Disjointed dreams, fractured memories invaded Blair's mind. He was being bathed, next time he woke it was quiet and peaceful; yet impressions of fear and anxiety lingered. He knew enough to realize something very bad was happening.

His first truly conscious moment found him warm and comfortable. He was back in the large bed, under the down comforter. His body felt funny, any movement seemed hard to accomplish and he moaned in frustration.

"Shhh," a woman's voice told him gently.

"Mom," Blair whispered, turning toward the sound, unable to focus.

A soft hand stroked his hair back from his eyes. Blair sighed and relaxed into the pillow.

The next time he woke, his stomach was empty and complaining - loudly. Blair moved his arms carefully; glad to see a little cooperation. He felt as if he was waking up from surgery or something.

Shit. That doctor had given him a shot.

Jim!

Lifting his head just enough to look around the room, he saw he was back in his room. The door opened and Senator Livingston entered, moving quickly to stand by Blair's bed.

"How are you, son?"

Blair wanted to laugh. He was shitty. He was pissed. And he wanted to know about Jim. That's how he was. With careful determination, Blair forced himself to look calm and in control. After all, acting like a wild animal had earned him a shot in the butt.

"Senator, something's happened to Jim," Blair said, sounding somewhat froggy from too much sleep, but calm. "Your man? Guillermo? He chased me, with two other men. They had guns and they wouldn't let me leave. I can't find Jim. That doctor drugged me, he wouldn't listen to me." There, that sounded rational, a little angry maybe, but he had good reason.

"I spoke to Guillermo, Blair," the senator assured him gently. "He was worried about you. The rain had caused a lot of flashfloods. He was afraid you'd become injured. The desert can be very dangerous."

Blair pushed up from the pillow, leaning his shoulders against the headboard. This conversation wasn't going very well. "He's lying to you, it wasn't like that. I'm telling you, man, something is wrong. Make him tell you were Jim is."

The senator glanced over his shoulder. The doctor walked into the room. Blair slid further back, pressing into the carved wood. He glanced down at the bald man's hands; at least he wasn't carrying another syringe this time. Blair rushed to explain the rest.

"We found chains in the barn," Blair explained in a rushed voice. Damn, he was getting too excited. He forced himself to go slower. "We think Guillermo is helping illegal aliens into the country. He must have taken Jim."

The senator ran a weary hand through his thick hair. He turned to the man at the door. "Go get Guillermo."

Yes! Blair felt like crowing, he was finally getting somewhere.

When Guillermo came into the room, the senator turned angrily on the man. "You pendejo! You assured me everything was taken care of. He tells me they found a set of cuffs in the barn."

"Senor Livingston, there is no way anyone could have known," Guillermo pleaded, his hands opening wide for understanding. "One set of chains, that is all. Nothing else."

"At least tell me you followed my orders and took care of Ellison," Livingston demanded.

"Si, they will take him out into the desert. No one will find him," Guillermo assured his boss.

Blair's vision dimmed, the room tilted like a ship being tossed around in rough seas. He had to catch himself to keep from falling over. What was Livingston saying? He knew? He's known all along what was going on out here? He was the one responsible for Jim's disappearance?

"W-what did you say?" Blair whispered in shock. "What are you planning to do with Jim?"

Livingston turned back to Blair, his face relaxing into a sympathetic expression. "Blair, you don't have to worry about anything. You can just concentrate on getting better."

"Better?" Blair squeaked in surprise. "What do you mean better? Are you nuts? What the hell is happening around here?" Tossing back the bedding, he saw his knee was swollen and red. It didn't matter. He was leaving.

"Doctor, Blair's getting too excited," Livingston said, placing a firm hand on Blair's shoulder.

"Get your hands off me!" Blair exclaimed as he was pushed back. The doctor appeared over the senator's shoulder, hypo in hand. "No! Not again!"

They flipped him face down on the bed, hands holding his arms and legs still. His boxers were lowered and the sharp bite of the needle stung his other butt cheek.

Shit, he was going to end up a pincushion.

"Just something to keep you relaxed, Blair," the doctor's voice repeated again.

Blair ground his teeth in frustration, too pissed off to reply. He had screwed up big time; believing Livingston didn't know what was going on. What had he been thinking? His best chance would have been to play along and wait for a chance to escape. Now they knew about the chains. He had blurted out everything.

"Let's move the schedule up. How long before we get that paperwork signed by the judge?" Livingston asked.

"I'll call him today. He's already agreed the circumstances here are highly unusual. I should be able to convince him that your son is a danger to himself. As his only living parent, you'll have his power of attorney by the end of the week," the doctor replied.

Still pinned down, Blair curled his hands into fists. What were they saying? Power of Attorney? Was the senator having him committed or something?

"Will he want to see Blair?"

"Probably not, he should trust my diagnosis."

"Good, I want him ready in the morning. I'm moving him to the house in Guatemala."

The drug spread throughout his body like a water spot blurring words printed in fresh ink on paper. It was a good thing Blair had an empty stomach, suddenly he was very nauseous.

It was hard to know for sure, but Jim thought one of the links was beginning to open up. His shoulders burned with fatigue. He'd had to stop several times due to the cramping in his upper arms and back.

He watched the scenery pass as he worked. They followed a faint road, barely two tracks in the dirt. Pox Face and The Kid were talking in Spanish. Jim had tuned them out after realizing they were having a lengthy discussion on who was the better driver. The kid wanted a turn at the wheel, but the older man wasn't ready to let him. Jim didn't blame him. The rain had turned the desert into a treacherous obstacle course with mud slides and creek beds filled with fast moving water. They had been driving parallel to one such creek for several minutes now. Pox Face hadn't liked any of the places the kid had wanted to try driving through.

Just as the kid had spotted another likely place to cross, the link attaching the metal cuffs broke. Jim checked the front of the Chevy. They weren't looking back. He carefully moved his hands forward, fighting to keep from moaning as pins and needles attacked his arms and shoulders. He cursed his numb fingers as he began to work at untying the rope from his ankles.

Pox Face had finally agreed to the river fording and the Chevy slowly drove into the stream. Water hit the front wheels with enough force to slide the large four-wheel-drive vehicle a few inches to the side.

Jim hurried to untie the knots. This was perfect timing. Both men were anxiously watching the river. All their concentration stayed on the brown muddy water that swirled around them, tickling the undercarriage of the vehicle.

Just as the kid cried out in alarm when the vehicle jolted sideways for several feet, Jim finished the last knot. Curling like a tight spring, he leapt across the back seat and enveloped Pox Face's head in both arms. Without hesitation he killed him with a deft move, breaking his neck. Each man carried serious firepower. They were taking him out into the desert to kill. It was neither the time nor the place to read them their rights and place them under arrest. He had to take them out, permanently removing the threat and go back for Blair.

The kid in the passenger seat screamed with fear, suddenly face to face with his assassin. Jim experienced a brief moment of doubt; after all, the kid was Blair's age. But, before Jim could offer him a chance to exit the vehicle and live, the younger man reached for the gun tucked within his waistband.

Jim reacted to the threat without thinking. Still draped over the seats, he drove the heel of his palm into his would-be killer's nose in an upward motion, driving the cartilage back into his brain with a wet, knuckle-popping sound. The kid gurgled a death chant and slipped sideways against the door, eyes remaining open.

Fumbling for the driver's door latch, Jim open the door, shoved Pox Face out and quickly swung his long body into the driver's seat. The Chevy was still moving forward. Jim slammed the vehicle into reverse. After all four tires safely reached the muddy shore; he leaned over and got rid of his dead passenger in the same manner; but not before helping himself to the handgun still tucked in his jeans. He stomped the gas and the Chevy leapt backwards. With a sharp twist of the wheel, it completed a sloppy 180 degree turn and headed back across the desert.

Hands were lifting him.

"No more."

"Now, Blair," Livingston soothed as he helped Blair sit up in bed. "Don't get excited."

Sure his head had somehow managed to float free from his body; Blair captured his own ears and held on. He had never felt so unwired. This must be what it felt like to be truly and seriously stoned. The senator and Guillermo helped him totter down the two steps from the bed. His knee still hurt with a distant throbbing, but it supported his weight.

"Let's get you dressed," Livingston said. "Then we'll get some supper."

Blair wasn't even sure he remembered how to eat. They dressed him in sweats and put a pair of soft slippers on his feet. The journey down the hallway to the dining room seemed to take weeks. Blair stopped several times, leaning heavily against the rough wall before continuing. Livingston was patient; giving him time to recharge until they finally reached the table where Blair slowly lowered himself into a seat with a sigh.

