Mercenary Blues By Kathy Poffenberger and J.M. McClure

Mercenary Blues by Kathy Poffenberger and J.M. McClure Page 1 of 78

Mercenary Blues

By Kathy Poffenberger and J.M. McClure

36690 words

Chapter One

Peter Caine had been dreading this day for three months.

He wasn't sure how he was going to face every day knowing his old man was halfway around theworld for the next two weeks.

This visit to Matthew Caine in the far off fields of rural France had been planned for a while.Peter's main regret was that his workload kept him trapped here rather than soaring through thesky with his father. It wasn't that he didn't have vacation time logged and unused-he did-but hisover-developed sense of duty was often a ball and chain around his ankle, and the stack ofunsolved case files was still lurking on the top of his desk awaiting his attention. Somewhere inthe background, of course, loomed the scowling spectre of Frank Strenlich.

He wasn't reassured by the weather conditions either. Rain slanted down through the night sky,drenching them before they reached the shelter of the terminal. According to the weather reports,they could expect more of it, and worse, as Fall came in with a line of storms announcing itsarrival. His father, traveling light as usual, had only a bedroll and a small overnight case forluggage, but Peter insisted on checking in the bags rather than having Caine wrestle with themon the plane. His father acquiesced to his nervous attentiveness. Maybe it was Peter who wasreally overwhelmed about the thought of flying over the ocean in teeming rain, not his seeminglyunflappable father. For the fourth or fifth time he checked the tickets, handed them over to bestamped and shuffled, then pressed them into his father's hand with the warning, "Don't losethese. You have your passport?"

Caine patted his jacket pocket. "I have, my son," he reassured Peter. "It is too bad that youcannot accompany me on this trip."

"Yeah, yeah," Peter said absently, herding his father along the long terminal corridor. Theyfound a moving sidewalk and Peter skipped onto it with childlike enthusiasm. He didn't wait forthe mechanical conveyance to move them, however, but started walking in the slightly off-balance gait that merged the two motions. "I wish I were going too, Pop, but I've got a backlog ofmurders on my desk that aren't solving themselves. Strenlich and the Captain would have myhead if I tried to wheedle some time offright now."

"I will tell your grandfather that you are keeping him in your thoughts," Caine offeredgraciously, easily keeping pace with Peter's restless steps.

The moving sidewalk ended with a jolt, and they barely broke stride as they headed for theterminal gate. Peter wondered briefly why his plane was always at the very last terminal no


matter what his destination. A steady stream of people parted and flowed around them, facesreflecting weariness, anticipation, and a gamut of other less identifiable emotions. A smallhuddle of teenagers near one of the restrooms that dotted the airport terminal briefly caughtPeter's attention, but he shrugged off the reaction. If they were involved in anything criminal, itwasn't his job. He had his hands full with his father.

A quick, sideways glance showed him only the rock-like serenity he was accustomed to seeing inCaine's face. If he were waiting for a reaction to the impending flight, he couldn't find it in theplacid features of the man striding beside him. He sighed. It seemed that nothing surprised oroverwhelmed Caine, no matter how foreign it might appear to be.

"Flight 1061 for Paris, France, now loading at Gate 19C. Rows 19 through 26 please board now."

"That is my call, Peter," Caine pointed out. He reached up and gently patted his son's cheek, hishand lingering to cup Peter's face. "I must leave."

Only slightly self-conscious because of the throng of people crowded around them, Peter drewhis father forward into a quick hug. At the last second, his face reddening slightly, he planted ahasty kiss on Caine's forehead.

"You be careful," Peter said. "I don't like this weather. And you call me as soon as you land andget settled. You got the number?"

"Peter, you have already asked me that question," Caine said in a gentle rebuke. "The answer hasnot changed with the passage of time."

"Sorry." Peter ducked his head, then glanced back up at his father. "Listen, I'm just a littlenervous. I don't like flying unless I'm the pilot." He grinned. "You take it easy and call me. Iprobably won't be home, but just leave a message on the machine."

"I will." Caine smiled finally, perhaps relieved now that the nervous inquisition had a foreseeableend with his imminent departure. He touched his fingers to Peter's cheek, let them slip lower tohis son's chin, then he turned quickly to disappear through the concourse.

Peter's breath escaped with a resigned sigh as he watched his father vanish into the tunnel thatwould take him onto the first leg of his journey. Again, he felt a pang of dismay that he wasn'tgoing, too. He had to get over this fear of letting his father out of his sight. It wasn't as if hedidn't have things to occupy his time. Even if Caine were still in the city, Peter would be hardpressed to make any time to spend with him. He and Jody were piled with cases; he'd be lucky tosee the light of day, much less get time to visit his father in Chinatown. There was just somethingdaunting about the span of distance that would now separate them. He shrugged off the anxietyand headed back to the rain-soaked parking lot.

Lightning strobed across the ink black sky. Rain poured against Peter with bone-chilling cold. Heducked his head and sprinted across the packed lot, hoping he could make it to the Stealth before


pneumonia set in. He nearly ran over the slender woman hunched against the downpour rightnext to his car. He caught her by the waist as he skidded to a halt.

"Sorry!" he said, his voice barely carrying over the thunder that rumbled through the singleword. He righted himself, and helped her catch her balance.

"It's okay," she nearly shouted to be heard over the cacophony of the late September night. Shewas slender beneath the light touch of his hands, her face remarkably beautiful even with her hairdrenched around it. She smiled, the glitter of her eyes reflecting the shimmer of a nearby securitylight that did little else to penetrate the gloom of the stormy night. "I've locked myself out." Sheshrugged a shoulder helplessly.

"No problem," Peter returned in the same near-shout. "I can probably help you." He fished hiskeys out of his pocket and stepped around to the Stealth's rear. He had barely stabbed the keyinto the trunk lock when the prickle of awareness started to turn him. Too late.

Arms snaked around his throat, cutting off his air. He slammed an elbow back into an unyieldingsurface. It was like hitting granite. The only result was a ball of pain that radiated from elbow toshoulder. Using the support offered by the attack, Peter slung himself backward into his captor'sarms, his booted feet catching the back fender of the car to catapult him back. He sprawledacross the man holding him, only to be flung over onto his stomach, his face scraped against wetconcrete, the arm tighter around his constricted throat. A fist drove into his lower back sending ared glare of pain arcing through his lower body. He gasped for air that wouldn't come, felt thewave of dizzy darkness that reached out to claim him. A knee slammed into his back. He heard acrack from deep in his chest as a rib snapped with the impact. Nausea surged up to meet thedizziness and his eyes clenched tight against pain. He squirmed desperately, only to feel a secondpair of hands grasp his hips as he struggled beneath the overwhelming weight of the man whopinned him to the concrete. A tug jerked his jeans down from his waist and he barely felt thepinprick of pain as his hip was targeted for a hypodermic needle.

His air was gone, and his head was swimming into a deeper fog. Suddenly, the arm around histhroat was pulled away and he was yanked over onto his back. Peter tried to lunge up, but hisarms wouldn't respond to the mental order to move. His mind felt like it was full of syrup and hetried to drag his consciousness up to the surface. Rain pelted his face, his vision distorted andblurred. Still he vaguely recognized the face hovering above him, flanked by two other people hedidn't know-one, the woman with an oddly concerned expression marking her features, the othera huge man bent over her shoulder. Fear trickled in past the confused daze in his mind asmemory flirted with the edges of his consciousness. Before it had time to coalesce intorecognition, he was carried off on a cloud of dizzy nausea.

Chapter Two

Paul was gone. That was the only thought that would filter through the cloying mists surroundingPeter.


His mind searched backward, looking for his foster father, coming up empty. Paul was gone. Thethought lingered, festered. Memory drifted backward, ten years past...

Finishing the latest top 20s hit from Journey with a slightly-off key, but enthusiastic flourish,Peter Caine tipped the carton of orange juice straight up and let the last of the icy liquid slidedown his parched throat. He tossed the empty carton toward the garbage can, barely making theshot count for two. Drops of sticky juice spattered the spotlessly clean kitchen floor, but Peterdidn't notice. Long legs were already carrying him out of the kitchen toward a much-neededshower. Still early summer, you couldn't tell it from the hot sun that had beat down on the nearbypark's basketball court where Peter's informal game with school buddies had just come to asuccessful conclusion

Life was good for the seventeen-year-old, no, better than good, just damn near perfect. Schoolwas out and his report card was decent enough to get him brownie points with his mom and PaulHe had a job signed up teaching sports to under-privileged kids, one of the city's programs tokeep children out of trouble luring summer break. Good of Paul helped him find the job andPeter suspected his foster father had put a word in for him. Sure beat working in a fast foodkitchen all summer. Best of all, the job didn't start right way so he had a whole week to screwoff! Shit, he had worked hard those last couple of weeks prepping or finals-he deserved sometime off. 'Course when Paul got back from his latest trip, he would probably gave a list of choreslonger than his arm for the teenager, but that was okay too.

Peter ran his forearm across his sweaty pink forehead, shoving wet bangs out of the way. Man, itwas hot. Cutoff jeans and a faded t-shirt hadn't offered much protection from the burning sun orfrom rough concrete the few times he had lost his balance and landed hard, although he usuallymanaged to take an opponent down with him. He rubbed at a scraped elbow, still stinging fromhis last fall. Still it didn't hurt as much as it would have if he hadn't prevented the other teamfrom scoring.. Now, that would have made him mad. Nah, it had been a good game, sunburn,bruises and all.

Almost to the stairs, he skidded to a stop when he heard a voice coming from Paul's den that hedidn't recognize.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Blaisdell, I hope you understand our position."

Peter peeked in the open door and saw a stranger with Annie. They had their backs turned to himas they talked. Peter could tell very little about the man other than that he was tall and wore asuit. The man towered over his petite mother. He seemed menacing somehow. He wanted to goin and protect Annie, but he didn't know from what.

"And when will your position change? You're talking about my husband."

Peter had never heard his mother sound like that before. She was obviously angry, but there wassomething else in her voice-was it fear? And what was wrong with Paul? He wanted desperatelyto ask, demand an answer, but a fear of that answer kept him quiet.


"You know I can't answer that, ma'am. I know that we will try to free your husband as soon aswe can."

Annie didn't respond and he went on, voice a little softer, "I really am sorry. If there's anything Ican do..."

She cut him off, not wanting his sympathy. "No, thank you." It was a dismissal. She wanted to bealone.

"Then I'll let myself out, ma'am." He turned and Peter saw his face for the first time, an averagelooking man except for his height, someone who would blend into any group, and if you wereasked to describe him later, you wouldn't remember details other than tall. Peter knew then thathe was from the agency that sometimes asked Paul to work for them. Paul was always reluctantto go, but never once refused. Told Peter once that duty made him go, just like duty made him dothings as a cop that he wasn't always proud of.

He heard the front door open, then close. Annie sank to a seat on the brocade couch, her headdropping forward into her hands. For a terrified moment, Peter thought she was crying. He didn'thave the faintest idea how to handle her tears. His own eyes smarted with the threat of tears atthe thought that someone had hurt her enough to bring on that reaction. Without further thought,he stepped into the room and flopped to a seat beside her.

"Mom," he said, "what is it? What's wrong with Paul? Who was that man?"

"Peter," she said, "one question at a time." Her eyes, thankfully from Peter's point of view, wereblessedly dry when she turned her face to him. She lifted a hand to trace the lines of his face,hesitating before she spoke. "There are some things I can't talk to you about. You know that."

"He's my dad," Peter said softly. "If something's wrong, I have the right to know."

Her hand stopped the gentle exploration of his face, then dropped back into her lap.

"There's always a danger when he takes one of these assignments, Peter," she finally admitted."He knows the risks. He takes them willingly. I can't change that about him."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. Not really. He's being held in the Caribbean. An island called St. Thomas."

"Held? By who?"

"A terrorist group. I really don't know more than that."

"Terrorists? What do you mean 'terrorists'? That happens in books. Not in real life."

"You asked me, Peter. I thought you could handle the truth."


"Why can't the government just get him back? Trade for him? Isn't that what they do whenpeople are kidnapped?'

The words fluttered on a breath of air, panic hying just beneath the surface of his voice.

"It's political," Annie countered vaguely. "If our government deals with the terrorist group, theother government might take it as tacit approval. They can't risk it at this time. At least that's theofficial word."

"But that's.-.that's..."

"Peter, leave me alone for a while, will you?" she asked suddenly. A request she had never madebefore. A request that chilled him to the bone. As if she were already grieving for Paul. As if hewere already lost....

*****

His eyes stung, and the salty taste of tears was on his tongue. Paul's face swam before him. Theywere standing on the balcony at his father's apartment. Paul's demons had chased him away, weretaking him from the arms of those who loved him. Peter wanted to grab his foster father and holdon with a desperate demand to stay, fight his battles within the circle of their love, but hecouldn't make himself challenge Paul's decision.

All he knew was that he was losing someone he loved. Someone else. Another loss in a lifetimetoo full of losses.

He turned back to face Paul, but the balcony was empty. Fog clouded in around him and he wasback at the Blaisdell home ten years previously. He saw his mother, her vacant eyes tear-linedand red from her private grief Paul was gone. And Peter didn't have any idea what to do to bringhim back.

*****

Nausea lingered at the back of his throat, teasing at him, dragging him up from an unnaturallydeep sleep. He tried to reach out, gain some semblance of balance, but his hands wouldn't move.He tried again only to feel the scrape of ropes at his wrists. Raw and abraded already from hisunconscious struggling, the skin protested the attempted movement. He stopped tugging at therestraints, tried to open his eyes. His cheek stung and he remembered being pressed into therough concrete in the airport parking lot. A nagging ache had settled into his lower back,aggravated with each searching breath. Three faces flitted into his memory and he forced hiseyes open to more blackness; only one eye responded, the other swollen shut. A skitter of soundcaught his attention and he instinctively dragged his knees up to his chest. He was tying on acold surface, his back against a concrete wall, his hands tied securely behind him. There was ahitch to his breathing, the effort to draw in air sparking a lance of pain in his chest, and herecalled the snap of bone when he was thrust onto the cement. With nauseating awareness, he feltthe scrape of bone against bone in his side as he tried to move. At least one rib had snapped. Bile


rose in his throat and he retched against it, the spasms of his stomach waking more pain. Finally,he got himself under loose control and eased up into a seated position on the chilled floor, hisback flush against the wall, the only security he could find.

Adjusting to the murky darkness, his one good eye found the staircase across the small room,wooden plank steps leading to an invisible door. He was in a cellar, he thought, feeling the chillpermeating the walls, the scent of mildew that teased at his nostrils. Another furtive sound in thecorner diagonal to him drew his knees back up to his chest. He imagined he could see tiny eyesstaring back at him from the penetrating darkness. Rats. He hated rats.

The ceiling creaked and groaned with the weight of footsteps on the floor above him and Peterheld his breath until the noises abated and died away. The ropes. One of his father's lessonswould take care of that problem. He twisted his wrists, clenching and loosening his hands untilhe felt the rope give way. It was only moments later when he slipped his hands free. Bloodslicked his arms where he had struggled against the restraints, and he absently wiped his handson his jeans to get rid of the sticky moisture. Now to figure out just where he was-and how to getout of it....

*****

Messages scrawled across the computer screen, a confusing jumble of information that filteredinto the slotted files of his brain. Kermit Griffin flicked at the keyboard with nimble fingers,coaxing more data from his machine. Another few hours and he'd have the evidence they neededon the Larson case. Just another few hours and he could get out of here, down a few beers, andget some long overdue sleep.

The door to his office opened with a faint, neglected squeak, and he glanced away from themesmerizing screen. Captain Karen Simms stepped inside, tugging the door closed behind her.An unusual occurrence in itself. Usually he was called to come to her, not the other way around,and the door normally remained open unless there was something top secret about theinformation she was about to impart. But then things hadn't been quite the same since she'd beenaccused of murder, acquitted, and later found herself sharing Kermit's bed on one memorableoccasion. The office relationship had been strained ever since, and the event hadn't beenrepeated. Not for lack of interest on Kermit's part. It was her call now, and he was willing toallow her the time to determine just what direction their relationship would take.

"What's up, Captain?' he asked in what he hoped was an entirely neutral voice.

