halfway into the op I found out he'd gone ahead with his own plans anyway. They ran into trouble of some kind. He took five other men to their graves with him. At least that's what we all thought."
Jim sat quietly for a moment and his face grew grimmer.
"I'd guess that he blames me for what happened. Obviously, if he's alive, then they weren't killed on that mission. At least not all of them. But something happened. Maybe they were captured. I don't know. What I do know is that Dirkson loves games. That's what this has been. A game. A game with deadly intent."
"Well, whatever his reasons, we still have to find him. And before sunrise. The question is, how?"
"We won't have to find him, Simon. He'll find me."
"You're that sure?"
"He's made sure that I was present or close by for all the other assaults," Jim murmured, his gaze shifting guiltily to the bandages that still covered Simon's left hand. "His vengeance won't be satisfied unless I'm there when he kills Blair."
Simon looked at him uneasily, shaking his head.
"All right. Contact your buddy at CIA and get a picture down here as soon as possible. We'll add it to the APB on Sandburg. Maybe we'll get lucky. Then I want you to head home, and get cleaned up. Take whatever time you need to get your head on straight about this," Simon ordered softly. "We've got a long day ahead of us."
Jim nodded and headed toward the door.
"And Jim, one more thing," Banks said quietly, stopping the detective with his hand on the doorknob. "When he contacts you, I expect you to contact me." Simon's eyes held Jim's in an unwavering stare.
"I won't do anything to put Blair at risk," Jim answered softly. "Sandburg's put his life on the line for me too many times in the past. He wouldn't even be in this mess if it weren't for his involvement with me."
"I understand that," Simon answered, his gaze still firm. "I want him out of this safely as much as you do. But I don't want you trying to take this guy down by yourself. He calls you, you call me. I want your word on it."
An hour later Jim made his way down to the police impound lot to retrieve his truck. Adjusting the driver's seat, he tried not to let his eyes linger on the empty passenger space. He put the key in the ignition and placed his hands on the steering wheel, jerking them back immediately. What had he felt? Tentatively, he fingered the underside of the wheel again, finding a series of tiny raised bumps. A memory triggered -- it was a message and only one man could have left it.
"Go home," he whispered, translating the Braille-like characters. He opened up his senses, extending them to their limits, seeking any other clues. He caught the smells of the chemicals that the forensic team had used when they'd dusted for prints; the smells of Simon's cigars; and finally, the faint scent of Sandburg's leather jacket.
He fingered the message again, and he wondered briefly why forensics had missed it, but then he realized that once they'd found the prints that Dirkson had intentionally left, they wouldn't have looked much further.
No, the message had been left for him alone, in a way that only he would have recognized. And because it had been left in such a manner, it also contained a warning. An admonition that this was between Dirkson and himself. Jim thought briefly about his promise to report any contact to Simon, but he temporized. He'd contact his captain, but not before he knew what was going on. "Go home," he muttered softly, turning the key and starting the truck.
Jim entered the loft cautiously. As he did so, it seemed that he was stepping back in time, into another self that he'd thought he'd left behind in the jungles of Peru. Senses extended, he searched through the apartment, but found nothing. No traps. Nothing but a feeling at the edge of his awareness that someone had been there.
Still uneasy, his eyes swept the main room again and his gaze caught on a pile of papers on the coffee table. He hesitated, realizing that the way they were stacked was in itself a message. He moved toward the table and without touching them he gazed down at the stack. The top paper was a newspaper circular from one of the discount stores in the area. He looked closer and saw one of the items circled -- a refrigerator.
Moving quickly he crossed to the kitchen. He examined the refrigerator carefully and finding no visible traps, he opened it slowly. Leaning upright against a carton of orange juice was a large manila envelope. Gingerly he pulled it out, handling it carefully. He undid the clasp and emptied the contents out onto the counter.
He froze as he saw the first photograph and had to clamp down on his emotions in order to hold onto his control. Steeling himself, he spread out the photos on the counter and forced himself to examine them one at a time. The photos were all of Blair, taken while someone -- probably Dirkson -- administered a beating. A brutal beating. Jim forced himself to look beyond the pain in his friend's eyes and examine the shots for any clue that might lead him to his Guide.
Wherever the younger man was, it was dark, maybe a high ceiling room or a warehouse. He examined the prints themselves and noted their grainy quality.
Shot with a high intensity strobe, probably on a timer... blacklight filter... his mind ranged over the details, storing everything for reference later.