A bowl of clear broth appeared on the table. Turning Blair's hand palm up, Livingston gently placed a spoon in his grasp. Blair closed his eyes. Yeah, he was hungry and he desperately wanted food, but this scene was too bizarre to deal with.

"Why are you doing this?" Blair asked, careful to keep out any hint of anger. He didn't think he could take another shot.

"Because you're hungry, son."

Figures this guy wouldn't get the question right.

"No," Blair said slowly. "Why keep me here? Why keep me drugged? Why take Jim away? Where is he?" Blair lifted his gaze from the soup, focusing on the older man's face. "Why are you doing this?"

Livingston returned a sad smile. "I know you're unhappy, Blair. You have to trust me. I'm doing what's best for you. You didn't ask to be kidnapped, but you were still denied the type of life you deserve. All I want is for you to be the person you were meant to be."

Okay, that made no sense. It sounded like a stupid Army recruiting commercial. Before he allowed his anger to surface, he remembered that damn syringe. He couldn't afford to have that doctor from hell reappear with another dose of `instant sleep.'

"I have an anthropology degree, with several minors. I'm living exactly the way I want to live," Blair explained rationally, not able to hold back as a twinge of sarcasm struck. "Sorry if you wanted something else."

"Blair, you're my son." The older man leaned forward to squeeze Blair's forearm with affection. "You were meant for greater things."

Okay, it was getting harder and harder to stay calm. Blair went back to studying the soup. This was getting him nowhere, time to change the subject. "Where's Jim?"

"I'm really sorry about your friend."

"He's a cop, man. People are going to miss him." Blair was already missing him. The smooth handle of the spoon pressed into his palm. What he wouldn't give for a weapon right now, anything. Hell, Jim probably knew a hundred ways to kill a man with a soup spoon.

Please, Jim. Don't be dead.

"Eat your soup," Livingston ordered firmly.

Blair ate. He wasn't going to give this man another reason to drug him. He would bide his time and look for an opening. He might not understand where the senator was coming from, but he had a feeling the man was not all there.

Soup was followed up with a warm tortilla topped with melted cheese. Blair rolled it up and took a big bite. After finishing the simple meal and drinking a tall glass of water, he was allowed to return to his room.

"Get some sleep," Livingston said. "We're flying out in the morning."

"Where?" Blair noticed it was dark outside the window, too dark. He remembered seeing shutters that framed the windows on the outside of the house. Obviously they were more than mere decoration. They were as fine as any set of bars. Blair would need a chainsaw to cut through them.

"I have another house in Guatemala. We're going to live there for a while," the senator answered. "Now, there's a guard outside your door. Just knock if you need to use the bathroom." He raised a finger. "Don't try anything foolish, either. I don't want to sedate you again, it's not healthy."

Blair turned away, not trusting himself. Shit, as if any of this was for his health! This man was freaking nuts!

Jim cursed the mud. The rain fell without mercy, turning the surrounding desert into miles of viscid goo. Only his superior vision kept him on track. The dirt road was gone, camouflaged by the puddles and small landslides. Instant gullies formed everywhere, long forgotten waterways that only appeared when the desert was subjected to this much rainfall in a short period of time.

Jim still had a long way to drive. Forced detours had screwed up his plans. If he'd seen a single glimpse of a ranch or anyplace with a phone, he would have stopped and called for backup. The land was beautiful, and remote.

On the plus side, the storm would increase his odds of being able to slip back into Livingston's hacienda with ease. No one would patrol in this kind of weather.

The earth moved.

"Shit!"

Jim had known it was risky to follow close to a raging creek, swollen with latte-colored muddy water, but it had been his best route. Without warning, half the road collapsed. The rear of the Chevy dipped, sliding sideways. Jim gunned the engine, but gravity was the final law. Dirt and vehicle fell into the water with a splash.

Jim had a brief moment of shock, gripping the steering wheel as the Chevy bobbed in the water, spinning back and forth like an out of balance load of wash.

He shook off his surprise, time to switch to plan `B'.

He slammed his shoulder against the door, but it wouldn't budge. The force of the water was too great. The Chevy's motor stalled and died. Jim punched the button for the window. The glass lowered a few inches before the electrical system shorted out.

Okay, plan `C'.

Knowing how hard it was to kick out a side window, Jim picked up the gun from the passenger seat and dialed down his hearing. The safety glass shattered into thousands of tiny squares as the bullet broke through. Jim took a second to tuck the gun securely into his waistband before climbing up on the seat. The car sank into the current as gallons of water poured into the passenger compartment. Broken cactus, sections of brush and golf ball-sized stones smacked Jim's body as he angled it through the opening. He hissed in pain. Sections of glass still clung to the edges of metal, catching and tearing his skin. He dialed down his sense of touch and leaped into the current. He nearly gagged as he spat out brown water, another dial to adjust.

Bobbing to the surface, Jim rolled onto his back and lifted both legs. He pointed his feet downstream. The Chevy floated off to the side. Jim was lighter and the current quickly gave him the lead. Something underwater must have snagged one of the Chevy's tires, because the entire vehicle flipped over. The rear bumper came within inches of smashing into Jim's shoulder.

Nature's deadly reminder to keep his feet up.

Silent water rushed him along. If the situation had not been so serious, the experience would have given him a thrill. With his dials for hearing, touch and taste on zero the ride didn't seem real. Jim quickly adjusted everything back to normal. He needed every bit of input to stay alive.

There was one benefit from driving along the river. Jim was familiar with its course. He knew the desert floor was about to drop in elevation somewhere ahead. The drop had formed a narrow but extremely powerful waterfall. He'd never survive it.

A couple hundred feet down the river bank, Jim spotted possible salvation in the form of a sturdy looking shrub growing close to the river's edge. He had to move closer to the river's bank before he could try for it. The river had created a small vertical bank on either side, about three feet high.

Jim turned away from the direction he wanted to go and started kicking. Careful to keep his feet up, he maintained a forty-five degree angle from the flow of water. The shrub was coming up. Jim braced himself as the current caused him to hit the bank hard. The force of water worked him like a scrub brush as he scrambled to find purchase in the soft bank only to knock off chunks of dirt and stone as he passed.

The shrub was directly overhead and Jim reached up, catching a low branch with his left hand.

It snapped off.

One last attempt at the overhanging plant proved fruitless. He had missed it. He was going to die in that waterfall. No way would the hydraulics release him once he became caught up in the rolling action at the base of the drop off.

Before Jim could form whatever `plan' designator he was up to, something brushed his shoulder and he instinctively grabbed for it.

And caught it.

The sudden halt caused the water to sluice over his head, stealing all access to air. Still, he refused to let go. He had caught a root, exposed by the receding bank, growing just under the current water level. Hand over hand, Jim towed himself to soggy but firm land. Draped over the edge of the bank, Jim reached out and caught the base of the lifesaving bush and pulled himself out of the creek. The current released him reluctantly until he was out of its murky path. He didn't rest. He wanted as much distance between himself and that water as he could manage. Crawling on all fours, Jim moved as fast as he could through the mud, automatically dialing up his sense of touch. He slogged forward, feeling the ground becoming more and more stable.

Finally satisfied he wouldn't fall victim to another landslide, Jim fell face first into the mud and rejoiced in the fact he was alive.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. Besides, it wasn't so much sleep as exhaustion. The result was the same, Jim realized, angry for being so stupid.

Four men surrounded Jim, one old man wore an oiled canvas duster, another had a muddy colored parka, and the last two had plastic garbage bags for ponchos, anything to keep the rain off their sun-browned skin.

Jim's gun was still tucked into his waistband and he considered the wisdom of making a move to draw. Catching sight of the blunt end of a double barreled shotgun poking out from under a rain parka, he opted to wait.

"What are you doing out here?" the man with the duster asked, displaying missing teeth and a heavy Mexican accent.

Jim stayed perfectly still, as he lay under the scant protection of a scraggly looking bush. "My car went into the river."

A few of the men looked back at the brown water, nodding wisely at each other. The leader of the group seemed to be the old man who had spoken. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he eyed Jim.

"Anyone else with you, senor?"

Jim shook his head.

"You know what I think?" the old man asked. "I think you are one of the coyotes who promises to take my people to Florida to pick your damn fruit. I think we will give you back to the river."

"No, you're wrong. I'm a police officer," Jim answered quickly. He had a feeling these men did not work for Livingston. "Do you know of the Livingston hacienda?"

That got a reaction. Shotguns and an old hunting rifle appeared out from under coats and pointed at him threateningly.