She took the single step that brought her from door to desk and hiked one hip up on the corner ofthe desk, the hem of her form-fitting skirt riding up enticingly along the beginning of one thigh.Kermit forced his eyes up to her face.

Without preamble, she said, "I've got tickets to Taming of the Shrew1 at the Palladium. They'refor tonight. I know it's late notice, but I was wondering-"

"I'd love to," Kermit interrupted with just enough enthusiasm to maintain a boyish eagerness.


"Oh," she responded lightly as if surprised by both the reaction and the answer. "Well, thea.."She straightened the hem of her skirt, tugging it down to the knee, then stood. "Pick me up ateight?"

"I'll be there," Kermit said.

Simms noticed that he didn't need to ask directions to her house.

Chapter Three

His right eye was nearly swollen shut, the result of being slammed into the parking lot concrete,and the bruise that marred his cheekbone throbbed with each change of expression. The brokenrib had settled into a persistent ache that was manageable if he didn't move too quickly. The painradiating from his back encircled him, bringing stomach cramps into his inventory of aches andpains. Peter had spent the first fifteen minutes of his relative freedom exploring his prison. Hewas definitely in a basement somewhere. There were small, ground level windows high alongone wall but they were painted shut. The basement was lined with the usual flotsam and jetsamof any household-gardening tools, abandoned furniture, stacks of papers and discardedhousehold accessories. Any effort to open them would surely bring his captors down toinvestigate the noise, a risk he didn't want to take until he had secured some form of defense, aweapon of some kind.

He staggered into the wall, still dizzy from whatever they'd injected him with. He held there along moment, waiting for the nausea and wooziness to pass. The memory of the behemoth whohad nearly strangled him in the parking lot nagged at his mind. He would need something todefend himself with before they came down the shrouded steps. In his present condition, he wasno match for the huge man he had pummeled to no effect at the airport.

He remembered the third face then, a phantom from the past, a memory laced with fear andrevulsion. He couldn't think of the man's name, his mind was too fogged with the lingeringaftereffects of the drug. It would come. Somewhere, indelibly imprinted on his memory was thename and the danger that came with it. Tied to his past. His and Paul's-and Kermit's.

He had to get out of here and warn Kermit. He wasn't sure where that knowledge had come from,only that it was vastly important; memory would come later, when he could think again. Thegardening tools were his best bet. He sifted through them and finally came up with a longhandled rake. It would be awkward but it would do.

Another creak from the ceiling alerted him and he knew instantly that he'd run out of time.

Clenching the rake handle in his fists, he sidled over to the wall by the staircase and faded backinto the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

"He's probably coming around by now," a disembodied voice announced as the door squeakedopen, light funneling down the uneven steps. A switched clicked and weak tendrils of lightpoked out from the low-wattage bulb in the center of the ceiling.


"Be careful," a feminine voice responded, then footsteps sounded on the uppermost stairs.

Peter waited until the huge, shadowy form of the first man loomed beside him, then he steppedaround the base of the stairs and caught the man in the stomach with the end of the rake handle.

A whoosh of air marked the impact of wood and belly and the man jackknifed forward, his hugebulk plowing into Peter, taking them both to the floor.

Ignoring the sharp pain in his chest, Peter squirmed out from under the breathlessly cursing manand swung the rake around in a graceful arc, catching the second man three steps from thebottom, knocking away the support of the cane he was leaning against. The remembered faceclenched in a spasm of pain at the force of the blow and the man crashed backward into thewoman who closely followed him. They went down in a heap, limbs tangling hopelessly as theirbodies ricocheted off each other.

The huge man rocked to his feet. Peter was halfway turned toward the steps and his only optionfor escape when he was grabbed from behind. Steel-muscled arms encircled his chest, thepressure instantly sending darts of agony through his body as the broken rib protested the abuse.In the unbreakable hug, Peter was helpless to bring the rake around to do any damage. Pain stolehis breath. He was wrestled backward into the cellar, the rake dropping from numb fingers as thepressure on his chest increased relentlessly.

"Get him down!" A breathless voice spoke out of the darkness and Peter felt himself beingpressed to the cold floor, a knee in his stomach pinning him in place. His captor leaned over him,balancing his weight, and secured his arms to the floor. Peter's struggles didn't move him an inch.

The woman bent over him, then, her voice amazingly calm in all the confusion. "Take it easy,"she cautioned. "You're only making this harder on yourself I've got something that'll make youfeel better."

Peter's eyes focused on the hypodermic needle in her hands and he lunged up against theimmovable bulk bearing down on him. He was slammed back to the floor, his breath explodingout with the force of the impact.

The woman unbuttoned his shirt one-handed, taking her time as if oblivious to his helpless anduseless battle. She tilted the hypodermic in her free hand, letting a spark of light from the opendoorway glint off it as she depressed the plunger just enough to draw a pearl of liquid from theneedle.

Desperate in the face of being once again injected with an unknown drug, Peter twisted beneaththe man holding him down. His body contorted, his ankles catching the other man around thewaist. With a final, frantic effort, he dislodged the heavy body and squirmed out from underflailing legs. Trying to make it to his feet as he followed through with the kick, Peter foundhimself tangled in his unbuttoned shirt. He shrugged free of the clinging fabric in time to meet aheadlong rush from the barely shaken man he'd just unseated. Both bodies went down in a


thrashing sprawl, Peter landing on his back with three hundred pounds crashing down on top ofhim.

A wash of red obscured his vision as the breath again slammed out of him, then a prick of paindanced through his waning awareness. He opened his eyes to see the woman once again hoveringover him, the needle in her hand plunged into his unprotected stomach. Heat poured through hisbody on a wash of nausea. The fight flooded out of him on a wave of pain and breathless fear.

Leaden weights settled on his arms, melding him to the floor. In seconds, the giant holding himdown was able to release him. Peter was in no condition to react to the sudden freedom. From thecorner of his eye, he saw the needle retracted, then discarded, felt cold, gentle hands on his barechest, brushing a caress over his trembling skin.

"Let it happen," a lilting, feminine voice coaxed from the rapidly descending darkness. "You'llenjoy it if you just let it happen."

Her face wavered into his line of vision, shimmered in the pale light that filtered down the stairs,then faded away.

He heard the words, but could no longer decipher their meaning.

"I've got plenty more," she said softly. "You're going to get real used to it."

Struggling back out of the darkness, Peter tried to shift away as huge hands again clamped on hisarms, pressing him to the floor. The familiar face drifted into his line of vision, chilling him asthe memory surfaced through his confusion. Jonas Dirk. The man who had taken Paul away fromthem so many years ago. Jonas Dirk. He let it repeat in the murky corridors of his mind. He hadassumed the man was dead by now, or still in prison. Had hoped he would be. He had caused somuch pain already....

Dirk was speaking and Peter shook his head, trying to clear away the foggy cobwebs that snarledwithin his mind, trying to understand the words.

"...Just a little cooperation, Peter," Dirk was saying. "So we can get a message to your friend.You want to see Kermit, don't you? Right about now, I'd think you'd be very anxious to see him."

"L-Leave...me..." Peter's voice gave out, the words teetering on breathlessness.

"Leave you what?' Dirk mimicked. "Alone? Don't worry, Peter," he said, patting his prisoner onthe shoulder, "you'll be alone soon enough. Right now, I need a little of your blood."

"Wh-what?"

The knife blade caught the glint of light from the stairway, flickering before Peter's eyes with amesmerizing effect that tunneled his vision until all he could see was the wedge of silver inDirk's hand. For a moment he was back at the temple grounds, exploring the ruins, finding his


father's knife caught in a shimmer of fading sunlight. He reached for it...then Dirk's face joltedback into focus and he lurched up, trying to break the iron grip that pinned him to the floor. Themonster holding him down didn't even blink at the effort, merely flexed a tiny bit more muscleinto his grip.

"Give me his arm," Dirk ordered and the huge man lifted Peter's right hand, extending the elbowso that it was in Peter's line of sight.

Peter jerked away. His arm didn't move, trapped within the implacable grip. He flexed his knees,attempting to spur his legs into a kick, but his body seemed numb from the waist down. Nothingresponded to his effort. A wave of dizziness crested over him, threatening to drag him down intodarkness. He saw the knife moving toward the skin of his inner wrist and made a desperate effortto bring it into focus. The knife blade lay against the skin for a moment, then Dirk drew it acrossthe wrist, biting deeply into the tensed flesh. Blood welled to the surface of the cut, then spilledin a rush of gore over the skin. Peter tensed against the anticipated pain, but sensation was lost inthe increasing numbness that was stealing over his entire body. He felt the blood spill onto hischest and stomach and had a brief moment of concern that they would let him bleed to deathright here on the cold floor. The concern wafted away on another wave of dizziness. He wasshocked out of the daze by a sudden spark of pain. His eyes flickered open, his vision blurred,cleared, and he saw Dirk dragging his fingers across the wound. The blood-covered fingers thendropped out of sight and Peter lost his thread of attention.

"Give me the picture." Dirk's words fluttered through Peter's mind, making no sense.

Nausea teased at his throat, his stomach heaved in reaction and bone grated against bone in hischest. He was released, rode through a spasm of dizzy unawareness, then lurched back intoconsciousness.

There was no one in the room with him. For a moment he thought it had all been a dream, thenthe warm flow of blood at his wrist gave the lie to that theory. He tried to sit up, but his handsslipped in the blood on the floor beneath him. It took a second more concentrated effort to pushhimself into a seated position. His head swam, the darkness crushed in on him with an almostphysical weight, and he lifted his hand to inspect the deep cut that was still seeping blood. Theflow had eased and would probably stop soon enough on its own, but Peter tasted the metallictang of fear in his mouth as he watched crimson spread over his arm.

He found the discarded shirt then and pressed the material against the wound. Soon, however, theeffort became more than he could sustain and the pressure vanished as he listed sideways, thencurled down to the floor. On his side against the chill concrete, he drew his knees up to his chestand let the darkness swallow him.

*****

Eight o'clock was still two hours away when Kermit scooted his chair away from the computerscreen. His eyes blurred, then refocused. Hours planted in front of the computer were telling onhim in spite of the eye-saver screen he used. At least the information was complete. Peter's case


was going to be handed to him in-foto. Complete. Satisfyingly whole. The kid wasn't going tohave to even do legwork on this one. He'd damn well better appreciate it.

That thought woke a latent recognition deep within Kermit's mind. He hadn't seen Peter all day.Had expected the kid to be hammering on his door demanding results from the extensive paperchase he had been involved in the last two days. There had been no harassment from thepatience-impaired detective since early yesterday morning. That was too good to be true. Mustbe taking some time off, because Kermit hadn't seen him at the precinct house, either. He jerkedup the phone receiver, tried Peter's apartment number, got only the answering machine and hungup without leaving a message. He would leave the file on Peter's desk. He had done his part, andit was basically out of his hands now. A job well done. He had better get some appreciation forhis efforts, too, or Peter would find the information highway road blocked the next time heneeded access.

Broderick's entrance interrupted the reverie. He handed over a manila envelope with Kermit'sname scrawled across the face, and said, "This just came for you. Said it was important, to seethat you got it right away."

Kermit snatched the envelope from his hand.

"Thanks," Kermit said absently, and Broderick shrugged before leaving.

Kermit tossed the envelope on the desk and reached for his jacket. It could wait. He had twohours go get himself cleaned up and presentable before he had to pick up Karen. Hmrnm. Karen.Or Captain? In the hours they had spent entwined in each other's arms in his rumpled bed, theyhadn't gotten around to calling each other anything. What was the protocol when you were datingthe boss? He shrugged off the concern. After all, she had asked him out. It was in her court now.

He shoved his arms into the jacket, tugged his tie loose, and headed for the door. Somethingindefinable nagged at him and he turned with his hand already on the knob. The envelope lay inwait on his cluttered desk top, silently accusing him of neglect.

He sighed, released the door, turned and snatched it up. The clasp sliced his thumb and he cursedas he ripped the envelope the rest of the way open.

The single photograph slipped free of the package and into his hands. With an explosion of pent-up breath, Kermit sank back into the chair, the photo clutched between his hands. A lavenderpost-it note graced the upper right hand corner with a scrawled message that he ignored longenough for the image to imprint itself on his mind. Peter Caine lay on his side in a dimly litroom, his eyes closed, his hands wrenched behind him, obviously tied. His face was smearedwith blood, the entire right side bruised a garish purple. There was nothing identifiable about theroom he was in that Kermit could pick out at first glance. The note caught his attention then as hedragged his eyes away from the still figure.

"Be home at 9:00 p.m tomorrow, and you'll get a call telling you where you can pick him up."


That was all the note said. No signature. It didn't need one. A brown stain drew two letters overthe face of the photo. "J. D." Kermit didn't even have to search his memory for the name. JonasDirk. He had heard the man was being released from prison but hadn't put any further thoughtinto it. Dirk was a cripple now thanks to Kermit, with ten years of incarceration beneath his belt.He wasn't much of a threat. At least Kermit hadn't perceived him as such. He had forgotten thetie Dirk had to Peter Caine, though. He didn't have to use his imagination to figure out just whatthe brown letters meant.

Or whose blood had been used to make them.

Chapter Four

"Peter, I can't help you."

The door closed with a bang, shutting Peter away from the image slumped in a time-worn chair.Paul's face vanished, his voice faded into a blur of silence.

He tried the knob. It refused to turn at his touch.

"Paul!" He slammed his fists against the unforgiving wood of the closed door. There was noanswer from inside the room.

Stumbling, finding himself careening down a dimly lighted hallway, Peter bounced off one wall,righted himself and tried to turn back to find the door separating him from his foster father.

Cold seeped into him as he watched the corridor seal itself off, the line of doors vanishing one byone before he could move toward them. Paul would be forever trapped in that room, unless...thecold increased, leaching Peter's strength. He forced his good eye open to more darkness.

The face that greeted his faulty vision wasn't Blaisdell's, however. Instead, he looked up intobeautiful almond eyes. He recognized her as the woman by his car, dredging the memory upfrom the confusion of drug-induced dreams.

"Shhh," she whispered, though he hadn't tried to speak. "Just relax," she repeated her earlieradvice. "I've got something for you." The same words, the unspeakable threat laced in a gentle,melodious voice.

Peter saw the hypodermic then; he tried to rouse his sluggish body to fight against anotherinjection. Nothing moved. Pain darted through his chest with the useless effort, a headachepounded at his eyes, and he was helpless to do anything but watch as she prodded at his innerelbow, then carefully injected the hypodermic's cargo into his body.

He felt the first rush even before she withdrew the needle. By the time she had wavered back outof his line of vision, he was already floating off into another layer of unconsciousness.


A new voice cut through the fog settling over Peter's mind. "Did Kermit ever tell you about hisbrother?"

He focused with superhuman effort, his eyes trying to bring the face into a semblance ofrecognition. Searching for the name. More than ten years ago...he remembered...Paul was gone..Jonas Dirk....

"He was a cop," Dirk continued when he was certain he had Peter's attention. He was down onone knee beside Peter, propping himself up with a silver-headed cane. "Just like you are. Didn'tknow that, did you? Kermit doesn't share much of his past with anyone. Even someone he'sgotten close to, like you. It's a rare honor, you know, Peter?" He waited for a response, got none,only the vacant stare from clouded hazel eyes. "Kermit doesn't let many people matter to him.Trust me, I've made a point of keeping track of him. He made a mistake by letting himself careabout you."

"What...what...what do you want?" Peter asked around the cotton in his mouth, his tongue thickand unresponsive.

The man ignored the interruption. "He was also a junkie. David," he elaborated, "Kermit's kidbrother, David." He smiled, a feint shift of expression that did nothing to lighten his face. Hiseyes were coal black, dead orbs in a seamed face. "Before he died, they turned him back into anaddict. That's what hurt Kermit the most. He got clean and they turned him back before theykilled him. Wouldn't it be a shame if the same thing happened to you?"

Blindly groping through increasing fog, searching for substance to determine if he weredreaming, Peter reached up, his lax fingers skimming across the man's shoulder, the smear ofdried blood on his arm ghastly in the dim light. His hand was caught and trapped.

Dirk held it gently, inspecting it, heedless of the dried blood, splaying the fingers, turning it overwithin the warm pocket of his own palms.