At last he let himself look at the content, struggling to control his growing anger as he viewed the extent of the beating. One of the photos showed Blair flinching away from a blow in the ribs, his expression one of pure agony. Jim cringed himself when he realized that that was the same side that had been injure
d when his partner had been struck by the car.
Finally he looked at what he hoped had been the last shot, one where Blair lay motionless on a cement floor, blood coming from a cracked lip, his left eye nearly swollen shut, his bound hands raised awkwardly as if to protect his head or ward off another blow. Jim stared at the photo, letting the rage sweep through him, leaving him cold and hard.
The ringing of his cell phone brought him back to the present.
"Ellison."
"Find the present I left for you?"
"I found it," Jim answered tersely.
"You know, you used to have better taste in partners," Dirkson went on. "I've gotta tell you Jim-bo, this kid's not much on resilience. He never would have made it in our business. Guess they're scraping the bottom of the barrel for cops these days."
"He's not a cop. He's a civilian. Civilian's were always non- combatants, remember?"
"My game, my rules," Dirkson answered with a sneer.
"How do I know he's even still alive?"
"Because I say he is."
"Not good enough," Jim pressed. "I want to talk to him."
"He's not really much of a conversationalist," Dirkson replied. "He didn't have much to say to me earlier, but maybe he'll take a moment to say a few words..." Dirkson's voice trailed off and Jim waited anxiously.
Blair felt himself jerked upright, Dirkson's hand clenched in his hair.
"Talk," Dirkson snarled. "Talk to him!"
Blair strained to draw breath into his laboring lungs, but he couldn't form the words he wanted to say. He'd heard Dirkson's side of the conversation as he'd struggled to stay conscious. He knew that the man was using him to get at Jim. And he knew what Dirkson had planned if that happened.
Jim picked up on the rattling gasp on the other end. He knew immediately that Blair was in severe pain and from the rasping sound as he struggled to breathe, he also realized that the young man's time might be shorter that even Dirkson's deadline.
A punctured lung? Jim guessed quickly, putting together the image of Blair wincing away from a blow to his side with what he was hearing.
"Sandburg, is that you?" he asked softly. "Talk to me, buddy..."
"Jim..."
"Easy, Chief. Just hang on a little longer. I'm coming to join the party."
"No... it's... a trap..." Blair managed to blurt out.
There was a broken, agonized cry from the younger man and Dirkson was suddenly back on the line. "I told you he's not much for conversation."
"Let him go, Dirkson. You want something with me, name the time and place. Just leave him out of it. You've already made your point," Jim responded, his eyes flickering to the photos again.
"You don't discard your ace if you're going to win the game," Dirkson murmured. "And you know I always play to win. Now here are the new rules... You want him, you come get him. 2234 Warehouse Drive, nine o'clock. Don't come early. Don't bring any friends. Otherwise the penalty will be a gunshot to the side of his head."
"I want him released when I get there," Jim demanded.
"Jim-bo, it's not that easy," Dirkson sneered. "You must be getting soft. I said you come and get him. That's how it's played, remember? You walk into the maze and find the way through to the prize at the end."
"All right., I'll be there. You make sure he's still alive by then."
"You just follow the rules, Jim-bo. I'll be waiting..."
There was a sharp click on the line and the buzzing of the dial tone. Slowly, Jim closed the phone, placing it on the counter. He stared down at the photos, the sound of Blair's ragged breathing in his mind. The rage he'd felt earlier returned and he felt himself growing colder. Again, it was as though he'd stepped backward in time, returning to the jungle, all the old feelings and habits coming back to roost. An icy wind swept through him and he saw himself in Incacha's hut, shivering with the aftereffects of shock and the injuries he received in the crash.
He closed his eyes and he heard the Shaman's words echo in his mind.
"You seek a battle and it is already upon you... the battle for the balance... the battle between great good and great evil... a soldier you came and a soldier you will remain, but now focused on a greater purpose, your duty to the tribe... you will learn that evil cannot be overcome with vengeance or anger, but with compassion and strength of belief... see now beyond what others see... hear what others cannot... taste the joys of humanity... sift through the sands of despair and find trust... find truth..."
The icy hold of the past released its grip and Jim shivered. He opened his eyes, drew a deep, steadying breath and reached for the phone, punching in a familiar number.
"Simon... it's Jim... I need your help."
He met Simon at the door and gestured for the older man to come inside.
"This was waiting when I got here," he said softly, handing off the package of photos.
Simon drew in a sharp breath as he sorted through the pictures. His expresion grew grim as he studied them, eyeing the last one for a long time before he raised his eyes to meet Jim's.