"I'll take that as a yes," Jim said with a frown. "My friend is being held there, he's a prisoner. I was on my way back to him when my car went into the water."

The old man tilted his head. "Where are your police amigos, senor? Why are you out here alone?"

"Livingston tricked us. He ordered me brought out here to be killed, I escaped." Jim moved his right hand closer to his belly. He'd have to roll to draw his gun. A stupid move would bring down a hail of bullets, but he wanted to be ready just in case he saw a chance. He needed to get back to Blair.

The rain continued to fall. None of the men seemed to notice. They waited for whatever decision their apparent leader was contemplating. Jim wondered if he was going to end up going over that waterfall after all.

"We'll make the river wait a few more hours, senor. You will come with us."

When Jim stood, they found his gun and took it. Marching him over a brown hill, Jim saw a truck waiting. He was prodded into the open bed of the old Ford. They didn't point their guns directly at him anymore, but he knew he was a prisoner just the same.

Jim wearily dropped to sit with his back against the cab of the truck. The old truck bounced across the desert floor, winding around brush and hills. The two men in the back had to hold on to keep from being thrown out. Jim braced himself the best he could. His body felt like Tyson's punching bag.

The smell of old horse manure and moldy straw was strong enough to bring tears to his eyes. Furious with the situation, he wrenched down his sense of smell. He pondered what the old man had accused him of being.

Coyote.

He'd first heard the term while working a joint operation with the FBI and INS. It was given to the men and women that promise illegal immigrants good jobs in the US and better living conditions. The unfortunate person that ended up in the hands of a coyote would find what little money they had taken away. They were sold off, becoming part of a 21st-century slave operation.

Realization flooded through Jim. Livingston was involved in trafficking humans.

The sun was just setting when the Ford jerked to a stop next to a chicken coop built from lumber torn from old pallets. A low mud house with a red roof made of sun-baked clay tiles occupied the crown of a gentle rise in the dirt yard. Two dogs bounded out from under a lean-to within a small fenced yard that housed a mule and a milking goat. The dogs met the men with happy barks, but froze with rigid hackles when Jim climbed down.

The leader slapped his battered hat against his leg and sent them scampering away. Jim was herded by gunpoint toward the house. Only the old man, Jim and one armed man entered. The rest of the men fell back, either the house was too small or they had other things to do.

Jim felt like ducking his head as he entered. The doorway was low, clearing his short hair by an inch. Inside, the floor was rough wood, the walls whitewashed mud and the furniture old and handmade. The old man called out a greeting. Jim could hear people moving around somewhere to the left, a kitchen perhaps.

A man entered the room. He was short, with a heavy build from a life familiar to hard manual labor. He looked about mid-forty with black hair that hung over his ears, but the top of his head was bald and tan. He was followed by a woman wearing a brown sweater and a long skirt that swirled around her ankles.

She looked familiar.

"Jim!" She rushed toward him. Her hair had been dyed a darker color, more like a rich chocolate brown. It was shorter, cut in a pixie style that framed her face. She clasped his hands, her eyes demanding and scared. "Where is he?"

"Hello, Naomi," Jim said carefully. After all, he was surrounded by her friends, her armed friends. A fraction of his anger still managed to slip in. "Or should I call you Maria?"

She shook her head, dismissing his anger. "Where's Blair? Please tell me he's not with that pig," she said. The bitterness was surprising, like finding a big brown section of rot on a ripe, red apple.

Jim knew this woman was a kidnapper, a criminal in most cultures, but he also knew Livingston had his own skeletons. Which crime was greater? The consequences to his partner favored the woman before him. He forced himself to relax.

"Yeah, I'm afraid he is."

"Shit! That piece of filth!" she spat out with fervor, turning toward the man at her side. "Jason, we've got to move now! We can't wait any longer."

"Naomi." Jim took her arm, then dropped it seeing the reaction it caused from the other men in the room. "Talk to me, what's going on? What are you planning? I heard Livingston talking, just before he gave orders to have me killed. He plans on flying Blair out of the country."

"I knew it," she moaned. "Which house? Where?"

"Guatemala."

The man at her side, Jason, raised a hand. "Let's just take a minute here. We need any information you can provide. I didn't want to make a move without the others, but if we have to, we will."

"Others?" Jim asked. "Who? Who are you guys?"

Jason gave Jim a feral smile. "Call us the local pest control. Naomi and I go way back. We've been waiting to catch Livingston red handed for over twenty years."

"First we get Blair, Jason," Naomi interrupted in a cold, steel-like voice.

Jim was seeing a whole new side of the woman.

"Right, of course," Jason said soothingly.

Jim didn't like the way he answered. This was a man with a hidden agenda. Still, he had armed men and they sounded like they were planning on making a move against Livingston.

"Why not call the cops? I can testify against him," Jim said.

Jason shook his head. "His word will be believed over yours in this county. He'll run before we find an honest cop to listen to us. We need to get in, remove Naomi's son before we do anything."

"He's not Naomi's," Jim blurted out, pinning Naomi with an accusing glare. "Blair knows. You can't expect things to go back to they way they were."

Naomi met Jim's judgment without flinching. "He is my son, Jim. Why do you think I took him?"

Before Jim could answer, Jason clapped his hands loudly. "Right, let's not get into this right now." He looked at Jim's guards. "Louis, gather the men and have them review the plans for the hacienda. Tell them to get ready."

After the men left, Jason gently took Naomi's hand. She was still glowering up at Jim. "Naomi, take Jim back, clean and feed him. See about those cuts on his arms. I'll be about an hour with the men, then I'll join you two. We need everything you can tell us, Jim. Can we count on your help?"

Caught between going alone or aiding and abetting known criminals, Jim nodded. He would take the best option for Blair. "I'm in. Right now my only concern is getting my partner out safely."

Carmen.

She held a finger to her lips and drew his covers down. Blair still wore his sweats. She held out his tennis shoes, which he quickly slipped on his feet. He felt more alert. The drug must have finally finished poisoning his body.

They were alone in the room. Going to the door, Carmen pulled it open and checked the hallway before Blair could stop her.

Nothing happened.

Blair followed her into the hallway. The guard sat in a chair, his body slumped down, looking ready to topple over. Not giving Blair time to dwell on the guard, Carmen pulled him along the hallway, taking turns in the darkened house like she had Jim's gift for vision. Blair wondered how long the woman had lived here.

They arrived at a side door. She had a sturdy looking coat and canvas bag with a long strap ready on the floor. Blair let her help him with the coat. She lifted the strap over his head and arranged the bag to rest under his arm.

"Why?" Blair whispered.

"Shhh," she ordered, taking his face in soft hands and giving his cheek a kiss. "Vete." She pushed him toward the door.

"Wait," Blair pleaded softly. "Jim? Where did they take Jim?"

"Sur." The door was open now, the night air was heavy with the scent of the recent storm.

"South?"

"Si." She pushed him again.

Blair snagged her arm. "Come with me, please. You'll be in trouble for this."

She shook her head firmly, the dim light in the hallway catching the tears in her eyes. "Vete," she repeated firmly and closed the door in Blair's face.

Pulling the borrowed coat tightly around his neck, he ran toward the deep shadows. The ground was wet with deep puddles that soaked Blair's shoes in seconds. The cold traveled directly to his core, sharpening his thoughts. She said Jim was taken south somewhere. Blair's sense of direction was not his strongest suit, but he thought he knew which way that might be. How long would he have before his absence was noticed?

He paused behind a stone wall, dropping to a crouch. How was he going to get by the patrols Jim had talked about? The best chance would be to stay in the cover of the trees to the north, but then he'd have to double back. That was going to take forever.

The horses.

If he could get one of the horses, he could eat up the ground. Maybe he could even catch up with Jim. There was no question in Blair's mind as to Jim being dead or alive. He was alive. This was the man that had been tossed off a moving train and come back fighting.

Blair smiled. Maybe this was going to work after all.

Guiding a horse without the benefit of a harness or bridle was tricky.

Blair leaned forward, careful of his bad knee, and gently pushed the horse's upper neck to the left. The horse snorted with mild defiance and continued to go to the right.

Damn.

"Listen to me, friend," Blair whispered. "I know you think it's time to head for the barn, but I'm not going back there." He patted the muscular neck and tried again. The animal responded.

The heat from the large beast's back felt like heaven and Blair eagerly huddled close. Carmen had put an apple in his canvas bag, which had gone a long way to forge a temporary bond between man and horse. It was nearly dawn now. The storm had tapered off about an hour ago, giving the land time to soak up the water and return to its normally arid condition.