"Doesn't look like there's any permanent damage, Peter," he offered. He rested the unresistinghand in one palm and ran his fingers lightly over the back of it. "Good as new. Guess I didn't dotoo good a job all those years ago. Ill try to do better this time."

He was still caressing the cold, limp fingers when Peter's eyes fluttered closed.

*****

"How can you be sure it's this Dirk character?" Karen Simms asked as she settled on theoverstuffed sofa, her knee barely making contact with Kermit's leg. She was dressed in black, anoff-the-shoulder gown that enfolded her curved body in a skin tight sheath. Golden hair cascadedover her shoulders. She was dressed for the theater, not a kidnapping.

Kermit barely noticed the transformation.


He took a long drink of the glass of scotch she had handed him, then said, "The initials. Son of abitch wrote them in the kid's blood. The initials narrowed the field down considerably, and Dirk'sthe one man I know who'd think of that nasty little touch."

"Were you able to trace the envelope?"

"No," Kermit admitted. "A courier service delivered it. Broderick didn't notice which one.Nothing out of the ordinary about the envelope. You can buy them in any Walmart by the boxload. Nothing on the photo to tell where it was developed. Not that he probably took it to hislocal camera shop anyway."

"What about Paul Blaisdell? Can you locate him? He's got a history with this man, you said."

"I've tried," Kermit said. "He's under too deep for me to find him."

"You'd think he'd keep in touch with his kids," Simms mused aloud with a trace of censorship inher voice.

"He asked me to keep an eye on Peter," Kermit countered. "Guess he thought I'd do a better jobthan this."

"What are you going to do?"

"Wait for 9:00 o'clock tomorrow night. Check out Peter's apartment. See if there's anything therethat'll tell me anything. Feel out his contacts on the street. See what I can pull up on Dirk on thecomputer."

"Why did you come to me with this?" she asked suddenly. "Why not Strenlich?"

"Frank's too close. He wouldn't be objective about it. I need backup I can count on being moredetached than he could be. He's known Peter since he was a boy."

"I thought you knew him then, too," Simms said.

"I met him when he was seventeen," Kermit said. "He dragged me into trouble then, too."

*****

The den was too quiet, as it always was when Paul was out of town. 'Out of town'. The wordshad never sounded ominous before, even though Peter had some concept of his foster father'ssporadic business trips. Annie had gone upstairs and vanished behind the closed door of herbedroom. Another first.

Peter couldn't make himself follow her, demand answers. He would have to find them on hisown.


He remembered the name Paul had given him and the caveat that had come with it. Now he hadto find a way to locate the man without letting his mother know what he was up to. They weren'tabout to let a seventeen-year-old boy take on a terrorist group somewhere out in the middle ofthe ocean. For a split second, he wished he had taken geography more seriously. He had no ideawhere St. Thomas was. Somewhere exotic. Somewhere foreign.

Paul's top drawer squeaked open and Peter held his breath for a moment, waiting to hear hismother's footsteps on the staircase. The house was silent. Carolyn was at cheerleading practice.Kelly was spending the night at a friend's house. When he heard nothing, he eased the draweropen and rummaged among the envelopes, pens, and usual debris of a home-office. He found thelittle leather book at the back of the drawer.

Turning the pages quickly, he got to the 'G's and used one finger to scan down the page. KermitGriffin. Programming Consultant. 1000 Bayview Drive. 804-555-8909.

*****

Peter shuffled his feet on the plush carpet outside the engraved door. "Kermit Griffin' wasemblazoned on a slab of brass plating directly at eye level. He knocked, wondered if he was justsupposed to open the door or search out a receptionist, then knocked again.

"Come in."

There was no note of welcome in either the words or the voice, only an impatiently barked order.Peter turned the knob and eased the door open.

Griffin-he assumed it was Griffin-was seated behind a computer-laden desk, his fingers stillpoised over a keyboard, green sunglasses tipped forward on the bridge of his nose.

"What?" he demanded when the boy edged into the room, instantly relegating him to the role of amessenger, wanting the package-there was no package, the boy's hands were empty-or messagedelivered so he could go back to more pressing details.

"Are you Mr. Griffin? Kermit Griffin?' There was a faint hint of stutter in the words.

"That's me. What do you need?" Kermit poked the sunglasses back up into place, effectivelyhiding his eyes as he studied the intruder with ill-concealed impatience.

"Do you know Paul Blaisdell?" Peter ventured, allowing himself a covert examination of theroom, finding nothing to reassure him that this was some sort of secret agent who could find andreturn his foster father. Books lined one entire wall from floor to ceiling, volumes jammed inhaphazardly on over-stuffed shelves. Monitors silently ran reams of indecipherable informationon a bank of more shelves. Less identifiable machinery beeped and burped from their positionsspaced around the room. It was a computer nerd's dream world, not the expected fortress.

"What about him?" Kermit finally answered the tentatively voiced question.


Taking a deep breath, Peter plunged in. The longer he waked, staring at this man with his pocket-protected pencils peeking out from under a nondescript suit jacket and his unfashionable red tie,the more he was convinced that he had the wrong office after all. Better to just go for it, hedecided before his disillusionment took over the whole mission. "He's in trouble. He needs help,"Peter blurted out.

Griffin's fingers stopped their restless tattoo of the keyboard. "What makes you think I can helphim?"

"He...he...he said you could. Said you would," Peter said, feeling the first wave of panic at thelukewarm reception.

"I'm not in the business any more, kid," Griffin said with an elaborate shrug of his shoulders."There're people who do that for a living. Not me."

"He said if things were really bad, and no one else could help him, that you could," Peter pressedthe point.

"And who are you?" Griffin eyed him over the rims of his glasses.

"I...I'm...rm his foster soa"

"Peter," Griffin said with an absent nod. "Yeah, he told me about you."

"Then you'll help him."

Griffin had to wonder how those two statements connected, but he didn't belabor the point,simply repeating, "I'm not in the business any more. That's what the State Department is for. Iassume he got in trouble on one of his little jaunts."

"He's being held by terrorists," Peter said, some of the excited fear working into his voice,sharpening the words. "Someplace called St. Thomas. A government man came by the housetoday and talked to Mom. Said they couldn't help. No one's going to help him."

"And what makes you think I can help?"

'"Cause he said you would."

"That was a long time ago. The things I owe Paul Blaisdell are in another land, in another time."

"Does that mean you won't help him?" There was a layer of horror spread through the words. Ithad obviously never occurred to Peter that he could be turned down in this quest.

"I'm up to my ears in work, kid. I've got a business to run here. I can't be hopping planes for theCaribbean just because you're worried about Paul. He's gotten himself out of worse scrapesbefore. Have a little faith in him."


Hazel eyes darkened, clouded, then cleared into angry slits in a suddenly flushed face, and Petersaid, "So I guess you aren't the friend that Paul said you were. Forget I asked." He spun aroundon one heel and was halfway to the door when Griffin's voice halted him.

"Shut up and sit down."

*****

He woke on a wave of nausea.

He was cold, the ground hard beneath his shivering body. The faint tattoo of rain pelted at theclosed windows high above his line of vision.

The nausea returned and he retched against it, his head pounding with pain. He felt her hands onhis shoulders even before he could make out her slender form curled over him. She eased him upagainst her body as the retching intensified. He vomited into the pan she held close to him,unable to hold off the wracking waves that spasmed through him. It seemed to take a very longtime for his stomach to empty of a long-forgotten meal until eventually he was heaving upnothing more than yellow bile. Still, the spasms rocked him until he collapsed into her arms andheld on tight.

She gently eased him back down to the floor. The concrete was frigid against his back, coldseeping deep into him to be released in uncontrollable tremors. She wiped at his sweat-linedforehead with a damp cloth, soothing a touch over his flushed face. When his breathing eased,she patted his naked shoulder and leaned closer.

"Don't worry, baby, I'll take care of you," she whispered, close enough that her breath ruffled thehair falling over his forehead. She let him see the hypodermic, taking her time, expressing a dropof glistening liquid from the end of the needle.

"Don't..." he murmured, his eyes repeating the plea mutely.

"Just a little more," she soothed, probing with one finger into the crook of his elbow.

He shook his head. "I...I...dont..."

"Shhh," she crooned. "It'll all be over soon." She plunged the needle into the pallid flesh of hisarm.

He twitched beneath her hands; his eyes squinted shut, then opened, blinking, searching again forher face.

"Why?" he whispered, unable to force enough air into his lungs to support more words.

"When you see Kermit Griffin," she answered with an echo of the sweet smile, "you ask him'why*. Maybe he can tell you."


Dirk's face replaced hers and seemed to take the momentary warmth with its appearance. "Hellbe here soon, Peter. You can ask him then."

"He won't come," Peter protested, his voice faint and hoarse with the effort to talk. "He's notstupid."

"He'll come," Dirk assured him. "We're using excellent bait. He won't be able to resist myinvitation."

"We're giving it to him too fast," the woman suddenly spoke up. "Too much, too fast. It's alreadysending him into convulsions. You're going to kill him before you hook him. We need to backoff some on the dosage."

"You worry too much, Miranda," Dirk said softly. "We don't have a lot of time to indulge infinesse. He's already getting the point, aren't you, Peter? You know the pain stops when we giveyou the drug. It won't take long for you to realty learn that lesson."

Peter's lips moved soundlessly as he tried to force more words out to meet the taunt, then hiseyes rolled up in his head and his body arched into a painful spasm.

Miranda waited out the convulsion that seized him and when his breathing again evened out, shegot up from her crouch. Glancing again at him, she retrieved the earlier discarded blood-soakedshirt and draped it over him before trudging back up the stairs without further argument.

****

Paul is gone. But it wasn't his choice. He was kidnapped. Time wove through his dreams,distorted, confused. He was seventeen years old and he didn't know what to do to help. He hadlittle faith in Kermit Griffin. The man didn't seem to care. Someone had to go along who cared ifPaul was returned safely or not, and there was only person up for the part. Griffin had receivedthe boy's announcement that he was accompanying the ex-mercenary with stone-faced silenceand then the unequivocal 'no' that Peter had been expecting. A threat to follow him had resultedin a reshuffling of Griffin's decisions, though the computer geek hadn't wasted any timeinforming Peter that he could lose him in less than five minutes. The idea of an impulsive,determined kid on his trail walking into the middle of a dangerous international incident on hisown hadn't appealed, however, and Griffin had finally given in to the inevitable.

Peter finished stuffing his clothes haphazardly into the overnight bag and took a final scan of thebedroom he'd occupied for the last two years, before zipping it shut.

His alibi was airtight. He thought. Randy Sutter would cover for him. Annie hadn't had anyproblem with the arrangements when Peter told her was going to spend the week at a cabin withRandy's family. It would only be one of many such visits. Martha Sutter was always threateningto charge Peter rent at the dinner table. And school was even cooperating with summer break.The only problem would be if the trip took longer than the week he had told Annie. He woulddeal with that when it came up. If it came up. It was always easier to ask for forgiveness rather


than permission. He'd never lied to Annie before, though. It hurt that he was doing so now, butthe stakes were just too high to take any chances. He grabbed up the bag and headed downstairs.

Chapter Five

The ship had been an experience in itself Peter had discovered seasickness and the fact thatstaring into the impossible depths of the ocean gave him the same effect as looking down fromany kind of height. He had hardly enjoyed the journey. The island of St. Thomas, on the otherhand, was a marvel of green and gold beauty that overwhelmed him and temporarily drove hisfears back into a lesser compartment of his mind. Nor was he ready for the local color' providedby the endless array of stores and restaurants that catered to both local and tourist trade. Kermitseemed to know them all.

The Parrot's Beak was a small diner and bar combo, squeezed in among a row of similar placesalong the narrow back street. The faded red and green bird on the sign was almost invisible andstrips of peeling paint distorted the letters of the restaurant's name. A nondescript brown dogslept on a pile of old tattered newspapers by the door, not even looking up when Griffin and histagalong backup opened the door. Smells of old grease and frying onions greeted them alongwith a burst of cool air from the ceiling fan above the entrance. The place was murky dark,adding to the illusion of cooler air.

Eyes adjusting slowly to the lack of overhead lighting, Peter Caine wasn't impressed with whatwas revealed. Mismatched tables and chairs, some with stained oilcloth tablecloths, some withbare tops, sat on top of cracked linoleum that was once, many years ago, white. A fly buzzedaround the counter that doubled as a bar. "Boy, Kermit, you sure know the best spots in town forlunch." He muttered the sarcastic comment under his breath, but not quietly enough.

"Shut up, kid. You just might be surprised." Kermit moved to the bar and tapped the silvertonebell by the cash register. The loud, jarring ring got immediate attention

A pretty young woman sauntered out of the back room, her steps speeding to a run as sherecognized Griffin. Throwing herself in his arms, she gave him a big kiss which he returnedenthusiastically. "Kermit, it has been so long."

Marie was a product of the islands, a mixture of many races brought to St. Thomas by the appealof a tropical paradise. Tall, slender beauty was accented by a bw-cut frilly blouse and short skirt.Golden hoop earrings bounced beneath heavy, dusty-black hair.

"Too long, sweetcakes." He kept his arm tightly around her and turned to Peter. "Peter Caine,this is Marie, the prettiest girl on the island. And the best cook."

The seventeen-year-old started and looked up, eyes quickly glancing over the vee in the girl'swhite blouse, hoping no one would notice he had been staring at Marie's long, bare legs. Mariewas probably the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She made his girlfriends back home looklike-well, schoolgirls.


"Uh, hi." Great, Peter. Really impress her. Cheeks turning red, he tried to find a way to make eyecontact without looking at any place on her body deemed inappropriate. He wasn't having muchluck. His eyes weren't doing what his brain was ordering them to do. The blush crept down hisneck.

Kermit was enjoying every minute of the boy's discomfort. He wasn't so old that he couldn'tremember what it was like to be a hormonally controlled teenager, and he also wasn't so old thathe wouldn't take advantage of the situation to get a few digs in that he felt Peter deserved. "Catgot your tongue, kid?"

Marie admired the lean, young body of the boy, not at all embarrassed by her own bold stare.She saw nothing wrong in enjoying the good looks of a man, and this one was certainly a prettypackage-from the fine features of his face to the muscular legs accentuated by tight, faded jeans.His shyness only added to his appeal. Most of the men she knew had long ago lost that.

"I bet you are hungry. Follow me."

She deliberately brushed against Peter as she passed him, her many-ringed fingers stroking hisbare arm just below the sleeve of his striped t-shirt. He jerked away as if he had been touched byfire and she laughed to herself The afternoon was definitely looking up.

Seating the two guests at her best table, the one with the newest tablecloth and best access to airfrom the fan, Marie delivered cold beers in frosty bottles, a local brew, also her best.

Peter gave the older man a sideways look to see if Kermit would say anything about his beingunderaged and then gulped down the cold liquid. Draining half the bottle before setting it down,he finally started to relax. The uneven legs of the wooden ladder-back chair tipped slightly andPeter rocked back and forth, needing the movement.

Griffin caught the look and knew exactly what the boy was thinking. Reading Peter Caine was aseasy as reading the morning newspaper-one glance at the front page and you knew everythingyou needed to know. It didn't bother him that the boy wasn't old enough to drink; he wasn't thekid's father and hell, no one was paying him to babysit. On the other hand, he had no intentionsof dragging a drunk around St. Thomas, so if he needed to, he would cut the kid offhand he hadbetter not get any arguments.

Peter played with a puddle of water on the red-checked oilcloth. "Do you think we'll find outanything soon?' He kept his eyes down, not wanting the mercenary to see how much the answermeant to him. The one day they had been on the island already seemed like a lifetime. He missedAnnie and his sisters. And he needed more than anything to know Paul was okay. He didn't knowwhat he would do if they didn't find his foster father. The knot that had lived in his stomach sincehe had heard Paul was missing grew a little larger.

Kermit frowned. "Not here." He knew Marie; he didn't necessarily trust her. Mercenariessurvived by being careful; he had learned that lesson a very long time ago and in the most painfulway possible.


Their hostess returned with a huge tray of food that she set in the middle of their table. Marieplaced paper napkins and silverware in front of them, then served the large plates filled with hot,garlic-scented food. Baskets of crispy fried bananas and crusty, whole-grained bread took up therest of the space.

"You need more beer."