"I'm surprised you called me."
"Nine years ago I wouldn't have. As it was, I almost didn't," Jim replied. "When I saw those... if Dirkson had been here..."
He sighed softly, shaking his head.
"It was close... the past... what I once was. Incacha said that you always carry your past with you. Maybe Dirkson and I aren't so different after all."
"Jim, what you felt doesn't make you a killer. It makes you human."
"I don't know Simon," he responded softly, the pain evident in his voice. "There was a time in my life where I might have looked at this situation, decided that the personal risk was too great and walked away, writing Blair off as just another casualty of war."
"You? Walk away? From something like this?" Simon asked incredulously, snapping the envelope of photos down on the counter in anger. "I don't buy it. You couldn't. And don't give me that garbage about you and Dirkson being the same. I've watched you put yourself in the line of fire too many times to buy into that."
Simon glared at the detective, hoping that anger would push Jim beyond the doubts that assailed him. For a moment he wondered again at his friend's past, then thrust the thought away. The past was the past and the Jim Ellison he knew was a good cop. And a good man.
He saw Jim's eyes flicker back to the photos, relieved when Jim straightened and the haunted look left the Sentinel's eyes.
"Now, you said you needed my help," Simon said evenly. "What can I do?"
Jim reached over to the counter and picked up a piece of paper. "I need some supplies. Can you get these without anyone asking a lot of questions?"
Simon's eyes widened a bit at some of the items, but he merely nodded. "I'll have to take care of some of this myself. Taggert can handle the rest. It's his specialty anyway."
He saw Jim about to protest and cut him off.
"Taggert owes Sandburg for that help he gave him on those church bombings. Don't worry. He'll keep it quiet." Simon folded the list and placed it in his pocket. "What else?"
Jim stared at him uneasily for a moment, fighting against his own instinct to handle things himself. That was his old way. He'd changed from the arro gant,lone-wolf that he'd been. And this man had been the reason for a part of that change. He and Blair. Jim had learned to trust and depend on others because of them. He'd learned the true value of working as a team. And that was what was going to save Blair's life. Not his forcing his way in alone like some avenging angel.
"I need some backup," Jim said quietly. "Dirkson gave me a time and place. 9:00 tonight, an address in the warehouse district."
"You think he's there now?" asked Simon, glancing at his watch and doing a quick calculation -- they had seven hours.
"Probably," Jim answered, gesturing toward the photos. "These look like they might have been taken in a warehouse. There's a cement floor and there's no reflective bounce on the flash. The ceilings have to be pretty high."
"I can hav
e a SWAT team on site in less than an hour..."
"No," Jim objected, cutting him off. "It's his game, and I know how he'll play it. He's going to have the place rigged. If we go storming in there, it's not just Sandburg who's likely to die. The only real chance we have is to play this by his rules. I intend to do that, but at the same time I'm going to put our own game into play."
Simon looked at him carefully, then nodded. "Let's hear your plan."
"First we need to do some air surveillance. With some very special equipment," Jim explained. "WKRO does a traffic flyby over that area every hour. If we can get them to alter their flight plan just slightly, we can overfly the building with a heat seeker."
"What good will that do us?" Simon asked.
"From a comment that Dirkson made, I figure he's going to run me through some kind of a maze once I'm inside. The heat seeker will give us some idea of what part of the building he's keeping Sandburg in. That'll give me an advantage and maybe a way to ruin his plans."
"You mean us," Simon corrected him. "You said you wanted backup."
"I do," Jim said softly, meeting Simon's gaze evenly. "But it's his rules, remember? I have to show up alone. If not, he'll kill Blair before we can make it six feet inside the door. Once I'm inside, our game goes into effect. Ten minutes after I go in, you bring in the SWAT teams to seal off the area. If this goes down the wrong way, I want to know that you're out there ready to scoop him up when he leaves."
"What makes you think ten minutes is enough?"
"Because he's arrogant. Once I'm inside his game is in play -- he'll have me where he wants me. He'll figure to finish me and Sandburg off and then thumb his nose at you as he slips away."
"What if we come in behind you? We're not going to do you much good sitting around outside waiting to see who walks out the door."
"Simon, you asked me before how good he was. His specialty was explosives. He's going to have that place rigged with traps that'll be hard for even me to find. And I won't have time to disarm them all."
"What about a wire?" Simon countered, uneasy with the idea, yet knowing that Jim was probably reading the situation correctly.