Blair shivered, longing for the sun and the promise of being dry again. The sky to the left glowed with a faint, pale light. Blair breathed a quiet prayer of thanksgiving; at least he'd guessed correctly and was now heading south. In fact, he had much to be thankful for. Carmen had helped him to escape. He had slipped by the senator's guards without being captured. Was it too much to hope for to find Jim alive and in one piece?

Without prompting, Blair's horse made a tight loop and headed north again.

"Okay, okay. I get the picture." Gently swinging his leg over, Blair slid off the animal and said a silent goodbye to all that glorious body heat. It was time to go the rest of the way on foot. How much longer till he met a road or something? He needed to contact the police.

Limping as he walked, Blair could see enough of the terrain to keep from tripping. The biggest obstacles were the runoffs from the storm. The smaller creeks had been easy for the horse to cross. One of the deeper rivers had looked too scary to try. Thankfully the river's path turned west and Blair didn't have to cross. Now that he was on foot, he hoped he wouldn't have to swim.

When the sun lifted over the horizon, Blair's limp was worse. On the plus side, the exercise had warmed him up. Other than the pain in his knee, the only other physical complaint was being thirsty. It was time for a break. He found a low rock and made himself comfortable. This was the first opportunity to explore the contents of the bag. Blair pulled out its contents eagerly: a water bottle was first and he took a long drink, a baggie of rolled up tortillas filled with cooked chicken and cheese, another baggie had a mix of dried fruit. Blair found a long object in the bottom of the bag, wrapped in a dishtowel. Quickly stuffing his mouth with a bite of filled tortilla, Blair unwrapped the towel and found a long hunting knife in a leather sheath.

He pulled the knife out and examined the edge as he chewed. It was sharp. The knife looked old, the handle handmade from an antler. Blair returned the knife to its case and tucked it into one of the large, roomy pockets on his borrowed coat. He quickly finished off the tortilla and drank more water before returning all the contents to the canvas bag. As much as he longed to rest his knee, he had places to go, a sentinel to find and stories to tell the police.

As if the knee wasn't enough to deal with, Blair realized he was getting blisters. He vowed the next time he was escaping from demented state senators he would take the time to wear socks.

Later, when the sun was fully over the horizon, Blair saw a flash of light in the distance. Something was moving across the desert ahead. It was catching the morning sunlight and reflecting it back. Another flash of light ahead gave Blair hope. It had to be cars. He had reached a road. Breaking into a jog that shot hot spikes up his knee, Blair stumbled, almost falling face first into the dirt.

"Okay, man. Just take it one step at a time," he admonished himself. "You'll get there." Besides, the road was still miles away. He needed to pace himself. At least walking was easier now. The warm temperatures were quickly taking the puddles around him to task, drying them up in the heat of a new day. He hadn't had to wade across any streams in a while now.

It helped to know that each step he took brought him closer to help. He would call the State Police first, then Simon. Just the thought that soon he would be hearing the captain's voice caused him to pick up the pace. Simon would talk to the local cops and do his Mojo. They'd organize a search party for Jim, unless Jim had already escaped. Maybe Jim had already called Simon.

Caught up in his daydream, Blair headed for the distant road with a slight bounce in his limp.

Returning to the hacienda had been much harder than leaving. Jim and Naomi lay side-by-side next to a stack of fence posts, just outside the main compound area. Naomi had changed to brown jeans and a long sleeve shirt. She'd found similar clothes for Jim to wear that morning.

They had planned long into the night. Jim had drawn maps, given the location of the guards he had seen on patrol while riding the horses. He and Naomi and gone over the diagram of the main house. Most of it was accurate, but Jim made a few changes, possibly remodels done after Naomi had been there.

Naomi.

She had given Jim much to think about. He had listened carefully while she shared her side of the story with him last night. Her heart rate had held true, she hadn't been lying. He no longer wanted to slap a pair of cuffs on her wrists, but he knew she faced serious problems with the federal government.

When they had started out a little past midnight for Livingston's home, they hoped to reach the hacienda at daybreak. If they couldn't penetrate the security around the house, they would ambush the senator on the way to the airport.

Either way, Jim was getting Blair out of there.

But they had met with more patrolling guards than expected. The group had broken into three separate teams, each with the directive to safely get past the ATVs and men on horseback. Jason had led a group, the old man had led another and Naomi had chosen to stay with Jim. Now Jim used his enhanced vision and hearing to listen in on the activity below he learned what had happened.

"I think Blair got away," Jim said quietly.

"How can you be sure?" Naomi asked in disbelief.

Jim could say he knew because he was her son's holy grail, but he didn't. "Look at the garage. All the cars are gone. Some of the horses are missing. They're out looking for him. That must be how we got in so easily."

She bit her lip, scouring the compound below with normal vision. "If that's true, what are we going to do now?"

Jim could hear a woman crying softly somewhere inside. He could hear Livingston screaming at her, she had helped Blair to escape. His hand tightened on the gun he held. Would the senator hurt her?

No, it sounded like she was being locked in her room. He was threatening her family, hurting her with her love for them rather than physically knocking her around. Jim hated the man even more than before. He hadn't thought it possible.

The first two cars didn't stop, but the third one did. Blair could barely stand by now. He'd been so anxious to reach the road; he pushed his knee to its limit and it was making him pay.

The elderly couple who had stopped had a cell phone with them. The flat terrain around them allowed the signal in. The man had called the emergency dispatcher while his wife had clucked at Blair's condition. She had insisted that Blair sit in the backseat of their old Impala to wait. The first deputy arrived within fifteen minutes. When the second car pulled up, the couple had left with wishes of good luck and admonishments to be more careful in the future.

Eager for the search for Jim to start, Blair told his story again for the second arriving officer. Sitting sideways in the back seat of the first patrol car, a blanket around his shoulders, he leaned wearily against the backrest while the first cop taped a chemical ice pack to his knee. Blair told his story calmly, leaning his head on the seat when it seemed too heavy for his neck. The cops were sympathetic and patient as he went over the facts, and the reason for his condition and midnight escape through the desert.

"Okay, son," the older deputy said. He had bars sewn on his long sleeves that must have given him rank over the other. "Just relax. We'll get this sorted out. Let's get you to my vehicle, I'll take you in."

Both officers took an arm and they supported him to the other car, guiding him to the back seat again. Blair made a face. He wanted to ride up front.

"You can stretch out," the older cop explained. His name tag read `Balch'. "Don't worry, it's clean."

They located a second blanket, folding it into a pillow and Blair found himself comfortably leaning on the far door, his bad leg stretched out. The car was still running. The heater was on. It was nice and warm.

"You okay?" Balch looked in, concern evident.

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I'm good, thanks."

"Okay, then. We're off." He closed the door.

Blair watched the two cops confer briefly together before Balch got in. He pulled off the gravel shoulder and soon their speed was near sixty on the straight away. Blair hugged the blanket closer, relishing the warmth, the comfort of the padded seat, the knowledge that his running was over.

The car swerved. "Sorry, don't like to run over the rattlers, even snakes have a right to survive. The rain really brings them out," Balch said making small talk "We sure got our share of it last twenty-four, even had a car swept away by a flashflood. We found one poor guy dead."

"Really? Does that happen a lot?"

"More during tourist season, but this guy was a local." Balch briefly turned to look at Blair through the metal grill between them. "In fact, he worked for your father."

A sick feeling in his gut stole some of the warmth. This guy knew Livingston's employees? Why was this not a good thing? Blair covertly felt for the door handle. As he expected, it didn't open from the inside. "Ah, that so?"

"The Senator is real worried about you, son," Balch said calmly.

"I told you," Blair insisted, dread flooded his bones. "He's dirty, man. He's smuggling illegal aliens. He kidnapped a cop!"

"Now, calm down," Balch ordered firmly. "I've known the man for years, all your life as a matter of fact. I was on the force for just over a year when you were kidnapped by that woman. I know you've had a hard time with all this, but the senator only wants the best for you."

"Oh god," Blair whispered. This was un-freaking-believable. Closing his mouth, his lips pressed together, jaw tight with anger; Blair dropped his chin and closed his eyes. Several minutes later the car slowed and turned.

Sure enough, Blair looked out and recognized the familiar sight of the guard shack. He was being returned to Livingston like a misrouted UPS package. Too tired to try and reason with his public servant chauffeur, Blair doubted the cop would believe anything he said. Livingston must have reported him as a halfwit runaway to the police. No wonder they looked so compassionate before. They thought he was a delusional idiot or something.