Peter's stomach grumbled loudly, expressing its dissatisfaction with the lateness of the lunchhour. He blushed, wishing he could crawl under the table. Nothing seemed to go right when shecame around. It just wasn't fair.

"Please, begin eating." She smiled at the boy and left to return shortly with two more bottles. "Iwill be in the kitchen. I'll check on you later."

Kermit and Peter dug into the steaming chunks of garlic pork buried in mounds of tasty blackbeans hotly spiced with peppers, onions, and more garlic. Kermit broke off a chunk of the thickbread and dipped it into the brown gravy. "Told you she was a good cook."

Peter couldn't answer as his mouth was full, but he agreed one hundred percent with Griffin'sassessment. He took a long swallow of the icy beer to cool the heat from a mouthful of peppers,then reached for a handful of the fried bananas. He was surprised to find them not sweet at all,more like an extra-crispy French fry.

Not another word passed between them until both plates were clean.

Marie joined them, taking away the dirty dishes and wiping off the table with a few swipes of adishcloth, then taking a chair right beside Peter. She pulled it closer to the boy until their kneestouched. More beer than Peter was used to loosened inhibitions, and he leaned close enough tosmell her flowery perfume.

"Thanks for lunch. It was great."

She rewarded his compliment with a big smile and touched his hand.

Unconsciously, he played with a strand of her long hair that brushed his shoulder, enjoying itssilky feel.

Kermit watched his young partner become bolder with each passing moment. You better watchit, kid, he thought. You're playing with the grown-ups now. She eats babies like you forbreakfast.

Leaning over to whisper something in Peter's ear, Marie ran her hand up and down the muscularupper arm. She finished her teasing comment with a soft breath that tickled.

Kermit could see the boy squirm in his chair as whatever Marie had told him set hormonesjumping. He ventured a guess that the kid wasn't a virgin, few seventeen-year-old boys were, but


he was sure Peter's sexual experiences didn't include a hot item like Marie. Yep, she's got yournumber. A little more than you're used to handling, right? The mercenary could almostsympathize. Marie was one hell of an attractive woman and could turn the crank of a man a lotmore experienced than Peter without even trying.

Marie giggled and leaned closer to Peter, practically crawling into the boy's lap. One handmoved up his thigh, her fingers stroking over the tight material.

It was time to call a halt to their activity. A little harmless flirting was one thing, but Griffinsuspected Blaisdell wouldn't appreciate his allowing Peter to gain the sort of experience theteenager was about to be exposed to. Let the kid broaden his horizons when someone else was incharge of him. That decided, he shoved back his chair and stood, stretching to pull Marie up withhim. Before she could protest, he wrapped his arms around her and mumbled something in herear that made her look at Peter and laugh. Kermit patted her shapely behind as he released herafter kissing her on the lips, a long kiss that they both enjoyed.

Peter scowled at them, a furious blush painting his face bright red. He'd caught the word'children' as Kermit spoke to the woman. He had been doing fine on his own. Let Kermit go findhis own girl. Their kiss just added fuel to the fire, and it stung his fragile ego that she could go soeasily from one man to another. He wriggled a little, uncomfortable. Too-tight jeans justemphasized another problem that he wasn't sure how to deal with.

"C'mon, kid. We've got work to do." Kermit gave Marie one last peck on the cheek, which sheeagerly returned.

Peter climbed slowly to his feet, body tense with painful teenage insecurity as he tried to anglehimself away from their view. He was sure his problem was glaringly obvious to the world. Hemumbled a good-bye and stalked out of the diner as fast as he could.

Marie followed Peter's exit with a sense of sadness. "You should've let me...."

Handing her a sealed envelope, Kermit interrupted her. "No, kid's got too much on his platealready. It's best." He left the Parrot's Beak, squinting as the sharp sunlight hurt his eyes. Peterwas leaning against the building and it looked like things were under control.

"You okay?" He didn't wait for an answer, but headed down the sidewalk, avoiding the holes. Heknew Peter was following him. -Tough world. And it's gonna get tougher.

*****

He was waiting for her.

The darkness settled on him like a weight.

The only thing that would stop the pain was the poison that she kept injecting into his veins. Inspite of the instinctive loathing Peter Caine held for drugs, he was counting the time until he


heard the tip-tap of her heels on the stairs. He could no longer think beyond the pain radiatingfrom his body, the gnawing ache that had burrowed deep inside him. He had found the blood-stained shirt she'd covered him with, but was unable to coordinate his movements enough to slipit back on. Instead, he clutched it in his fist as if it could provide security.

His muscles ached from the exertion forced upon him by the convulsions that followed eachinjection, and his rib was a stabbing pain every time he tried to move. His back throbbed andpulsed with a pounding ache that worsened with each shallow breath. The rain was constant now;he couldn't remember when he hadn't heard it beating against the windows. He was going to diein this filthy cellar with no one to witness his agony but the rats that scurried closer to him aseach hour passed, as if they sensed his weakening. The fatalistic idea nudged at his conscience.He couldn't just give up, but there was no strength left even to offer token resistance. They nolonger sent the giant down with the woman, nor did Dirk accompany her; she needed no help insubduing him. He could only lie on the cold floor as she injected the drug into him, feel itcoursing through his veins, bringing back the spiral of nightmares and dream-dotted sleep after itfinally released him from the inevitable seizures. He didn't notice the passing of feint daylightshafting through the murky windows, only the relentless drum of rain against the glass.

He glanced at his watch but the numbers blurred and collided in a crazy visual ballet and he gaveup the effort. He had no idea how much time had passed or how much of the drug he'd absorbed,only that he could no longer control any part of his body. He'd only been out of the cellar twicewhen the man he'd come to know as Monster' in the shadowed corridors of his mind (though he'dheard the man called Hogan by the woman) had half-carried him up the stairs and let him use thebathroom on the first floor. The humiliation of having company then barely nudged past histhoughts. He was too far out of it to even try to make an escape. He simply allowed himself to behauled up and down the stairs without any effort on his part. He had even begun to hope thatKermit really would come in spite of knowing it was a trap, or that his father hadn't really setfoot on that jet that was whisking him across the world. If Caine were here, he would reverse theeffects of the drugs with his unlimited warehouse of mysterious herbs. Peter wouldn't even rebelagainst drinking any of the foul-smelling tea concoctions, he decided, if his father would onlyshow up and take him home. He fell into a restless sleep with the image of his father's belovedface fading through his mind.

*****

"It's open."

That came as a surprise. Simms had expected to be granted admission to Kermit Griffin's homethrough a series of state-of-the-art locks and security systems. An open door policy hardlyseemed like the ex-mercenary's style.

She stepped into the room, tugging the door shut behind her. Kermit was sitting hunched over acomputer terminal in the far corner of the living room, surrounded by technology, somecomponents identifiable, some decidedly exotic and unrecognizable.

"Have a seat," he offered without looking up. "I'm almost done."


She walked over to the couch and shifted a pile of manuals and magazines over to make roomenough to sit. His apartment had an overall cluttered look, though when she actually scanned theroom there wasn't that much in it. Mostly books and magazines with a few elaborate figurinesthat had obviously been imported from foreign locales. His taste, she found, was excellent butselective. He wasn't one to pile on the knick knacks to give a homey touch to the place. She hada slanted view of the attached kitchen, enough to see that the counter was marble with anoverloaded wooden rack of wine bottles.

"Got it." His voice, self-satisfied and deep, startled her out of scooping out the area.

"Got what?' she covered the 'caught-in-the-act' feeling with the question.

"Property that Dirk owns upstate. Near Hendersonville. His only sister died while he was still inprison and left him some land and a house that he's never used. Before, that is. I accessed powercompany records-don't ask-and the power's been turned on in that house within the last week.That's got to be where they're holding Peter."

"Then what are we waking for?'

"Nine o'clock," Kermit answered with a cursory glance at his watch.

Simms noticed that he didn't have the omnipresent sunglasses on. His eyes were brown andpenetrating, without the artificial barrier he usually imposed on himself.

Unconsciously, she glanced down at her own watch. Five minutes separated them from themagic hour of the anticipated phone call. Kermit had assured her that they wouldn't kill Peteruntil they had gotten what they wanted. After all, bait wasn't much good if it wasn't at leastpromised. Neither of them was laboring under the false impression that Peter would be returnedalive when the expected trade was completed. She knew that was the reason Kermit had invitedher in. Without backup, there was no chance of getting Peter out alive when Kermit offeredhimself up as sacrifice. From the photo, she had little hope that Peter was in very good condition.They probably couldn't count on any help from him in the rescue attempt.

"Have we got a plan?" she ventured as she settled deeper into the plush cushions of the couch.

Any answer he might have offered was waylaid as the phone shrilled on the table next to her.Simms jumped, her breath catching in her throat. She covered the reaction with, "They're early."

Darting across the room, Kermit waited until the phone had repeated its insistent ring threetimes, then he snatched up the receiver.

The disembodied voice on the other end of the line didn't wait for more than a perfunctory "hello'before saying, "Let's make a deal, Griffin. I've got something you want. You're something I want.What do you say?'

Kermit responded with the knee-jerk line, "How do I know he's alive?'


"Want to talk to him?'

"Yeah, I want to talk to him."

"He's not real cooperative," Dirk said sadly as if he were tremendously embarrassed to relay thisinformation. "In fact, he's downright unhelpful. Ill try to get him to talk to you."

Kermit waited out the muffled rumblings of noise. The phone line crackled with the echoes of astorm-tossed night, mirroring the whistle of wind outside Kermit's own windows. If they werewhere his computer paper-trail had said they were, they would be suffering the same violentweather as he was. In the background, Dirk's voice was muted, but definitely argumentative,though Kermit couldn't make out the exact words. He could just imagine how frustrating it mustbe to try to convince Peter Caine to talk when he didn't want to, no matter what they had done tohim. The kid gave new parameters to the idea of stubbornness.

Chapter Six

"He knows we have you, Peter," Dirk said, his tone wheedling, an edge of impatience underlyingthe words. "All you have to do is let him hear your voice and hell come get you. Don't you wantout of here? Don't you want Kermit to come for you?"

"Go to hell," Peter muttered, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry over thetelephone line. If they thought they were going to use him as bait to lure Kermit into a trap, theyhad better revise their plans. He wasn't stoned enough, or in enough pain, to betray a friend.

Hogan adjusted his hold to squeeze a moan of protest out of Peter. He had his prisoner seated ina ladder-back chair, his hands wrenched behind him.

Peter wasn't steady enough on his feet to even try to stand. The last injection had been less than ahalf hour ago and his head swam with half-formed images and distorted colors. At the moment,Dirk's face was a bilious green and the phone receiver in his hand was a wavering mass ofmalformed black cloud.

Dirk studied him for a moment, then glanced up at Hogan. "Do it," he said softly.

Do what? Peter wondered vaguely, but he wasn't left to ponder long. Hogan jerked his right handaround so that Peter could see k. Miranda moved behind him and pinned the left hand behind hisback, getting only the faintest pulse of resistance. Peter couldn't coordinate which hand waswhich, much less make them move separately. He stared stupidly as Hogan straightened hisblood-encrusted arm and clasped his hand in both of his own massive paws.

"One last chance, Peter," Dirk said.

Peter tried for a defiant glare; all he managed was a glazed mask of confusion.

Dirk nodded. Hogan flexed Peter's fingers.


Pain bolted all the way up through Peter's shoulder and he screamed as the bones in two of hisfingers snapped with the pressure. His mind fled backward in time. He saw the car door, knew itwas about to destroy his hand...all he could see was the coldness in Dirk's eyes as they waited theinterminable moments before the door was slammed...

*****

The scream jolted through the wire like a shock wave. Kermit yanked the receiver away from hisear, his face going pale, a sensation of butterfly-nausea arcing through his stomach. Just asquickly, he plastered the receiver back to his ear in time to hear Dirk say, "Now you know we'vegot him and he's still alive. Do we have a deal?"

"What the hell did you do to him?" Kermit demanded, not able to erase the echo of the agonizedscream from his attention.

"Just reminded him of the last time we met," Dirk said blandly. "You'd better make up yourmind, Griffin. He's not in real good shape. He's been on speedballs for the last two days, and I'mnot real sure we haven't overdosed him. What's your answer?"

"Where are you?" From the corner of his eye, Kermit could see Simms watching him with ascowl of concern on her face. She made no move to demand information, and he indulged in theluxury of appreciating that for a fleeting second.

"Two hours north of the city. Highway 97. There's a town called Hendersonville. On theoutskirts, there's a cafe. The 97 Truck Stop. Across from it is a park. Meet us at the fountain inexactly two and a half hours. That'll give you some leeway. If it takes you longer than that, it'stoo bad. Peter's dead. You got all that?'

"I've got it.," Kermit acknowledged.

"I don't suppose I have to belabor the point and tell you to come alone?"

"I figured that out all by myself. Will Peter be with you?'

"Well take you to him," Dirk countered, "as soon as we know you're playing by the rules. Take itor leave it.. It's the only offer you'll get."

"I'll be there."

"Somehow, I knew you would be."

*****

Lightning streaked across an ink-black sky. Wind roared and whistled through the torturedbranches of the trees that stood in its way, bending them with spine-cracking force. With eachstroke of light, the house nestled against the lake was illuminated with stark clarity. There was


only one light burning inside in what Kermit assumed must be the living room. The circulardriveway was empty. No sign of a car anywhere around. It would be too much to hope that Dirkhad left for the meet site without leaving a guard on Peter, but if the kid were truly doped up aswell as injured-as suggested in the photograph engraved on Kermit's memory-there was thepossibility that only one guard was left behind. That put the odds in their favor.

Of course, there was no way to estimate how long Dirk would wait for a contact that wasn'tgoing to show up at a fountain in a nameless park on the outskirts of Hendersonville. Theirwindow of opportunity might be small, indeed.

"The photograph looked like it was taken in a basement," Simms offered as they both staredintently at the house that appeared and disappeared on the whim of the lightning.

"There's a line of windows on this side," Kermit affirmed. "Ground level, but they looked bigenough to get a body through as near as I could tell. The visuals leave something to be desired."

"They'll have left a guard," Simms echoed his earlier thought. "I'd say upstairs since that's wherethe light is. Do you think Peter's still in the basement?'

"I think that's where we should start," Kermit answered. "If he's down there, he's alone. No lightat the windows."

"At any rate, it'll give us access to the house without having to waltz in the front door."

"Let's go." He handed her a headset, then without explanation adjusted his own, settling thegoggles over his eyes, trusting that she would know what to do with the set. The night visionheadgear activated, and he got a surrealistic, but clear, picture of the house and the terrainbetween them and the driveway. Their car was far enough off the road that it wouldn't be seen byanyone approaching or from the interior of the house. He was glad they had decided at the lastmoment to take Simms' Land Rover. Not only was it much less conspicuous than the lime greenKermitmobile, but it hadn't balked at the idea of traveling cross country or being ditched in athicket of wind-tossed trees. He shifted his gear to his right hand and followed the captain outinto the rain. A quick glance at the lighted face of his watch told him they had barely twentyminutes to spare before Dirk should start getting antsy and return to the hideout. They wouldn'thave much leeway between breaking into the house under the convenient cover of the noisystorm and getting back out with Peter-in an unknown condition. He wondered briefly if, betweenthe two of them, they could carry him if it proved necessary. Peter probably weighed a good one-seventy. Oh well, he considered, he could always fell back on the old fireman's carry if he had to,though he was already working on a hernia. Kid better appreciate all this effort.

They were halfway to the house, flitting from shrub to shrub, buffeted by the merciless gales ofwind, when the single light was suddenly extinguished in concert with a loud clap of thunder.

*****


"Shit." Miranda breathed out the protest as the room was plunged into darkness to theaccompaniment of the endless roll of thunder. It couldn't be any noisier if she were in the middleof a disco. She started for the basement stairs to check on their prisoner, then reconsidered, anddetoured to the kitchen. She might find a flashlight in one of the cabinets or drawers and shewouldn't have to brave the darkness of the clammy basement.

She was walking into doors by the time she made it into the kitchen. Fumbling, blinded exceptwhen lightning crackled through the sky, she started her Braille-search of the first drawer shecame across.

*****

The window frames were painted shut.