Livingston stood outside with folded arms, waiting in front of the house when the car stopped. Balch killed the engine and stepped out with a smile. Blair tuned out the greetings, the senator praising the fine job done, the modest comment in return about just doing his job.

He didn't give a shit.

Blair gloomily predicted his near future. Livingston would step up his security, keeping him under guard constantly, having his every move watched. Blair found it highly unlikely Carmen or anyone else would be able to help him now.

The far door opened, Livingston bent down and looked in. "Come out, Scott. You've taken up enough of this officer's valuable time." Reaching in, he snagged the canvas bag off the floor and passed it back to Guillermo.

Blair considered his options and found none, except to do as told. It rubbed him raw to give in. It simply wasn't his nature. He would rather go out swinging, but his knee was throbbing and he was too exhausted to come up with an alternate course of action. He needed to wait and be ready; perhaps once he was rested he would figure a way out again.

Moving gingerly, he slid down the seat. A heavy weight bumped his hip and he remembered the knife in his pocket. Would they search him? Maybe if he played his cards right, he'd get a chance to hide it in his room. Livingston's hand gripped his arm with enough force to bruise as the man pulled him up.

Eyeing Blair knee and the ice pack still wrapped around it, he frowned. "Did you re-injure it?" Livingston demanded harshly.

"Bite me," Blair muttered, wincing when the comment earned a rough shake by the arm. He caught the surprised look on Balch's face. "You're making a mistake," Blair insisted, locking gazes with the cop before being yanked towards the house. He raised his voice, his head turned to keep the eye contact as long as possible. "Call Captain Banks in Cascade, Washington! Simon Banks!"

Two men stood ready and Livingston passed Blair off before going back to speak with Balch. Blair could hear him explaining how difficult the last few days had been. In the iron hold of the senator's hired hands, Blair let his exhaustion replace the eleventh hour appeal for help. What was the point, anyway?

Taken to his room, Blair never had a chance to properly hide the knife. His two guards had been watching him too closely. Livingston joined them a few minutes later, his face red with anger. Blair caught the hard slap full in the face. He never saw it coming. Even opened handed, it sent him to the floor. The shock wore off before the stinging pain eased and Blair chuckled as he sat up.

The man's true nature was coming out into the light.

Livingston stood over him, his anger as readable as an intercity billboard. "I'm through being patient with you."

"Yeah?" Blair responded. "What took you so long? I've been fed up with you for a full day now."

Using Blair's hair as a convenient handle, Livingston levered Blair to an awkward kneeling position. He seemed to take pleasure in watching Blair bite his own lip as the pain from his injured knee and roots of his hair warred to see which hurt more.

Livingston leaned down until his face was nearly level with Blair's. "Two of my men died in a flashflood yesterday."

Blair grunted then gasped out another insolent response. "Like you really care." That cost him another shake, only by his hair this time.

"Thought you might like to know, Ellison was with them at the time," Livingston said in a saccharine voice, dripping with fake pity.

Blair's world grayed. "Y-you're lying."

This time Livingston chuckled. To Blair's added horror, he recognized the sound; he had inherited the senator's laugh. Livingston raised his hand high and Blair saw the second slap coming, harder than the first, exactly in the same spot. Livingston released his hold, letting Blair drop like a stone.

Warmth flooded down his upper lip, over his mouth and large red spots stained the rug under his face. Blair stayed still, conserving his energy. He could hear Livingston breathing hard above him. He knew the second before the hand returned, grabbing its fill of matted curls and hauling him up again. This time Blair pushed off the floor with both arms to take the strain off his scalp.

"Where is she?" Livingston demanded. He was standing straight this time, as if even bending over wasn't worth the effort.

Back on his knees again, Blair's head was forced back in a painful position so the senator could see his face. Blair couldn't stop his own hand from reaching back and gripping Livingston's wrist, just to try and relieve the pressure.

"Who?" Blair gasped, choking on his own blood.

"The bitch that took you!" Livingston shouted. "Tell me where she is!"

"I don't know."

"You're lying. You called her, didn't you?"

"No." Blair paused, getting the rest out through clenched teeth. "I couldn't... f-find her. Leave her alone!"

Livingston shook Blair hard enough to cause small burst of lights, like tiny novas, twinkle in the edge of his vision. "She's my property! I won't have her showing up out of nowhere and ruining my career."

It was hard to listen and feel oneself being scalped at the same time, but Blair managed somehow. Livingston was just a fountain of good news, spouting out one atrocity after another.

"It doesn't matter," Livingston determined harshly, flinging Blair back down to the rug. "She can't touch me if she knows I have you."

He pointed to the two men. "Don't take your eyes off him."

Blair waited until the man was gone before moving. Ignoring the guards, he pulled himself up the steps and onto the bed without bothering to take off his muddy clothes and dirty shoes, leaving a trail of blood. His body reported levels of pain from several locations, but his brain wasn't listening. It was numb, caught in an overload of data, like a bystander who had simply witnessed too much.

None of it seemed real anymore.

"Jim?" Naomi was sounding more and more frightened.

Jim raised a hand, keeping his attention on what was happening within the house. He relaxed when Livingston was on the move again, he was making a phone call - no not phone. It sounded more like a radio. He was bringing back his men and calling the search for Blair off.

At least he wasn't hitting him anymore.

"Can't wait for Jason and the others. I need to go in," Jim said, pushing off the ground and squatting on his heels as he checked his gun. "The place will be crawling with more men soon. My best chance is now."

Naomi hooked long fingers around his forearm and squeezed. "How can you know all of this, Jim? You act like you've been listening to every word..." Her eyes grew wide with realization. "Oh my God."

Jim's look cut through her shock. "We don't have time for this, Naomi."

"Um, right. Of course." She swallowed hard and looked back at the house. "How are we going to get in?"

Jim almost said `wait in the truck, Sandburg', but he didn't. First, he doubted she would remain behind and, second, he might actually need another gun in there. Not counting Carmen, who was still locked in her room, and Blair, the odds were four to two.

He'd take that. Hell, he'd taken worse.

"You need to know Livingston wants you dead," Jim warned.

"I've known that for nearly twenty years, Jim," she answered. "Now, let's go get my son."

"You do everything I tell you."

"Right."

"We get in, get Blair and get out. Nothing else."

"Right."

"Let's do it."

They slipped up to the rear of the house without a problem. The back door was unlocked, a security breach common when a person is used to hordes of patrolling guards. Once inside, Jim kept Naomi tucked close to his side and tilted his head. He could pinpoint each person's location within by their breathing. Two men were near Blair's room, another on the opposite side of the house. A closer person, Carmen, was breathing as if asleep. Someone was missing, they must have gone outside.

"Okay, Blair first," Jim said, taking the lead, but changed his mind when he realized they would be going very close to Carmen's room. He stopped. Leaving the old woman behind seemed wrong. She had helped Blair at great risk to herself. The long term goal, after getting his partner, was stealing a vehicle and driving to Carlsbad. They could take one more person along.

"On second thought," Jim whispered, pointing to the hallway leading to the servant's rooms. "Go get Carmen and meet me in Blair's room. Remember the one I showed you?"

Naomi nodded and went off as directed.

Jim moved silently through the house, keeping track of the occupants in the house with his senses. Reaching the last corner before Blair's hallway, he chanced a quick look.

A guard was leaning casually against the wall. He was too far away to jump. While he considered his options, Naomi and Carmen arrived. The latter woman's eyes were red and swollen from crying but she looked okay.

Not only that, she was useful.

Moments later, Jim watched Carmen walk boldly around the corner. Still wearing her apron over her dress, she was just the house cook. The guard addressed her without fear or suspicion. She played her part well. Jim made out a few of the Spanish words, something about needing help in the kitchen with a heavy dish. The man even laughed. Obviously he was a great fan of that particular meal, because he quickly agreed to help her.

Jim dropped him without a sound. They found an empty bedroom, tied and gagged him with the cords from the drapes and closed the door.

"Okay, the next one may not be as easy," Jim warned his newly appointed feminine-covert-ops-team-members. He was proud of both women, but he wasn't going to risk getting them hurt. "Stay back here, out of sight. If it gets noisy, grab Blair and run."

Naomi nodded eagerly, seeing her goal coming within reach.

Jim moved forward, hesitating long enough at the closed door to listen in. Blair's heartbeat was coming from the other side of the room. Another person was sitting closer to the door. In one fluid motion, Jim opened the door, delivered a knockout punch to the man's jaw, his left hand smoothly relieving him of his shotgun. Miraculously, the gun did not go off. The guard slumped sideways in the chair, unconscious.

"Naomi," Jim whispered back down the hallway. He waited for them to arrive and pointed to the man in the chair. "Tie him up. I'll get Blair."

Waiting long enough to make sure the women had the supplies they needed, namely the guard's own belt and anything else in reach, Jim went to the bed.

Blair lay - fully clothed, complete with coat - curled up on top the down comforter. His eyes were open and dull as he stared blankly at the footboard. Rusty colored, semi-dried blood covered his lower face and spread out in a growing puddle on the expensive cotton duvet cover.

"Chief?" Jim kept his voice quiet. Blair hadn't blinked or acknowledged their presence. He gently shook Blair's hip. "Hey, buddy. We've got to get you out of here."

Blue eyes slowly turned and focused on him. Deep furrows appeared on his dirty forehead. With a sudden start of recognition, Blair lifted his head. "Jim!"

"Shhh!" Jim ordered with a growing smile. "Yeah, it's me. You ready to leave?"

Blair sat up, wiping the muck off his face with his sleeve. Jim could see the way he flinched as he moved his leg. Livingston's treatment had left his cheek flushed and nose swollen. Yet it didn't stop the happy expression from appearing his partner's face.

"He said you died in the river!" Blair whispered urgently as he scooted to the edge and let Jim help him to the floor. He leaned into Jim's support, patting the older man's biceps in disbelief. "I knew he was lying, man. I knew you wouldn't die on me."

"Let's just say I have a sudden admiration for bushes now," Jim answered with a fond expression as he let Blair have his moment to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Blair turned to the door. "Naomi!" he squeaked weakly, nearly falling except for Jim's hold.

"Hey, sweetie," Naomi answered quietly from her task of finishing with the final knot on the guard's ankles.

"Sandburg," Jim interposed firmly. "Reunion later. Escape now."

"Right, sorry." Blair wiped his sleeve across his face again, smearing the redness over his cheek.

"Shit, Blair." Jim took a second to snatch up a handful of tissues from a nearby box on the night stand and wipe the worst off. He tossed them on the floor and pressed a clean batch in Blair's hand. "Pinch your nose."

The women were finished with the guard. It was time to leave. Jim supported Blair to the door. Extending his hearing, he found the immediate area safe and led them out of the room and down the hallway. Their destination was the garage. He wanted a reliable vehicle, preferably with four-wheel drive.

Somewhere in the house the phone was ringing. Jim heard footsteps, then Livingston's voice impatiently answering. Now that Jim knew Livingston would be occupied elsewhere, he picked up the pace. Blair hobbled along at his side, doing his best to keep up. By the time they all reached the side door, Jim had him hopping one for every third step he took. Blair's face was covered with sweat and lined with pain as he gulped air and leaned against the wall.

"Sorry, kid. Just a bit further and you can sit," Jim murmured as he opened the door and peered out into the compound. The yard looked empty. He turned to his three fellow escapees. "Okay, we run for the garage. Naomi, ask Carmen where the keys to the vehicles are kept."

Whispering quickly in Spanish, she turned with her answer. "There's a box hanging on the wall in the back, above a tool bench. A set of keys are kept inside. We may have to break in, but she says most of the time it's left unlocked."

"Sure, now I find that out," Blair muttered under his breath.

"Okay, everyone ready?" Jim asked. Receiving nods, Jim tightened his hold on Blair. "Naomi, you make sure Carmen keeps up. I've got Blair."

They ran for the distant garage which lay just under a football field length away. It was just dumb luck the last guard picked that moment to walk out from around the barn and shout out in alarm. Bringing a handgun up to aim, he fired a round that bit into the brick drive a few feet in front of Jim and Blair.

"Fall back!" Jim ordered, spinning Blair around and running for the only safe shelter from the gunman, the main house.

Naomi fired her gun at the man, missing him but making him duck for safety.

Back at the side door, Jim frantically re-evaluated their position. They were armed, but cut off from their only decent chance for escape. Blair was too injured to start running across the desert. More of Livingston's men would be arriving any time now. Jim needed to take out this gunman if they were going to make it. And it had to be now.

Naomi held her gun ready, an old but reliable .357 Dan Wesson revolver with an eight inch barrel. Jim knew she had plenty of ammo and she appeared to be a semi-decent shot. Jim's own gun that Jason had given him last night was a 9 mm Glock with seventeen rounds in the clip.

"What are we gonna do, Jim?" Blair asked.

"We've got to make a try for a car." Jim looked over Blair's head to Naomi. "I say we split up, first one to the vehicle gets it started. Be ready to pick up the other team if they're pinned down. You up for this?"

She nodded, her eyes filled with doubt but game. "Just get yourself and Blair out of here. Carmen and I will be fine."

"What!" Blair hissed, twisted his head to look at the woman. "No way! Jim, no! We all go together."

Jim managed to settle his partner with a frown. "Enough. We'll all get out. Ready?"

With nods all the way around, Jim pointed back around the house. "You take Carmen that way. I'm going to try and take out the guard here if I can. Blair and I will run for the garage. If I can't, then you two slip around behind him and see if you can make it."

Naomi and Carmen ran as instructed, ducking around the corner of the hacienda. Carmen moved quickly for a woman her age and for a moment, Jim believed they were going to make it out okay.

"Jim," Blair started to protest, stopping when he looked up at the older man's face.

Jim wanted to tell him everything was fine, that all of them would make it out okay. But he didn't. They could only do their best and hope it was enough. There was no time for anything else.

"Come on," Jim said quietly. "Try and keep up."

Longing for adequate cover, Jim cast his hearing out and received more bad news. The shooter advanced, using a low stone wall that meandered through the compound for cover, but worse than that was the distant sound of ATVs returning. Spurred with the knowledge that their window of opportunity was not only closing, but being boarded over, Jim ran, pulling Blair along.

Shooting a moving target is always harder in real life than depicted on television. Jim watched the shooter rise and take aim, the bullet skipping behind them with a sharp whine. He screeched to a halt, pushed Blair down and pointed his Glock. When the shooter's head and upper body appeared a second time, Jim was waiting.

Not bothering to confirm the kill, Jim pulled Blair back up by his coat collar. They were going to make it; the ATV's were close, but no match for them once they got a vehicle.

"Very good, Mr. Ellison," Senator Livingston said, stepping out from under the porch. Holding a hunting rifle with a large scope ready and aimed at Jim's back, he looked more than capable of using it. "Drop the gun."

Frankly Jim was surprised he hadn't already been killed. He dropped the Glock.

"Kick it away."

Following orders, Jim briefly searched the area for Naomi. Where was she?

"Come here, Blair," Livingston said firmly.

Blair made no movement. When Jim gently pushed him in the shoulder, the younger man baulked.

"No."

Livingston raised the rifle. Jim could almost feel the crosshairs pressing into his forehead. "Blair, do it." Jim insisted.

"He'll kill you." Blair took a step, but only to place himself directly in the line of fire.

Livingston looked every bit like a parent frustrated with his only child. "Stop that and get over here, now!"

As the struggle of wills distracted the senator, Jim once again checked the surrounding area with his hearing. He picked up soft footfalls off to the left. Too light to be a man, Naomi was coming in for a rescue. He just prayed her shooting skill was up to the task; her shot would be a good sixty feet.

As Jim listened to Naomi's approach, something long and narrow was pressed against his thigh. Hidden from Livingston's sight by Blair's body, Jim reached down and took the object from his partner's hand, fingers recognizing the feel of antler and steel.

A hunting knife.

Blair limped away, going to Livingston, his shoulders taut with tension. Jim knew he was waiting for a verbal signal. Keeping his face perfectly straight, Jim smiled inside, proud of Blair and his knack for coming through in the most difficult of times.

Before Jim could blink, the battle started.

Naomi appeared from around a corner, shouting at Livingston. Jim's own bellow for Blair to get down confused the senator long enough for Naomi to get a shot off. A loud roar from the garage sounded seconds before the wide garage door blew out as the Hummer, driven by Carmen, smashed through. She braked to a stop in the yard after a short four-wheel sideways drift.

Naomi missed her target by a good two feet. As Livingston swung his rifle to take aim at Naomi, Jim flipped the knife up, caught it by the tip of the blade and raised it above his shoulder. He snapped his arm out shooting the old knife like an arrow that flew over the top of Blair's prone body and sunk up to the handle into Livingston's side, just under his ribs.

Livingston's trigger finger tightened, firing a deadly high-powered round into the bricks. Another shot from the Dan Wesson echoed off the old adobe walls. This time, Naomi's aim was true and Livingston fell back onto the brick, the rifle falling from his hands.