The night vision gear penetrated the gloomy room through the streaked surface of the glassenough to let Kermit search for an occupant. He found what he was looking for in his secondvisual sweep of the murky interior. Peter lay on his side against the concrete wall, hunched intothe corner, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was shirtless and Kermit was pretty sure he knewwhat the dark stain that covered most of his chest and stomach was. Too much blood, he thought.They were too late. He wasted a precious minute holding his breath watching for any sign ofmovement. Finally, he shook off the reactive lethargy and broke out his tools. The glass cutterfell onto the ground and he scooped it up. The lightning was playing hell with the night vision,clouding their sight with each blast of yellow that lit the sky around them.

Rain pelted his back, streaming into his eyes. Simms was huddled next to him, her slender bodyshivering uncontrollably. He felt her move the knapsack out of his way and settle back while hewent to work on the glass. The window was going to be barely large enough for them to getthrough. Nobody was cutting them much slack on this mission, he noted sourly as he scratchedthe blade over the glass. Cutting all the way to the wooden frame to allow them as much room aspossible, he eased the pane of glass out and handed it to Simms. She moved it over to her rightand set it on the grass out of their way. Without a word, Kermit wriggled through the opening,dropping soundlessly to the ground inside the pitch black room. He didn't hear Simms followhim, just assumed she was there, as he made his way through the litter to Peter's still form-As hefell to his knees beside Peter, he scanned the room, evaluating defenses automatically. Blockingthe door at the head of the stairs sounded like a good idea, but the ancient wooden stairs wouldprobably announce their intentions even over the roar of the insistent thunder. He shelved thatidea

Simms was beside Peter even as Kermit's knee hit the cement floor. She turned him onto hisback. He flopped over lifelessly, but a reassuring moan slipped from his slightly parted lips at themovement. Blood, black in the darkness, smeared across his chest and stomach and it tookKermit a moment's inspection to find the source of it. The deep gash in Peter's right wrist spokeeloquently of the bloody initials on the photograph.

The bleeding had long since stopped, but Kermit could tell, even in the darkness, that it neededstitches. A cursory glance brought his eyes back to the hand of that same cut arm. The knuckles


of two fingers were grotesquely swollen and Kermit suddenly and irrevocably knew the cause ofthe scream that had shocked him over the phone. Dirk was playing nasty games with the kid'smemory. It was a particularly gruesome reminder. Kermit shoved it out of his mind. Therewould be time later to demand retribution.

He slipped out of his jacket and struggled to get it around Peter's limp body. He was very carefulwith the injured arm and it took minutes they couldn't spare to get the coat settled and zipped up.But Kermit wasn't eager to add pneumonia to the list of injuries.

"Get through the window, and I'll hand him up to you," he said as Simms got to her feet, helpingdrag Peter up into a wobbly stand. "Think you can pull him up by yourself?"

"I'll have to, won't I?" she said.

"Yeah," he agreed, never doubting that somehow her hundred and ten pounds would be able tomanage Peter's much larger body.

Simms was through the window, hauling with all her strength, when the electricity flicked backon. That was how they discovered that they had breached a security system when they had cutthrough the window. A siren shrilled out their presence just as Peter's booted feet vanishedthrough the window. Kermit heard the door creak open at the head of the stairs, heard thetentative footfall on the top step, and jammed his body through the almost-too-small spaceexactly one second before a bullet pinged off the wall inches from where he had just beenstanding.

With Simms' help, he flung Peter over his shoulders and staggered into the closest line ofswaying trees.

Chapter Seven

Cursing creatively, Miranda slammed off another useless shot, then spun around on the stairs andraced for the front door. Light, restored in the living room, kept her from careening into thefurniture. She yanked the door open just as headlights veered into the drive. Without heed for theslanting rain, she ran into the path of the sedan, her .44 clutched in her white-knuckled hand.

"They've got him!" she shrieked over the wind and thunder. "They went out the side!"

Dirk and Hogan were out of the car practically before it rolled to a stop, Hogan's gun appearingmagically in his hand, Dirk leaning heavily on the silver-headed cane.

"Which way?' Hogan demanded.

Miranda pointed vaguely off into the darkness at the side of the house.

Hogan didn't wait for further directions.


*****

"I'm going back."

"The hell you are," Simms countered.

"They almost killed him," Kermit snapped back at her. "Hell, I'm not sure yet that they haven'tdone just that." He cut a quick glance over to the back seat of the Land Rover where Peter hadlanded, sprawled unconscious on the leather seat, his lean body lost in the folds of Kermit's coat.

"That's what we have to take care of now," Simms responded in her most reasonable voice."Peter needs a hospital. You willing to put that off while you try to run down the men who didthis?"

There was no argument he could offer to that. But the idea of Dirk slipping through his fingersrankled more than anything had in years. The argument died stillborn, though, when dual lightssuddenly stabbed out of the blackness.

Kermit hit the ignition with a quick flex of his wrist and the engine sparked into life. The tiresspun on sodden grass, then caught, and he stomped on the accelerator just as the headlightsbounced off the side of the Rover, pinpointing their position. The big vehicle lumbered out ofthe trees and the tires found purchase on the dirt road in spite of the rivulets of mud that flowedover the sides of the crude highway. They were only seconds ahead of the other car.

Metal pinged off metal and Kermit shouted, "Get down!" to Simms as another bullet spat fromthe pursuing vehicle.

Instead of obeying the barked order, the captain vaulted over the back of the seat, landing on theedge of the cushion. She pulled Peter's unresponsive body off the seat and tumbled him to thefloorboard, throwing herself over him as a human shield.

Another bullet took out a rear tire and the Rover squealed in protest as it dropped down to therim, skewing sideways in the mud. Kermit yanked the steering wheel to the right and they roaredoff the road, barely skirting around the densely packed trees that rose in their headlights likespectral monsters groping for them

He forced the crippled car deeper into the woods, skidding recklessly on the root-strewn, leafcovered ground. The headlights of the pursuing vehicle veered off, then slewed around to facethe broken trail they left in their wake.

Kermit propelled the car through the trees until the ruined tire decided it had had enough. Therim skidded in the mud and the car was wrenched to a sideways halt. He was slammed into thesteering wheel as the car jolted to a stop.

"You okay?" he breathed out around the pain in his chest.


Simms didn't bother to answer the query. "How far back are they?"

"They stopped at the road," Kermit assured her. "I don't know if they're going to try to come inafter us or if they'll wait out the storm. If they got any sense, they'll wait until daylight. We're outin the middle of nowhere."

"Not nowhere," Simms said, unwinding from the floor, trying to pull Peter back up onto the seat."This is a fishing tourist trap. There are cabins all through these woods. Maybe even one with aworking telephone."

"Then we better find one, hadn't we?"

*****

"Let them go."

Hogan spun around in a crouch to face his employer, his massive face a parody of stunnedsurprise. "What the hell do you mean?' he demanded.

"I mean, let them run. Let them play out their leash until this storm eases up and we have somedaylight to work with."

"They could be anywhere," Hogan insisted. "How will we find them if we give them that muchof a lead? They'll get help somewhere."

"Not this time of year," Dirk said. "I checked. None of the cabins on the lake are in use. None ofthem have working electricity or phone service. Not within any walking distance anyway. They'llhole up in one. We'll wait until we can see three feet in front of our faces, then simply track themto whatever hole they've crawled into."

"You sound pretty sure of that," Miranda put in.

"Caine's not in any condition to go far. They'll take the first shelter they come across and hopefor the best. In the morning, they're sitting ducks."

"What makes you think they'd be so stupid as to take the first place they find?" Miranda asked,still skeptical. One of Dirk's flaws was his overconfidence. This was hardly the time to indulgehim

"How long's it been since you gave Caine a shot?"

"Three, four hours. I don't know."

"He'll start going through withdrawal any time now. They'll have their hands so full with himthat they'll have to take what they can get." He hunched his shoulders up, the chilled rainwakening old wounds. "Let's get back to the house. No sense in sitting out here in this weather."


*****

Peter had revived enough to plant one foot in front of the other. Not much else. He didn't evenanswer direct questions, just responded mechanically to the order to move. Kermit and Simmshad his arms draped over their shoulders, supporting most of his weight as they staggeredthrough the dense trees.

Rain assaulted them, wind cut its inexorable path through soaked bodies, and the discarded nightvision gear lay behind in the wrecked vehicle. Between flashes of lightning, they were virtuallyblind.

Treacherous tree roots plucked at their feet. They dodged and fumbled their way over them untila stroke of lightning again blinded them. Kermit's foot caught the vine-encrusted root and hewent down, pulling both Peter and Simms with him to the sodden forest floor.

Simms shuffled out from under Peter, cradling him against her body. He was shiveringuncontrollably so she tugged at the coat, pulling it tighter around him, knowing it was meagerprotection from the icy wind. She felt the spasm wrack its way through his body just in time toshift him before the vomiting started. More concerned with keeping him from choking than withany potential mess, she held him tightly through the seemingly interminable retching. Hisstomach, long ago emptied of any remnants of past meals, produced nothing but bile, and little ofthat. She filed away that information. They'd have to get some fluids into him soon.

Her own body was protesting the rough treatment she was subjecting it to; her hair streamed inher eyes, her knees trembled with the strain of trying to support Peter's weight, and her headached with the cold. For a moment, she was lost in the realm of her own misery, then Kermit'svoice brought her back to the immediacy of their situation.

"It's over," he said gently, wiping Peter's mouth with the back of his hand.

She looked up at him. Without his coat, Kermit's shirt was plastered to his skin, his tie wasaskew and half-unknotted at his throat. Ruefully, she shook her head. They were all a mess.

"Let's go," Kermit directed.

The prompt shook her free of the thoughts languidly floating through her mind like sludge, andshe helped haul Peter to his feet.

This time, however, there was no response from his limp body and Kermit grunted as he duckedand hoisted Peter across his shoulders. Without a word, he started moving, hunched over,straining with the effort.

By the time they had stumbled across the cabin, Simms was practically asleep on her feet. Itcrossed her mind that sleepiness wasn't the best response to their situation, but the cold leachedher strength and her body had had enough. In a daze, she followed Kermit up onto the woodenporch.


He shifted his burden to free one hand and Simms watched as he poked a wire into the lock. Thedoor opened to his touch.

They stepped into the musky chill of an unused cabin. His eyes adjusting quickly, the skill ofdiscerning things through the dark serving him well, Kermit didn't hesitate at the moose-head-decorated living room; instead, he went for the first door he came across on his right. It openedonto a bathroom; he continued down the hall. The second door provided him with a bedroom andhe gratefully deposited his burden in the first of two twin beds. Peter lay as he fell, his eyesclosed, his breathing shallow and ragged, face a ghastly shade of grey.

Straightening, cracking a kink out of his back, Kermit turned to Simms who had trailed in afterhim.

"Get his clothes off;" he said, "while I check this place out."

Startled out of any possible retort by the perfunctory command, Simms watched him leave theroom, then glanced back at Peter's ashen face. "This certainly wasn't in the job description," shemuttered as she started to work on the semi-frozen zipper of the jacket with numb fingers.

*****

The phone wasn't connected. That was the first thing Kermit tried after stumbling his waythrough the dark living room. None of the wall switches responded to his impatient flicks. Sothere was no electricity either. Other amenities, however, were provided in abundance. He foundclosets full of clothes, shelves stocked with canned goods and a fully equipped first aid kit on thebathroom shelf Even a prescription bottle of aspirin with codeine. He snatched the bottle up, thenreluctantly replaced it as he recalled the chilling announcement that Peter had been treated to adrug regimen while he was being held in the cellar. He wasn't willing to risk mixing drugs in asystem already overloaded with them.

He shed his sodden clothes and shrugged into a grey jogging suit before searching more,deciding he had better change while he had a shred of privacy. He might have invited Simms tostrip Peter naked, but he wasn't quite ready to provide a strip show of his own, at least not justyet at this stage of their relationship.

The change of clothing was an immediate improvement. Even in the unheated interior of thecabin, he was suddenly much warmer. With the pleasant sensation of heat came an unwelcomedrowsiness. He shook off the lethargy and gathered up two sets of clothing, the first aid kit, and acouple of wash cloths and towels. A Kero-sun heater in the living room was, mercifully, full offuel. He snagged it by the metal handle as he completed his rounds. Finding a pot in the kitchen,he filled it with water, unfortunately cold water was the only option, and carried the whole loadback to the bedroom.

*****


Simms tugged off the last of Peter's soaked clothes and dropped the whole mess into a soggy pileon the carpet with a silent apology to the absent owners.

Dirt and blood streaked his pale body, mingling with ugly bruises. There was a suspiciousswelling over one rib, along with a technicolor display of bruising that warned her of a possiblebreak. They would have to be careful how they moved him. She filed the thought away in asecondhand compartment of her tired mind. Gently, she turned him enough to get a glimpse ofhis back. The spectacular bruising was repeated below his waist and she wondered what kind ofshape his kidneys were in. It was doubtful he could have received a blow that vicious withoutinflicting some damage. She let him drop back to the sheets and sighed at the lack of response tothe forced movement. He was definitely, completely out. There hadn't even been a whimper ofprotest to movement that she knew had to hurt, no flutter of reaction in the dark eyelasheslayered against a pallid face.

Footsteps behind her brought her attention around to Kermit. He set the first aid kit on the bed,dropped the clothing beside her, and placed the pot of water on the nightstand.

"Better clean him up while he's quiet," he suggested, but Simms had already reached for one ofthe washcloths and water. Kermit shuffled the Kerosene close to the bed and lit the wick,providing not only warmth but a measure of light as well.

Simms started dabbing at the blood smeared across Peter's chest and stomach. As her handsroamed over the gently curved planes of his body, she felt her emotions jitter betweenappreciation and maternal concern. She mentally smacked herself for the appreciation. Peterwasn't much older than her own son. But she was a healthy woman and there was no denyingthat the hyper kinetic bundle that was Peter Caine was packaged very nicely, in spite of thebruises and dirt. As she skimmed the damp cloth over a livid bruise on his thigh, mistaking it fordirt in the dim light, Peter suddenly lunged up on the bed, trying to shove her away, his eyes stillsquinted tightly shut.

"N-n-no..." he stuttered.

From the opposite side of the bed, Kermit grabbed him by the shoulders and gently pressed himback to the mattress. "Easy, Peter, take it easy, we've got you, you're safe," he cautioned, tryingwith his touch and voice to break through the blind panic that powered the weak struggle.

Peter grabbed at Kermit's hands, resisting with little strength, then gasped and arched his backagainst an assault of pain. The combination of motion and pain brought on another attack of dryheaves, and he doubled over onto his side as he retched helplessly.

Simms caught him in her arms as he jackknifed, and she cradled his head against her chest whilethe spasms rocked through his trembling body. It was long minutes later when he finally slumpedagainst her, spent and exhausted. Still holding him against the cushion of her breasts, she rockedhim slightly and ran a hand through the wet, tangled mass of his hair, her stroking fingersproviding a measure of comfort that was far more than just the physical contact. She could feelhim relaxing slightly beneath her touch.


When the tremors eased, she lowered him back to the bed. His skin was prickled withgoosebumps, and Simms said, "Let's get some clothes on him and get him covered up. He'scold."

Kermit retrieved the sweats he'd deposited on the floor beside her. He pulled the soft pants upover Peter's legs and hips, then let his hand skim over the lump on his rib cage.

"Broken rib," he decided. "Better try to keep him as still as possible. That may not be easy," headded ominously.

Simms was already working the sweat shirt over Peter's head, struggling to get his limp armsthrough the sleeves. It was as bad as dressing a sleepy child, she thought with a wry twist ofrecollection. It had been a long time since she had played mother/nurse.

She shrugged off the image with, "We need to force some fluids into him. There may be kidneydamage from a bbw to his back, and I doubt they took care of the amenities while they wereholding him. He's probably dehydrated on top of everything else."

As she eased Peter down to the pillows, Kermit yanked the blankets up over him.

"Oh, yeah," he murmured, though it held only the faintest thread of his usual brassy intonation.She glanced up at him. He was watching Peter's expressionless face with an almost mesmerizedgaze, as if he were drifting along the dim corridors of his own mind.

"Tell me," she said softly, her gaze never leaving Kermit's face. She could see him only in profilein the faulty light from the kerosene heater, but his features were a pale landscape lost in someinternal struggle she couldn't be privy to. She didn't expect an answer, so was surprised when hespoke.