Jim ran to Blair, who was struggling to stand. Grabbing an arm and pulling his partner to his feet. Jim looked back. Naomi stood in shock gazing at Livingston's still body. "Go! Get in!" he shouted at her and waved his arm toward the vehicle.

Propelling Blair along, Jim was the last to arrive at the Hummer. Carmen had left the engine running before climbing into the back seat. Naomi was piling in next to her as Jim wrenched open the front passenger door and literally picked Blair up and dumped him into the seat. He ran around the front for the driver's door, his ears registering the ATV's approach. They were getting too close for comfort.

"Hold on!" Jim ordered. He slammed the door and dropped the lever into gear as he stomped the pedal. The Hummer lunged forward with surprising power, nearly smashing into the nearby decorative fountain. Jim twisted the wheel hard, swinging the unusually wide vehicle into the tightest arc possible and running over several landscaped bushes before getting them onto the main road leading toward the distant highway and freedom.

Jim's entire attention focused on the road before them. He climbed the gears until the Hummer resembled a tree-top flyer rather than the ground vehicle it was. The guard shack was still ahead and Jim wondered if it would be manned. It didn't matter. They'd punch through anything parked in their way.

"Jim!"

Following Blair's pointed finger, Jim saw the approaching ATV's on intercept course, three in all. Even at the Hummer's speed, the ATVs had the ability to cut them off due to their position. They had been on approach from the south.

He zoomed in on them. Rifles were strapped to the cargo areas. It would be child's play to pick them off from one of the surrounding rises. Why hadn't they? He zoomed in further and caught a glimpse of the rider's face.

Jim slowed the Hummer.

"What are you going, man?" Blair cried in alarm. "They'll catch us!"

"It's okay, relax." The ATVs neared. "They're friends of Naomi's."

"Jason? Jason is here?" Naomi asked from the back seat, her voice small and quivering.

Jim recognized the other two men on the ATVs from the small house he'd been taken to last night. He braked and climbed out as Jason pulled up.

"Livingston?" Jason asked, searching the occupants of the vehicle.

"Taken out," Jim answered. "What about the rest of your men?"

"We had casualties. Don't worry about the guard shack." Jason spotted Blair and nodded. "You got what you wanted, what now?"

Jim turned to look back inside the Hummer. Blair had huddled down in his seat, face white and eyes wide, Naomi didn't look much better. Carmen sat calmly in the back seat, hands folded properly in her lap. Something told him she preferred anything to remaining at the hacienda. He wondered if her status was the same as Naomi's. The government did not make allowances for immigrants that entered its borders without proper papers, no matter what the reason. He hated it. It wasn't fair. These women were victims, not criminals.

"Naomi, what do you want?" Jim asked, sticking his head into the interior.

Pushing short hair back from her eyes, the woman looked surprised with the question. "Y-you'd let me go?"

Blair piped up in bewilderment. "What? What do you mean? What's going on?"

"She'll face criminal charges, Chief," Jim explained.

Blair sat straight as if a thousand volts of energy suddenly flowed through his body. "They can't! Jim, you can explain! She saved our lives, man. You can't be serious!"

Not meaning to snap, but knowing they didn't have time, Jim held up a hand. "That's enough. Quiet." He turned to Naomi. "What do you want? Tell me. You can stay with us or go with Jason."

Naomi turned to Carmen. "What about Aunt Carmen?"

"She can go with you," Jim said.

"Aunt," Blair exclaimed softly, falling against the door as if deflated.

Naomi turned to the older woman and rattled off a short explanation in Spanish. Carmen nodded eagerly and gathered her skirt to prepare to get out as Jim opened her door. Naomi climbed out the opposite side, pausing next to Blair's door as it opened.

"Naomi," Blair choked in distress, almost falling out of his seat. "Wait!"

Taking his outstretched hands in her own, she pulled him close. "Oh, honey. Jim's right. If Aunt Carmen and I don't leave now, I'll be arrested."

"B-but, you can't--"

She pressed fingers gently against his lips, her eyes bright. "Listen to me, Blair. I love you. I'll see you again, I swear."

"Mom? Please... tell me--"

Naomi cut him off, nodding her head fervently. "I am your mother, baby. I swear. Yes, I kidnapped you from him, I had to." Tears dropped down the dirty planes of her cheeks. She pulled him into a tight hug and whispered into his ear. "Jim will tell you everything. Be safe."

Before Blair could answer, she was gone. Carmen had already been assisted onto the back of an ATV. Naomi ran to Jason's and climbed on. Without further comment, all three ATV's roared off across the desert.

Jim felt like collapsing, unable to make the transition between `fight for life' and being told everything was handled. Still, there was an off chance Jason's men hadn't taken care of all of Livingston's goons.

"Get in, Sandburg. We need to keep moving." Jim climbed back in and slammed the door.

Blair hadn't moved. He stood, leaning drunkenly against the open door, his back to Jim.

"Blair! Get in!" Jim repeated a little louder, slapping his hand down on the empty seat next to him.

Blair was a statue.

"Shit," Jim muttered, opening his door again. He jogged around the Hummer and caught sight of his partner's face. "Oh, shit," he quietly repeated.

Irritation dissolved upon seeing Blair's condition. Although the younger man was still staring at the distant ATV's , there was no way he saw anything but blurry browns and blues. Twin floods of tears washed his face. Misery and anguish fought for dominance in those red-rimmed eyes.

"Blair, everything's going to be okay," Jim promised quietly, taking a slumped shoulder and firmly turning him toward the Hummer. "I'm sorry you didn't get more time, but we'll find a way to see her again."

Knuckles white, Blair climbed back into the passenger seat. Lips pressed together and bloodless, he sat in a rigid pose as Jim quickly fastened the seatbelt. Blair appeared to be fighting to keep his emotions limited to tears. Jim closed the door and briefly looked at Blair's profile through the dusty glass.

Naomi's last comment came back to haunt him.

`Jim will tell you everything.'

He groaned and shook his head before returning to the driver's side.

Thanks so much, Naomi.

Blair's mind blurred the next several hours together in an uncomprehending mess. The drive into Carlsbad, the cops talking to Jim while the doctors at the hospital X-rayed his knee, the men in the suits talking to Blair with Jim standing rigid next to his chair, and protesting when they got cranky about his lack of detailed responses. All of it ran together in a real life kaleidoscope of color and sound. Jim's presence was the only solid thing that kept Blair from shutting down all together.

When the colors darkened and the sounds faded, Blair found himself standing with Jim in a hotel room. Jim guided him to a chair and silently urged him down with a gentle hand on his shoulders before crossing the room to a single phone.

Like a man waking from a long sleep, Blair blinked and looked around in surprise. "Jim?"

Jim stopped punching buttons and returned the handset to the phone base. "Hey, look who's back with the living. How're you feeling?"

Wow, had he been that out of it? Blair took stock of his condition. His knee was wrapped in a bandage. It didn't hurt as much as before. "Okay, where are we?"

"Ramona Inn, Carlsbad." Jim answered, sitting down on the edge of a nearby bed. Another matching bed sat at the far end of the room.

"Oh." Blair lifted a hand to his nose. He sounded stuffy when he talked. Fingers found tender skin over his cheek and a puffy nose. He felt strange and wondered if this was how coma patients felt when they woke. "Oh."

"You've been unresponsive for a while now, Blair," Jim explained. "I didn't make any friends with the New Mexico authorities. I promised to call them when you felt better."

Blair must have given his feelings away, because Jim smiled tolerantly and continued, "'Better' is a relative term. We can wait a bit longer."

"But who were you calling just now?" Blair asked.

"Simon, I told him I'd call again when we got a room," Jim explained. "Seeing how his credit card is paying for it."

"Oh."

Jim was watching him with a strange look, making Blair check to make sure he didn't have anything gross hanging off his nose. Damn, his nose was sore. The memory of Livingston's treatment rose to the front of his mind.

"What did... I mean, has anyone gone back?" Blair wasn't making a lot of sense.

Jim didn't need a lot of explanation. He must have anticipated the question. "They went back to the ranch, the same county deputy that picked you up, actually. I'm sorry, Blair. Livingston is dead."

Blair almost said `oh' again, but he snapped his jaw shut in time. He wondered if the small fire of pleasure he felt made him evil. What kind of person gets satisfaction in hearing his father's been killed?

Then again, Blair touched his cheek absentmindedly, what kind of father did Livingston prove to be?

"You okay?"