"My brother, David," he said, his voice toneless, barely reaching her over the silence of theshuttered room. "He was an addict as a teenager. I helped him through his withdrawals. It was ahell I never wanted to live through again. Dirk knew about it. That's why he's done this to Peter.That's why he kept him prisoner so long before he set up the rendezvous. To give the drugs moretime to work on him." He reached down with a slightly trembling hand to run his fingers overPeter's chin. "David died of an overdose. It was forced on him. Dirk knows that, too."

Simms tried to counter the dismal confession. "They didn't have him long."

"Long enough to screw him up. You don't know Jonas Dirk. He wouldn't take any chances withhis plans. I can guess what he's given him, and I can also guess that he's going to have a hell of aride getting off it. And we don't have any-" He spread an arm out to vaguely indicate the dimlylit room. "-any way to make it easier on him. Dirk knows that, too. That's one of the reasons he'snot on our doorstep right now."

"What do you mean?"


"Hell wait out the storm. Wait out the night. Come up on us when it's safer for them. Give usenough time to appreciate the results of his handiwork. He enjoys the finer points of suffering."He nodded again at Peter. "Find something we can use to splint his hand. I'll wrap his ribs."Without waiting to see if his orders were going to be automatically carried out, Kermit brokeopen the first aid kit and retrieved a couple of ace bandages from it.. He barely recorded herleaving the room as he tugged the sweatshirt up over Peter's chest to give himself access to thepainfully swollen ribs. It was awkward, by himself, but he got Peter supported halfway up longenough to roll a hand towel over the swelling and wrap it tightly with the two bandages he'dretrieved from the kit. Using the awkwardly small scissors in the kit he cut tape into butterflybandages and fashioned a makeshift suture for the deep gash in Peter's right wrist.

As he pulled the covers back over Peter's body, Simms returned with a wooden spatula

Kermit grunted, took it from her and snapped it in half The flat wooden spoon was a perfectsplint for the damaged fingers. He was about to demand the roll of gauze when Simms tookPeter's hand away from him and started to wrap the splint into place over the swollen fingers.

"Let's get one thing straight," she said softly, not looking up. "I don't 'wait in the car' or takepreemptive orders from my detectives. I'll do my share without unnecessary advice."

Startled, Kermit reran the last few minutes back through his mind. He hadn't been giving orders.Had he? Just taking care of what needed to be done. A half smile touched the darkness-shroudedplanes of his face.

"You sound like Jody Powell," he noted.

"I've seen how Peter treats her," Simms concurred. "Like she's made of porcelain. I'm not Jody."

"No, I knew that right off." He watched her slim fingers deftly finish swaddling Peter's hand ingauze, then said, "Sorry."

She nodded. Smoothing the bandage with a gentle swipe of her fingers, she laid the wrappedhand on the sheet. Her fingers rested lightly on the bandage. "That's what they did to him on thephone, isnt it?" she said, her tone saying she didn't expect an answer. "That's pretty cold blooded.Breaking his hand like that."

"There's a history," Kermit said with a weary sigh. Maybe it was time to share that history withher. Let her know just what kind of a man they were dealing with....

Chapter Eight

The room was spartan in its furnishings. Kermit had briefly considered getting two rooms. Verybriefly. He wasn't about to let this half-cocked kid out of his sight in the middle of anunsanctioned mission. It was hard enough to keep reining him in as it was. The longer they didn'tseem to be accomplishing anything, the more nervous and quarrelsome Peter Caine got. Like aroller coaster of uncontrolled emotions, he swung wildly from demanding spoiled brat to


vulnerable innocent without seeming to pause for breath before embarking on another, totallyunrelated mood.

Two twin beds, covered in slightly threadbare chenille lined one wall of the wood-paneled room.A television set, bolted to the wall on top of a scarred desk blinked out a disjointed local versionof the national news at them, the volume an irritating blur of sound, not loud enough to reallyhear, too loud to completely ignore. An ice bucket sat in a pool of its own sweat beside the set,two paper wrapped glasses standing sentry beside it. The narrow closet was separated by a strandof bamboo that rustled in the currents of air from the laboring air conditioner that squatted in theonly window.

A chair and desk were the repository of their meager pile of luggage. Peter had thrown hisclothes into an overnight bag, the better to support his cover story of a week spent slummingwith his buddy. Kermit, except for a laptop computer and a case of supporting technology,traveled light as well, confining his carefully packed wardrobe into one small suitcase. The onlyreal luxury in the room was the lush piled carpet that formed a wonderful cushion beneath feettortured with hours of walking through dusty, heat-warped streets. Peter had more than onceexpressed his impatience at Kermit's apparent shopping spree that had taken them through someof the less savory roads in the winding, sprawled out towards. At the tail end of his own patience,Kermit hadn't bothered to explain that the only shopping he was doing was for information thatcould be obtained no other way than casting out lures. Let the kid stew in his own fear anduncertainty for a while. He had no business extorting his way along on this trip anyway. If hewas expecting excitement and spy vs. spy, he was in for a rude awakening.

Right now, he was perched on the edge of one of the mattresses, one foot tapping restlessly intime to some inner rhythm.

"We cant just sit around here," Peter finally said when it became apparent that they were going todo just that.

Kermit, rifling through his bags, was extracting computer cables and anonymous metal boxesthat he lined up on the desk top after shoving Peter's bag and his own suitcase onto the floor. Helooked up at the twitching kid.

"Just what do you suggest we do?" he offered.

"I thought you were going to get in touch with people? Make some contacts?' Peter retorted,irritation burned into his voice.

"Already done." Kermit ignored both the tone and the attitude he could feel arcing through theair in his direction. He was not about to explain himself to Blaisdell's stray child.

Peter shut up for a good two minutes. Then, "Bet you hear a lot of frog jokes."

Kermit looked over his shoulder at him, pinning him in place with a steady, unrelenting glance."Bet I don't want to hear any from you."


Released from the mesmerizing gaze, now unnervingly unconcealed by the ever-presentsunglasses -Peter spent another minute jiggling one foot, clenching his hands together and staringblankly out the curtained window.

A minute of inactivity apparently maxed out his tolerance limit. He bounced up off the bed,rocked back and forth on his heels, then said, "I'm going for a walk."

Kermit didn't look up, but his words stopped the escape as effectively as if he'd shouted them."No, you're not."

Peter's eyes widened. He turned toward the door, then seemed to reconsider and turned back."Why not?"

"It's dark."

"I'm not afraid of the dark."

"Maybe you're not, kid," Kermit agreed, "but I am And since I'm the one with the experience andthe big gun, I make the rules. You're staying here." Without waiting for any expected rebellion,he patted his computer monitor and said, "In fact, I'm going for a walk. You, on the other hand,are staying here."

"You're not my babysitter."

"That's exactly what I am." Kermit punched in a quick series of numbers, waited for ananswering scroll across the small lighted screen, slipped his sunglasses back on, and turnedaround to face the boy.

Peter was balanced on the balls of his feet, indecision screaming from every line of his body. Heglanced at the door, then back at Kermit.

"You can't make me stay here."

"Don't count on that." Watching the hazel eyes cloud over in undisguised defiance, Kermitrelented, sighed and started again. "Look, I've put out feelers everywhere I know to put them.Someone's got to be here in case the bait gets taken. It won't do any good for anyone to bring usanything on Paul's whereabouts if neither one of us is here to get it. I'm the one who knows whoto contact, who to see. That's what you hired me for. Remember?"

"I want to help." Peter's voice was barely a whisper. His eyes blurred, filled, then cleared with aclench of his jaw and an obvious act of will. "He's my... He took me in. I have to help."

"You have to stay here. I'll be back." Without entertaining any possibility of argument, Kermitturned his back on the boy and dug into his equipment bag. His fingers closed over cold steel. Heheard the feint gasp of breath from behind him as Peter caught sight of the laser-, scope-equippedhand gun. He grinned. It was a pretty impressive piece. Especially viewed through the eyes of a


seventeen-year-old kid. When he turned back and straightened, slipping the gun into thewaistband at the back of his pants, the grin had evaporated, leaving his face expressionlessbehind the camouflage of mirrored sunglasses. He stepped around Peter and reached for the door.

A hand on his sleeve turned him back into the room.

"We don't have time for this, kid," he said, twisting the knob and easing the door open even as hespoke.

"I'm going with you."

"Not where I'm going."

"You don't have to protect me. I can take care of myself"

"Where?" Kermit snorted. "On a football field? This isn't a game, kid. It's time you realized that.Now let go of my arm before I break your fingers."

The grip on his arm tightened reflexively, then uncertainty fled across Peter's fece and hedropped his hand away. "I've got a right to go," he insisted, unable or unwilling to let the matterdrop. "I'm his son."

"And I'm his friend. I'm not about to try to explain to Paul Blaisdell that I let his kid get his assblown away a thousand miles away from home. If you don't stay out of my way, you're onlyjeopardizing Paul's chances. If I have to babysit you, I'll make a mistake and you'll get himkilled. You want to risk that?"

Peter's eyes filled and for just a moment, Kermit thought he was going to surrender to helpless,angry tears, but then his jaw tightened, his mouth thinned to a hard line and his hands clenched athis sides. Kermit waited for the flicker of reaction to hit the kid's huge hazel eyes, warning himof the blow he now expected to come his way, saw the decision, saw confusion overtake it, sawthe rebellion die away in a split second of painful bewilderment. Peter's fist arced up, but it wasaimed at the ajar door instead of the stone-cold face that waited only inches away. The doorcracked, splintered slightly and slammed shut from the force of the blow, tearing out of Kermit'shand and echoing like thunder in the small room.

Griffin waited until the crash dwindled away, his eyes never leaving the flushed face of thefurious, frustrated boy who partially blocked his exit. He considered his options, decided thathe'd better set the tone between them, and slammed the palm of one hand into Peter's chest,catapulting him back into the wall.

Peter's head bounced painfully against the wall, his eyes instantly glazed, and he started to slidedown the unyielding surface. Kermit's hand fisted into his shirt, pinning him in place.

"That's the last time you'll do anything like that. You understand?" Kermit's face was right nextto Peter's, his breath hot and heavy as he bit off the words. "From now on you do what I tell you


to do. Nothing more. Nothing less. Or I'll beat the shit out of you, handcuff you hand and foot,and pack your ass back home in a footlocker. You think you can understand all that?'

His face washed free of color, gasping desperately for air that wouldn't come, Peter couldn'tanswer. Kermit settled for a shaky nod.

He was outside in the unrelieved humidity of an airless night before he took the time to wonder ifhe'd managed to scare the kid into obedience or just succeeded in sparking the seeds of revolt.

The knock was so tentative that, at first, Peter thought he'd imagined it. It was repeated secondslater, though, and he opened the door without checking the distorted view offered by the smallspy hole conveniently placed at eye level He had only a second to berate himself for his lack ofcaution and to wonder what Kermit would do with that kind of ammunition to prove hiscomplete stupidity. His earlier humiliation had been enough to deter him from trying for anymore confrontations with the deceptivery quiet computer expert. Fortunately, there were noarmed thugs lurking on the door step when he swung the door wide.

Only Marie. A vision of tropical beauty in an off-the-shoulder white blouse with a huge rufflethat did nothing to disguise an impressive expanse of bronzed cleavage. For a second, Petercould only stare blankly at her.

"I wish I could come in," she said with a dazzling smile that held more promise than Peter wasup to imagining at the moment. "But I need to see Kermit and then I have to leave. You two arenot the most desirable company right now."

"What do you mean?"

"The people you are after. They are very powerful and very merciless. I do not want to be seentalking with you. I'm sorry." She smiled again and trailed one slim-fingered hand over his chin."Very sorry. Where is Kermit?"

"He's uh...uh...he's not here. Right now. He'll be back." Great, Peter thought, now I'm stutteringin front of her. Some impression. Maybe Kermit's right and I'm out of my league here.

"Give him this," she said, pressing a folded piece of paper into his hand. "Tell him he owes me.And I intend to collect."

He folded his hand over the paper, glanced down at it and then back up at her. In that second ofinattention, she had vanished into the misty, heat-lulled night with only the faintest trace of herperfume and the folded paper to mark her passing.

He closed the door, remembered to lock it and took the paper over to the circle of light providedby the single lamp on the desk. Over the clutter of the softly humming computer with its endlessscroll of indecipherable messages, he opened it and read the few words scrawled in red ink.Jonas Dirk. Red Lion Inn. Beacon Street on the sound.


Beacon Street had a familiar ring, though the name, of course, meant nothing to him. Neither didthe Red Lion Inn. It wasn't one of the places they'd passed through in their endless explorationthis afternoon But Beacon Street...he thought he could find it if he retraced their steps. It hadsounded like it belonged in New Orleans when they had been on it earlier. Looked a little like hismental picture of New Orleans, too. Not that he'd ever been there. Except in geography books.The wrought iron railings in their elaborate lace-work designs had been sprinkled through thepictures he recalled. They wound around and through exotic tropical flowers in the sidewalkcafes and even at the entrances of seedy bars on the cracked streets. Horse-drawn carriagesplunked and rattled along the cobbled streets as well, and he remembered photos with straw-hatted ladies and white suited men dotted through his text books. Anyway, that's why BeaconStreet had lodged in his memory. It shouldn't be too hard to locate.

Then when Kermit gets his hands on you, he's going to follow through and kill you, he remindedhimself. The vaguely disturbing thought-disturbing because he wasn't quite sure he wouldn't putit past the rogue agent-prickled through his mind for only a moment. This was a chance to findPaul A contact. All he had to do was ask around and find someone named Jonas Dirk and theywould be halfway home.

His mind made up, he retrieved his suitcase from the floor beside the desk and plopped it ontothe bed. The lock stuck, defied his fingers for a long, frustrating minute, then clicked open Hepushed aside crumpled t-shirts and jeans and found the gun stuffed back into the corner of thesuitcase. He had stolen it from Paul's study. The first thing he had ever stolen in his life.Sometimes the end just had to justify the means, he figured with a quick, guilty apology to hisfather and countless lessons that negated that excuse. Kermit had said himself that these peoplewere dangerous and there was no sense going out defenseless. Besides, Paul had taught him howto use the gun on frequent trips to the police shooting range. Peter was naturally adept with theweapon. That was one thing he wasn't uncertain about. He could hit what he was aiming at.

He just never thought he would be aiming at anything other than a paper target. FollowingKermit's earlier example, he shoved the gun into the back of his waistband, untucked his shirt tobetter conceal it and left the motel room, forgetting the unfolded note still perched on thekeyboard of the silently working computer.

*****

Beacon Street was easy to find. In spite of the late hour, people teemed across the sidewalks,wiping sweat from sun-blistered faces, streaming in and out of bars that ranged from decidedlyupscale to remarkably seedy. The Red Lion Inn, in spite of its name, was not a hotel, but anotherin an endless series of bars and night clubs that lined the busy street.

A huge stuffed lion, definitely not red, but a grey-mottled brown with a shabby mane of unkemptgolden hair haloing its perpetually snarling face, hulked at the entrance of the inn. One paw,rubbed raw of hair in scattered patches, stroked out at the air in a claw-splayed swipe destinednever to descend on imaginary prey. He almost looked like a misplaced retriever forever sightedon a flock of unseen birds.


Peter bypassed the pitiful sentry and stepped into a smoke-saturated room, packed with tables,wooden chairs and sweaty bodies hunched over glasses of beer and a dizzying array ofunidentifiable mixed concoctions floating with umbrellas and sliced fruit. He twisted his waythrough the cloud of cigarette smoke and state air to the wooden slab that served as a bar. Thebartender, splattering beer and whiskey in the general direction of smudged glasses, glanced upat him as he wedged his way in through slouched patrons.

"Come back in a few years, kid," he said, wiping massive hands on the filthy, once-white t-shirtthat almost covered his pendulous belly.

"I don't want a drink," Peter said curtly, though he felt the reactive flush redden his face at thereminder that he wasn't old enough to be in here. "I just want to know if you know a man namedJonas Dirk."

"You been watching cop shows, kid?" the bartender countered, but there was no hostility ineither his flabby, ruddy face or in his bull-frog croak of a voice. "Don't you know that wheneverthe good guys go into a bar looking for the bad guys they get into trouble?"