Blair nodded, pursing his lips. He really wanted to know what Jim knew. Naomi had said `ask Jim' and he wanted to, desperately. He just wasn't sure he was ready to hear what Jim was going to say. Maybe not knowing was okay. Maybe if he went long enough, things could just go back to the way they were before.

Blair closed his eyes.

Maybe pigs would need landing gear and short runways.

"Hey."

Jim sounded scared. For me, Blair thought. God, whatever she told him must be terrible. He needed to know.

"She said she was really my mom, Jim," Blair said without preamble.

Jim nodded.

"The DNA said Livingston was really my father."

"That's right."

"So... they used to be... a couple?" Blair asked, testing the water.

Jim swallowed.

Damn, he looked like he had switched from feeling scared to guilty.

"No," Jim whispered softly. "Not a couple."

That was good; Blair remembered his first impression of the senator, back in DC. He hadn't liked him. He couldn't see Naomi liking him either. And Naomi didn't do casual sex, never had as long as Blair had been able to understand what that was. So that left...

"No!" Blair blurted out.

The look on Jim's face gave the answer Blair didn't wish to fathom.

Oh, God...

"Sandburg, it was a long time ago. She told me--"

Pushing out of the chair with his arms, Blair hobbled away. A stupid move, really, running wouldn't make the reality of his conception go away. Reaching the far end of the room, Blair raised his hand high and slugged the wall. He welcomed the pain shooting through his knuckles and up his arm.

He was evil! He was created from evil! He deserved the pain and more.

Something captured his fist, preventing him from taking another punch and putting a hole through the sheetrock. Someone was calling him. Someone close was talking. A warm arm circled his shoulders from behind, pulling him back against...

Jim.

"You're not evil," Jim was murmuring into his ear, repeating it over and over.

Oh, damn. Blair hadn't even realized he was shouting. What was going on? He was losing it. Control was slipping through his grasp.

"Jim!" Blair croaked, hiccupping violently and turning to face his friend. Words didn't exist to describe how bad he felt. He shouldn't even be standing here. He should never have been at all.

Blair was swept up in a fierce embrace. Jim was addressing someone not in the room. "I knew it. I knew he'd feel this way. Damn it!" The comments focused on Blair again. "Listen to me, Chief. She said she hated him except for one thing, you. She loves you more than anything he did to her. Are you listening?"

Blair tried to bury his face into Jim's shoulder. He longed to believe Jim's version, but his imagination replayed vile crimes in vivid color until his gut cramped.

"Stop it, Blair. Just stop!" Jim demanded. He shoved Blair back, pinning him against the wall by the shoulders to look into his eyes. The fury in Jim's face was arresting. "Don't forfeit everything Naomi did to survive. She lived it, it's done, she moved on. You can do no less. Don't you get it? You're the living proof of her courage. Don't fail her now."

Blair concentrated on sucking air into starving lungs. Jim's words stung, and made him warm at the same time. The hard pressure on his shoulders relaxed and before he could move, Jim pulled him back into a looser embrace. Blair felt dizzy, his arms moved of their own accord, returning the hug tentatively. A quiet voice within his head was telling him he didn't deserve friends, he shouldn't be liked or loved. But that voice was getting quieter and quieter.

"Stop it, Blair," Jim whispered. "Don't go there, okay?"

When did Jim learn how to read minds? How could Blair not listen to that voice of self-loathing in his head? Sure it was quieting down - now, but what about later? It was bound to return later, when Blair was alone. He knew he'd never be strong enough to keep from listening to the doubt; the odds were against him.

"You can do it," Jim continued, "and you know I won't let you fight this without me, right?"

With a snort that made his nose hurt, Blair told the quiet voice to `shove it' and returned Jim's hug with fervor.

"Dropped?"

"Yep, all charges." Jim turned to scan the huge crowd inside the covered stadium, to make sure Daryl and Blair were still off getting hotdogs and cokes before answering.

It was three weeks later. Life had settled back to what passed as normal for them. They even managed a night off. It was the seventh inning stretch and the baseball game promised to go into a tenth unless the tie was broken soon. They had decent seats a few levels up from first base, compliments of Joel.

Who knew the man was a personal friend with the Mariner's pitching coach?

"The shooting was justified," Jim continued, glancing at Simon. "Livingston was just waiting for Blair to get clear before he killed me."

"Hey, works for me," Simon replied. "What about the immigration charges?"

"That's going to take more trips to the bartering table," Jim answered. "Naomi's friends might go a long way in helping the Feds shut down a major slavery ring. She told me she was only sixteen when she was sold to Livingston, along with her Aunt. Livingston lied about her belonging to a gang. The local cops believed him. She was kept on at the house as Blair's nanny after she gave birth to him. She said she knew he was planning on having her killed. She was learning English and becoming too visual to outsiders. She ran with Blair after overhearing her own murder being planned."

"Good God, what she must have lived through." Simon shook his head. "I can't believe the government doesn't take some of this into consideration."

"I doubt they'll give her citizenship but they may grant a visa to allow her to visit Sandburg as much as she wants. We're flying down to Mexico in a few weeks to see her."

"The kid's okay, right? I mean, he's a legal citizen and everything."

"Yeah, he was born on U.S. soil and his father was a citizen, so he's okay."

Simon leaned forward, his eyes on the field as he seemed to ponder. "Damn, it's hard to believe."

"No kidding," Jim noted glumly. "I've had quite an education on present day slavery. Did you know they recently busted a ring in Florida? People were playing golf at a retirement community, right next to a slave camp; two worlds, speaking different languages. Hell, more than seventy Thai women were rescued last year in a Los Angeles suburb."

"I remember reading that case," Simon said. "They were making clothes for a major retailer."

"Yeah, the Feds think twenty thousand are trafficked into the US every year," Jim said quietly, his eyes on the thousands sitting in the stands around them. "From farm laborers to prostitutes. Children, Simon, even the children. Naomi ended up as a domestic slave. They're confined to the private home. Can you imagine? They estimate somewhere between a hundred to a hundred-fifty thousand slaves in the US today."

Simon ran a hand over his face with a groan. "Shit. Just incredible. And we walk around like Americans who solved the slavery problem decades ago."

"Well, we're still working on it," Jim commented wryly. "I guess that counts in our favor."

"How's Sandburg doing with all this?"

Jim shrugged. "He has to slay demons daily, although the shrink is helping. Having his name legally changed to Blair Sandburg gave him some peace of mind."

"What about those headaches he was having?"

Jim shrugged. "The shrink thinks Blair developed his own mental block. He repressed his earliest memories. I still think Naomi found a way to encourage it. She got into all those weird meditations and stuff back in the late sixties."

"What about the estate in New Mexico?" Simon asked.

Jim smiled. "He's giving the land to the state to make a park. Any inheritance left over after legal restitution is paid will be donated to help efforts to teach English to local migrant farm workers."

Simon huffed. "Sounds like Sandburg."

"It's a start. He doesn't want anything to do with Livingston or his money. Quiet, here they come," Jim warned seeing his partner along with Simon's son heading toward them, both loaded down with snacks. Blair's limp was only visible to the sentinel's eye. His face had healed, except for the dark sadness Jim sometimes caught lingering in Blair's eyes.

Seconds later, he was holding a king-sized chilidog with extra onions and shoving his change into a pocket. Blair settled down into his seat, happily munching hot French fries.

"Hey, you guys should switch with us now," Daryl said. "Blair and I want to sit together."

"Yeah, it's only fair, man," Blair added. "Our turn."

"Don't think so, son."

"No way, Chief," Jim said agreeing with Simon. "We want to hear the game, not listen to you two yammer the whole time."

Daryl's sour face made Jim chuckle.

"Don't sweat it, Daryl," Blair said, leaning across Jim. "They probably want to share Bob Locker stories."

Both Simon and Daryl turned as one, asking their questions in harmony.

"Who's Bob Locker?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "You win, Sandburg. I'm switching."

End

Author's note: Can't believe I did another `Who is Blair's Father' story! LOL. This was originally part of a birthday present. We were asked to write a story where one of the fellow's faces appears on a milk carton. I first thought to myself; easy - I can to that.

Then I got to thinking. Who the heck would save a milk carton for 20 years?

I recently read an article in National Geographic (Sept 03) on 21st-century slaves. All the facts listed in the story are taken from that article. Naomi's situation was a documented fact for a young woman living on the East Coast with her `owners'.

Anyway, you never know where a story germ starts. I'm posting this on Christmas Day, with permission from the birthday girl.

I hope you enjoyed.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

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