"I don't want any trouble. I just want to talk to Mr. Dirk."

The bartender squinted through the haze of smoke and took a moment to study his face. "No, youdon't," he finally said. "You don't need to be messing with Dirk. Why don't you go home?"

"Then you know him?" Peter couldn't believe it was going to be this easy. His earlier uneasedrifted away, relieved in part by the reassuring weight of the gun digging into the small of hisback.

'"Course he knows him," a new voice broke into the momentary pause as the bartender silentlychewed over his answer. A man sidled up to the bar. "Give me a beer, Benny," he said. Thebartender met his eyes, seemed about to refuse, then he shrugged and turned back to the tap todraw the requested beer. The man faced Peter. "What you want him for?' he asked.

Peter glanced at the bartender, saw no response there-the man simply yanked on the tap andpoured liquid into a mug-then back at the newcomer. The man was taller than Peter. His moststriking feature was a huge beaked nose that nested dead center between two ferret-black eyes, sodark that they seemed to have no pupils. He waited a moment, then repeated, "What you wanthim for?"

"It's personal," Peter replied lamely, not having bothered making up a cover story. Maybe Kermitwas right. He didn't know what he was doing.

"Ain't it always," the man said around a laugh. He took the mug of beer and grinned at thebartender who didn't turn away, but neither did he rejoin the conversation "Tell you what, youcan probably find him down on the pier. Out back." He nodded at a darkened, recessed dooracross the room. Go out across the beach and you'll see a bait shop. Probably a light on it in.You'll find him there."


"Thanks," Peter said, overwhelmed with the ease of the whole thing. Here Kermit had spent allday trying to track down just this information and he'd been handed it without leaving the hotelroom. He didn't bother to question his good fortune. Just enjoyed the moment of satisfaction heanticipated when he brought the information back to Kermit and they got Paul to safety. Maybeeven tonight. Marie was his guardian angel in disguise. A very pleasant disguise. Maybe he'deven get the chance to thank her.

Benny the bartender watched the kid disappear out the back door. He glanced at the other man."Why'd you do that?"

"Don't worry about it," the man said, taking a long swallow of beer before setting the half emptyglass on the bar. "It's no worry of yours."

*****

Even with the stifling humidity, the night air behind the bar was a relief after the swirling cloudsof smoke and stale body odor inside. A black expanse of sand stretched out in front of him, theonly light provided by a blanket of stars and a shimmeringly full moon that floated over thedistant swells of ocean. He could see the skeleton outline of the pier a good distance off to hisright, the phosphorous-laden waves crashing against the worn wooden pilings. A hulk ofdarkness loomed over to the right of the dock with a faintly glinting light blocked in by awindow, spilling in a weak wedge of illumination onto the shrubs abutted against the building.He started across the sand, his tennis shoes squeaking with each step that shifted beneath his longstride.

Eyes pinned on the rectangle of light, he nearly stepped into the swirling wavelets that kissed theshore line. Startled, he danced back out of the surf, then took a moment to re-orient himself. Theramshackle building was much closer now and he could see into the lighted window. The surfrolled right up to the base of the shed-it wasn't more than a bait and tackle shed-and ate away atthe foundation in tiny, relentless bites. It was stupid to build anything that close to the water. Hedidn't see any movement inside the building. Edging up to the window, he peered inside. Therewas no glass embedded in the frame, just a cheesecloth curtain that ruffled in the slight breezedrifting off the water.

He couldn't hear anything but the rustle and rumble of the waves that lapped at the beach and thedistant, muted roar of the heavier waves farther offshore.

There was no sign of anyone in the building that he could see from the vantage point of thewindow and he stepped up onto the warped boards of the porch. The door was slightly ajar. Heknocked once, a sharp rap that brought no answer.

With a shaky breath, he slipped his hand behind his back and fumbled for the gun. The grip wasrough against his fingertips; the barrel scraped across his ribs as he pulled the gun out of his belt.He glanced down at it in the reflected glow of starlight. It looked huge in his hand. His fingertrembled only slightly as he eased the safety off before stepping in through the weathered door.


A splinter of rotted wood nipped at his hand and he jerked it back in hasty reaction The gunwobbled in his grip. Clenching his hand around the butt, he edged into the dimly lit room.

There was no one there.

Nets and hooks hung along one wall, cases of motor oil lined the back of the room. The shelves,lopsided and corroded with weather and wear sagged beneath cans and bottles. The fishy smellinside the tiny room was almost overwhelming.

A broken backed chair sat next to an old fashioned oil furnace. A spring-broken couch squattedin one corner butted up against a knife-scarred table with one leg shorter than the rest setting it ata lopsided, forward cant. An old ice box rumbled in another corner of the room, a tinny whinecoming from deep within its rusted depths.

Magazines scattered over the paint-spotted surface of the table, curled and withered with age.

The man must have lied, Peter decided, relaxing out of his defensive crouch, easing up his death-grip on the gun. He let out his breath, only then realizing that he had been holding it. If anyonelived here, he was only one step up from an appliance carton in a city alley. The only real sign ofoccupancy was the presence of electricity as attested to by the refrigerator and the dimly burninglight from a cracked lamp on the table.

For some reason, he'd been set up. Sent on a wild goose chase. Peter started across the room,moving toward the only other door at the back wall beside the aged couch when lights veeredacross the window, blotting out the yellow glow of the low-wattage light bulb and castingghostly shadows over the wooden walls. Only then did he hear the car rolling almost silentlyover the sand, pulling up beside the front porch near the door Peter had entered from. Visions ofa wild goose chase careened back to 'set up' and Peter darted across the room, fumbling with thehandle of the back door. The knob squeaked and protested, his fingers slid off the rusted metaland he grasped at it again. He heard the slam of a car door just as the handle relented and turnedin his hand. He was barely out the back door before the first footstep sounded on the woodenplanking of the porch.

Plastered up against the side of the building, Peter strained to hear any sounds that might becoming from inside the house. All he could hear was the constant crash of breaking surf. The guntrembled in his hand as if reminding him that he still held it. Unconsciously holding his breathagain, he edged forward around the side of the building, trying for a view of the car.

It was an old Buick, one of the original, metal monsters that ate gas and survived head-oncollisions with a mere shudder of steel. Rust lined the base of the body of the car, gleamingoddly in the shafts of moonlight that streaked over the beach. Two men were standing by thefront door. Two against one.

He bit off the thought. He had no idea what the men were even doing here. He wasn't about torisk a gun battle with unknown players. All he had to do was stay out of sight until they gave upand drove off.


If it came down to it, there might be two of them, but he was still armed and fairly proficient,thanks to Paul's attention and lessons drummed into his head on the shooting range. As far as hecould see, their hands were empty. They just stood there, talking in low voices that didn't carryover the burble and rumble of water.

All he had to do was stay out of sight....

He never heard the rustle of cloth behind him, the nearly silent fall of leather clad feet on sand. Awedge of hand slammed into his left arm, sending a shock of pain from wrist to shoulder. Thegun was flung out of his hand to vanish into the darkness. Before Peter could recover from theshock of the vicious blow to his arm, he was grabbed by the shoulder and flung backward intothe side of the building. His head crashed into wood, his vision blurred into a tear-streakedglimmer and he fell forward into hands that seemed to come at him disembodied out of the dark.

His assailant grabbed him and spun him around the corner of the building, one arm wrappedaround Peter's throat, cutting off his air, threatening him with unconsciousness. Just as thedarkness swirled over him and started to drag him down, the arm loosened enough to let him geta gulp of air. Not enough to allow him to fight back, though, even if he had been aware enoughto try. The man propelled him forward until he threw him into the side of the car. Peter's hipglanced off the fender and he started down to one knee. He was caught before he could fall andtossed once again against the car. He landed against the driver's side door and hung there tryingdesperately to get air into lungs starved for it.

"Little shit had a gun," the man who had been tossing him around like a rag doll said with anaggrieved tone. He wasn't even winded from his exertions.

Peter, on the other hand, was hauling in gasps of air, willing his eyes to clear enough to at leastsee what kind of giant had him in his grip.

A second voice spoke up out of the dark. "Where is it?"

"Don't know. Lost it back in the dark. Not going to do him much good now, is it?"

"Not much," the second man agreed. He stepped closer to Peter, close enough for the boy to seehis face in the surprisingly clear moonlight. He was a tall man, his face lean and handsome,maybe forty or forty-five years old. His eyes were steely pools of grey, without expression. Asteady, considering gaze that spoke of nothing that might be going through his mind. His mouthwas a hardened line slashed across the sharp planes of his face.

"What do we do with him, Jonas?" One hand rested on Peter's shoulder as if supporting him, butit lay there with a grip that could rival iron.

Still dizzy, Peter tried to find his voice. "Jonas?" he croaked on the name. "Are you Jonas Dirk?"

The thin line of the man's mouth tightened. "Where did you get my name?" he demanded.


"She-she-I don't know."

Dirk backhanded him. "Who?"

Peter tasted blood, felt a shiver of giddiness reel through him.

"I don't know who she was," he repeated.

The hand tightened around his throat and he was hauled forward toward the water.

"Mr. Dirk asked you something," the big man gritted out, his mouth right at Peter's ear, hisbreath rasping against the side of his face.

"I don't know!" he said.

A knee drove into the back of his leg and Peter buckled to the ground. Water swirled aroundthem, tiny wavelets rushing up against the beach. The same knee rammed into his back and Peterwas thrust face first into the water. He panicked as he was driven down to the sand, waterpouring over him, flooding into his nose and mouth. A hand, tangled in his hair, pressed himdown into the suffocating water. He choked, sand scraped the side of his face, sandpapering hisskin. Peter bucked against the brutal pressure. Another blow to his back drove the last of the airfrom his lungs and he gulped in a torrent of salty water.

Just as he reconciled himself to drowning, his body screaming for air, he was jerked back to hisfeet. He gagged, vomiting water, bent double with the spasms that rocked through his belly. Hiscaptor roughly dragged him out of the surf, choking and gasping, and threw him back up againstthe side of the car.

"Let's try that again," Dirk said. "Who gave you my name?'

"I just want some information," Peter choked out the words.

"You've already got more information than is healthy for you, kid," Dirk pointed out. "I don'twant you asking questions about me. You understand that?"

"You know where Paul Blaisdell is," Peter blurted, knowing he was making a mistake as soon asthe words were out of his mouth, but scared into saying them anyway. His fear for his own safetywas only a pale shadow of his terror for Paul, but he knew without being told that this man wasnot about to be the savior he had hoped him to be. Whoever he was, his interests did notencompass Paul's Blaisdell's well-being.

"I want you to deliver a message for me," Dirk said, sidestepping the issue. "I want you to tellKermit Griffin that he's on the next boat out of St. Thomas. And he's not coming back. You thinkyou can handle that?"


"Where's Paul?' Bravado had long since been shunted aside, but Peter couldn't let go of the vaguehope that this man could tell him what he needed to know. If not, why had Marie given him thename?

"You need some convincing?" Dirk asked quietly, his voice barely carrying over the sound of thesurf. "Benton?" He glanced over his shoulder. The shark's-fin nose and ferret eyes identified himas the man from the bar. He stepped around Dirk, still not having spoken a word. The big manwho had initially captured Peter suddenly grabbed his left arm and twisted it up behind Peter'sback, turning him sideways to the car. The shoulder wrenched in the strain of the grip and Petergasped at the pain, tears springing unbidden to his eyes. Dizziness jolted up through him againand he thought this time he was really going to pass out, but the pain toned down into a deep andgnawing ache as the man adjusted his hold and tugged Peter back along the side of the car. Thethird man stepped forward then and Peter had his first glimmer of what they were going to do.

He tried to arch away from the unbreakable hold, but was jerked to a standstill by the flash ofpain that met his effort. His vision swam, blurring, making the man before him a waveringwraith in the moon-broken darkness. His right arm was gripped and he was pinned to the side ofthe car.

"You tell Griffin that Blaisdell is dead. If he doesn't leave, he's going to find that he's not farbehind him. You can reassure him that well be sure to kill you first so he can enjoy it with us.He's got twelve hours to be off the island. I'm going to be sure that you get this message right,kid. Do it."

As he was pinned in place, the third man stretched out his right arm and Dirk reached for thehandle of the driver's side door. He opened it with agonizing slowness. Benton-Peter filed thename away in his mind, somewhere underneath the panic that was riding a wave of fire throughhim-shifted his hold, got his fingers around Peter's wrist and forced the hand against the metalframe of the door.

"Remember, you tell him twelve hours. Forget about Blaisdell. He's already dead."

"No," Peter whispered, never sure if he was protesting what they were about to do to him or thethreat of Paul's death. He didn't have time to examine his thoughts before Dirk slammed the doorshut.

The pain in his wrenched shoulder vanished in a blaze of white hot agony as the metal frameexploded over his pinioned fingers, tearing away skin, bruising tendons and audibly crackingbones. Peter screamed and crumpled against the car door.

Dirk let the door remain shut for a full minute, then tugged at the handle.

Pain was a red blur that washed through Peter's mind, wiping out all thought. He never felt themen releasing him, never felt the sand as he collapsed beside the car, never heard the enginespark to life as they drove off and left him lying there.


Chapter Nine

Simms shivered in spite of the roll of meager warmth that issued from the Kero-sua. She hadchanged into dry clothes, but her wet hair sent chills down her back. She stroked a hand gentlyacross Peter's ashen face, feeling the feather of his lashes as her fingers skimmed over his cheek.

"He enjoyed doing this to him, didn't he?' she said. "Dirk? He got pleasure out of every bit of it."

"Oh, yeah," Kermit said. "It's the last thing he's ever going to enjoy, though. I promise you that."

"You care a lot about Peter, don't you?"

Kermit shrugged, not quite willing to admit to that. "He's my friend."

"He's also Paul Blaisdell's son."

"He's Kwai Chang Caine's son," Kermit corrected her, still skirting her meaning.

"You know what I mean."

Kermit sighed, tired of the verbal sparring. "I promised Paul I'd keep an eye on him while he'sgone. I should have done a better job of it."

"You can't protect him. He's a cop. He does a dangerous job."

"This isn't about his being a cop. This has to do with me. This is because of me."

"You can't blame yourself"

"Oh, I don't," Kermit countered. "I know exactly who to blame. And I promise you, he'll neverlay a hand on Peter-or anyone else-ever again."

"We've got to get Peter out of here. Into a hospital. Before we do anything else."

"I know that."

"You can't go after Dirk until then. If he goes into withdrawal, I don't know if I can handle himalone."

"I won't have to go after Dirk. He'll come for us. The only reason he isn't here right now is thathe knows we're trapped. Peter can't travel and Dirk has scouted out this whole area long beforehe set up his safehouse. He knows we're cut off"

"Are you sure he'll wait?"


Kermit didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked up at her, momentarily losing himself in theblue depths of her eyes. She could see the regret in his face, deepening the lines around hismouth, crimping out from the corner of his eyes, hardening him.

"I'm sorry I got you into this," he said, reaching up to touch the sharp line of her cheekbone, hisfingers a tentative, feather-light skim across her face.

"You needed me," she answered. "You'd never have gotten him out by yourself "

"I should have tried."

"No." She shook her head, the movement turning his touch into a caress. "He means somethingto me, too. I wanted to be here. Peter may be a handful as a detective-there's times I'd just assoon shoot him myself-but he's come through for me whenever I needed him. And as I recall,there was at least one time when I really needed him. He didn't let me down."

Kermit nodded. "He and his father. I never figured out how they found the gun that killedFleming, but I'm sure glad they did." He let his hand drop away from her face, but his eyes didn'tleave hers. Her fingers found his arm and she rested her hand lightly on the tensed muscle of hisbicep, rubbing gently through the soft material of the sweatshirt sleeve.

He sighed, then leaned forward and let his lips find hers. She tasted sweet beneath the pressure ofhis mouth. Her hand drifted up to the back of his head and her fingers tangled in the heavy, darkhair that curled around his neck. She returned the kiss, her tongue slipping between his teeth,tasting him, melting her body against the hard length of his.

Lost in the tingle of sensation that arced through him like an electric current, Kermit didn't hearthe first sound from the bed. A second gasp broke the kiss and he glanced down with a twinge ofguilt spurred by his lapse into self-indulgence. Peter stirred again, his breath escaping in a lowmoan, his head turning in the deep folds of the pillow, eyes shuttered with dark lashes. Hereached out with the bandaged hand and Kermit caught it in mid-grope.

"Easy, Peter," he cautioned, not sure if he was heard through the cobwebs of drug-induced sleep."Just relax. You're safe. Just take it easy."

The sound of his voice obviously broke through, though just as clearly it was not recognized.Peter gasped again, a hiccup of captured breath that caught in his throat. His eyes still clampedshut, he lunged up and swung blindly at the hands gentry restraining him. Kermit caught theblow on his shoulder, trapping the injured hand within his own grip to prevent Peter from tryingto strike out with it.

Beside him, Simms shifted on the mattress and caught Peter by the shoulders, forcing him backdown to the sheets.

"No, don't-" he rasped out in a hissed whisper, then his eyes batted open and he blinked up atthem with a clouded, blank stare.


"It's Kermit," Griffin assured him quickly as he saw the recognition start to glimmer into Peter'sglazed eyes. "And the captain. Peter, you're okay. We've got you. Nothing's going to hurt youany more."

"K-K-Kermit?' Peter searched his face as if trying to pull an image of his features out of deepfog. "Kermit?"

Kermit repeated the inane reassurance. "It's okay."

"Don't try to talk, Peter," Simms cautioned him, uselessly if she knew Peter Caine. He would talkthrough his own funeral if there were any way possible to do so. "Just lie still."

Peter suddenly twitched, jerked, and arched away from the bed. Spasms rocketed through hisbody, straining every muscle, jittering through his limbs. Kermit restrained him as gently aspossible through the brief convulsion. When Peter again went limp beneath his hands, he said,"It's starting."

There was a world of remembered pain in his voice and Simms touched his shoulder. He didn'tlook at her.

"This is exactly what happened to David," he said. "I watched him die and there wasn't anythingI could do to prevent it."

"Peter isn't going to die."

"That's not up to us. Not any more."

"Who..." Her voice trailed off as she stepped into uncharted waters. She'd never heard Kermitreveal anything personal before, not even in the privacy of his bedroom. She wasn't sure if thiswas a door that would open, could open. "Who killed David?'

He glanced at her, seemed to consider whether to answer, then said, "An old enemy of mine. Justlike now. He looked for the weak link, like Dirk did with Peter. And the cost...the cost is higherthan I intend to pay."

"You couldn't prevent this from happening."

"No. But I can see that it never happens again."

"I'll help you."

He looked back at her. "I know," he said softly.

A second seizure caught Peter up in its grip. This one was longer than the first. It was followedby dry heaves. Simms supported him, rolling him to his side to prevent choking just in caseanything was left to come up. Nothing but unproductive retching wracked him, though, a long,


painful, exhausting regimen of persistent spasms that left him pale and limp. As he sagged backdown to the pillows, his eyes opened, searched, and finally focused on Kermit in mute appeal.

He bent low over Peter, close enough that he would be heard. "Peter, it's going to end. I promise.The pain. The...need. It's going to stop. You've got to ride it out."

"It hurts." It was a breathless murmur, exhaustion barely supporting his voice. The protest diedinto a gurgle as another wave of nausea slammed into him. Kermit held him through the spasms,then eased him back to the bed. Peter's face was an ashen mask of suffering. His eyes glazed andunfocused, swimming in unshed tears.

It was the face of Kermit's younger brother. So many years and so many nightmares ago.

"You're not alone, Peter," Kermit said. "I promise you, I'll get you home." A promise he hadn'tbeen able to keep for his brother.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I dragged you into this," Peter whispered. The glaze spread, darkened hiseyes and Kermit didn't bother to answer because he was convinced reason wasn't going to reachpast the pain. "I didn't want..."

"Shh. Hush. Don't talk. You have to rest. Try to sleep, Peter. You can get through this if you cansleep."

"They'll come. They'll come after you."

"We'll be ready. You leave that to me."

"I wish..." Peter's eyes drifted closed, fluttered, then closed again. "I wish..."

"Me too, kid," Kermit said.

*****

Kermit wasn't at all pleased to return to an empty motel room.

There was no sign of Peter outside the room either. His suitcase sat open, clothes rumpled into anuntidy pile, on the bed. He evidently hadn't gone far. Maybe just far enough to establish that hewas also fully capable of defying direct orders.

Five minutes passed, then ten with no sign of the kid. Kermit was on the verge of heading out tolook for him, fully intending to pack the boy up and snip him home even if he had to do it inrestraints-with or without the help of the local law--when he saw the paper crumpled on thecomputer keyboard.


The name rang a bell. In fact, he had just finished collecting this same information from anothersource in his latest foray into the nightlife of St. Thomas' less affluent crowd. He didn't have towonder any more where the damned kid had gone.

Kermit had run afoul of Jonas Dirk before, and he was about the last person he wanted PaulBlaisdell's kid crossing swords with. He only hoped he could round the boy up before Dirk savedhim the trouble of killing him himself

The paper crumpled in his fist, he dropped it back to the desk and started for the door just in timeto hear a key snick into the lock.

Peter slid in around the door. If he was hoping to come back to a still-empty room, he was in fora rude surprise. Kermit didn't wait for excuses.

"You just bought yourself a ticket home, kid."

"You can't-"

"Try me."

"I know who-"

"Jonas Dirk," Kermit interrupted, "and you'd better hope he doesn't know you know that."

For the first time Kermit took a good look at the kid's face. It was ashen, washed free of colorexcept for a high blush of pink on one cheekbone that might be the start of a bruise. His clotheswere wet, clinging to the tall, lean body like he'd indulged in an impromptu swim at midnight.One hand was held stiffly behind his back as if he were hiding something.

"He already knows," Peter answered. He looked shocky, vaguely disoriented.

Kermit huffed in an exasperated breath. "Let me see it."

"Wh-What?"

"Whatever it is you aren't wanting me to see."

Peter shook his head, opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. He pulled his right hand frombehind his back and extended it wordlessly.

Kermit looked at the blood-covered fingers and said, "Shit."

The hand was grotesquely swollen, stained with black bruising and smeared with blood fromtorn skin. At least three, maybe four fingers were definitely broken. There was a good possibilityof permanent damage. He could tell that even from the brief glimpse.


"I think...I think maybe it's broken," Peter confessed softly.

"You think 'maybe? What did they do to you?' The anger had evaporated. Kermit was beginningto wonder if he was going to have to catch the kid if he suddenly went to the floor. Shock hadgreyed his skin and glazed his eyes.

"They shut a car door on it," Peter said with a shrug.

"And were you going to get around to telling me about it?"

"I blew it, didn't I?" Peter dropped to a seat on the corner of the closest bed, cradling theshattered hand in his lap. "Now they know we're here and that we're looking for Paul."

"They already knew that. That's why they set you up."

Peter glanced up at him. "How did you know they set me up?"

"Not too hard to figure out," Kermit said, with an unconscious imitation of Peter's earlier shrug."You went to the Red Lion, started asking questions. What I don't understand is why they didn'tjust kill you."

If possible, Peter's face paled even further. Apparently he hadn't realty considered the possibilityof dying as a result of tonight's misadventure. "They wanted me to deliver a message to you," hesaid, his tone suddenly colorless, uninflected. "They said you have twelve hours to leave. Theysaid Paul's dead." His eyes widened slightly. "Do you think they're lying? I mean about Paulbeing dead? He can't be dead, can he? I mean, you'd know if-"

"He's not dead," Kermit cut off the panicked litany of questions. "I told you that I'd get him outand I intend to do just that. But you're going to have to stay out of my way. Think you've learnedthat lesson yet?'

"I'm going with you." The stubbornness was back just that quickly. Any kind of obstacle toreaching Paul seemed to give birth to the most obstinate stubborn streak Kermit had had themisfortune to encounter.

"Well cross that bridge when we come to it," Kermit said with a resigned sigh. He sat down onthe bed next to the boy. "Let me see the damage."

Peter reluctantly offered up the hand, flinching at the first touch of Kermit's fingers on his palm.Kermit turned the swollen hand over, then back so he could look at the crushed knuckles. Itwasn't anything he was going to fix up in the bathroom, that was for sure. He gingerly touchedone inflated finger, then gently flexed it. Peter gasped, started to yank his hand away from thetentative pressure, then slumped forward. Kermit caught him and laid him back on the bed.Pulling his legs up to the mattress, he shifted Peter over to the middle of the bed until he wassure that he wasn't going to somehow manage to fall off, then took the opportunity to complete acursory examination of the ruined hand. Good thing the kid was left-handed. He left Peter


sprawled out on the bed and went to his computer to see if he could find a doctor with liberalhousecall requirements.

*****

Shay was not known for his bedside manner. Nor was he very pleased to be awakened at 2:00am. by an ex-mercenary. He got out of bed, let them in and grumbled the entire time he usheredthem into the small, dingy office attached to the rear of his house.

"Sit," he growled at Peter who dropped, with uncharacteristic obedience, into a worn overstuffedchair.

"You hiring them right out of high school, Griffin?" Shay asked as he retrieved a whiskey bottleout of the bottom drawer of his desk.

"We didn't hire him," Kermit said, "he sorta volunteered."

Shay looked at the bottle, hauled out a dirty glass and poured two fingers of liquor into it. Hewas a husky man with huge bushy white eyebrows that crawled across his forehead like an errantcaterpillar. His nose was crackled with broken veins and scarlet in his lumpy, pale face. Acoating of white whiskers shadowed his chin and his eyes were sleepy-lidded and road-mappedwith veins. He considered the glass a moment, then pushed it across the tabletop toward Peter."Here," he said, "drink this. It'll make you feel better."

"I don't-" Peter started, but a quick glimpse of Kermit's face shut up the instinctive protest. Heswallowed the glass of whiskey and caught his breath as it burned a trail of fire down his throat.It hit his empty stomach and started a churning he wasn't sure he was going to be able to control.The nausea lasted only a moment, though, and warmth spread through him, rinsing away some ofthe nagging pain almost instantly.

"Hope your insurance is paid up, Griffin," Shay said, then turned the bottle up and drank a huge,long swallow from it. He offered it to Kermit, who didn't hesitate to follow his example, then heturned his attention to the misshapen hand. He wasn't any more gentle than he was sympathetic.By the time he had finished probing and bending the swollen fingers, Peter was gasping for airand sagging half-conscious in the chair.

"Want to take it a little easy, Shay?" Kermit suggested. "I'd prefer that he can walk out of herewhen you're done."

Instead of answering, the doctor took another long slug from the bottle. "I'm going to give yousomething for the pain, kid," he said, "then I'm going to splint it. I'll give you some antibioticsand you'd better take them. You need x-rays and possibly surgery. You better get this taken careof as soon as you can if you want to be able to use this hand again."

Peter's eyes widened. "You mean it's not going to be all right?' he asked, nervously rubbing hisgood hand over the thigh of his jeans. "I mean, it's going to be okay, isn't it? After it heals?"


"You've got three broken fingers," Shay informed him as he rummaged a syringe and smallbottle of liquid from the middle desk drawer. "One of them's broken in at least three places. Youcould have bone chips, torn tendons, ligaments, a hell of a lot of damage. Some of it might not bereparable. When you get back to the mainland, see a real doctor." He filled the syringe, thenturned to the kid with the first hint of a smile he'd shown since their unannounced arrival. "Standup and bend over."

*****

Unfortunately, the drugs Shay had pumped into Peter weren't an effective screen-block for thenightmares that plagued the boy's restless sleep. Within less than a half hour, Kermit's own sleepwas broken by the fitful tossing and turning in the bed next to his. The boy was mumbling in hissleep, sometimes speaking in English, sometimes in Chinese. That came as a surprise in spite ofwhat Blaisdell had revealed about the boy's history.

With an elaborate, resigned sigh, Kermit bitched himself out of the bed and stumbled across thedark room, groping for the desktop. He rummaged through the papers and computer equipmentthere and finally found one of the vials of pills Shay had given them. Squinting in the darkness,he made out the name scrawled on the white label and shook two pills out into his hand. A fewminutes of lumbering around the obstacle-laden room and he got a glass of water, then droppedto a seat on the edge of Peter's mattress.

"Here," he said, shaking the boy's shoulder.

Only half submerged in sleep, Peter jolted awake and tried to shove the shadowy figure awaywith a bleat of panic.

"Relax," Kermit said quickly, "it's only me. You're okay. Just relax."

With his good hand, Peter rubbed at his eyes, still disoriented, half-locked into the wash ofnightmares that had been haunting his uneasy sleep.

"Wh-what-what?" he murmured. "I didn't...I can't..."

"Peter, take it easy," Kermit soothed. "I just want you to take these." He held out his palm andthe two pills nestled there.

"No." With a definite shake of his head, Peter hauled himself out of his half-asleep stupor. "No, Idon't want any more."

"Take them They'll help. You can't tell me it doesn't hurt."

"The dreams..." Peter started, then flushed, the stain of red on his lean cheeks visible even in thecloying darkness. With a half shrug, he admitted, "The dreams will just come back. I don't wantany more."


"Want to talk about it?"

Peter glanced up shyly at him, seemed to consider the offer, then shook his head.

"Then take these so at least I can get some sleep."

"Will...?" Peter swallowed, then tried again. "Will you be here?'

Kermit felt a twinge of guilt edge into his mind, a twitch of reaction in his stomach, and hesuddenly had a vague inkling of just how scared and alone the kid must feel. He'd already lostone father; it was inconceivable that he should be expected to go through that again. Runningaround exotic ports of call, carrying an unfamiliar weapon, being attacked by the local version ofthe goon squad-none of these things could possibly be within the boy's realm of experience oreven imagination. And here he was, saddled with a cynical babysitter who had long ago lost theknack of dealing with vulnerable people. Empathy had been the very first sacrifice KermitGriffin had laid at the altar in his life on the edge. At least he had always thought so. It was hardto explain the surge of sympathy he was now rolling around in his heart like a sour taste on thetongue.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, his voice faintly rasping. "Now take these."

He held out the pills again, and this time Peter took them. A swallow of water chased themdown, and the kid handed back the glass with a tentative, weak smile.

"Now lie down and try to rest," Kermit ordered, more gruffly than he intended.

Surprisingly, Peter did as he was told. He settled back against the pillow and his eyes flutteredclosed almost immediately. His breathing evened out slightly as sleep crept up on him, butKermit noticed his uninjured left hand clenching in the sheets. Without a word, he placed hisown hand over the white knuckled fist, wrapping it around the chilled fingers, and left it thereuntil the boy's breathing had drifted into the cadence of deep sleep.

*****

Peter spasmed into a prolonged seizure. Kermit tried to restrain him beneath the tangle of sheetsand blankets, but one flailing fist broke free and slammed into his face, catapulting himbackward from the bed. Simms instantly slid into his suddenly vacated space on the edge of thebed and gathered the still-convulsing body into her arms. She nestled Peter's head against herbreast and rocked him until the spasms dwindled and finally died.

His eyes fluttered open, closed, then opened again. He sought focus on her. His blurred visionallowed him only the impression of a soft, fuzzy face haloed by blonde hair.

"Mom?" he whispered.


Simms didn't bother to correct him. Instead, she crooned, "Shhh, just rest now. You need tosleep. Everything's going to be all right, Peter. I'm not going anywhere. Please rest now." Sheattempted to lower him to the bed, but he clung to her with desperate strength, and she settledhim closer into her arms as Kermit tugged the blankets up over his shoulders. Ambushed by atwinge of surprising pain, Simms realized that she hadn't held her own son like this since he wasa small child. She felt awkward and content in the same uncomfortable moment.

As she felt him relax in her arms, she sighed and leaned to rest her head against his. Even whenhis breathing evened out into deep sleep, she continued to hold him.

*****

Chapter Ten

Sunlight slanted in through the dingy curtains, laying a patchwork of golden light across thecarpeted floor. It was long after noon before Kermit returned to the hotel room and he was bothpleasantly surprised and moderately amazed that the kid had stayed put. Nothing like a little run-in with terrorists to rearrange a set of slightly skewed priorities, and maybe the reminderprovided by a little pain, he realized wryly, noting the pallor to the boy's lean face and thegingerly way he clutched the injured hand to his chest. The reddened patch on one highcheekbone had deepened into a bluish-black stain, and Kermit wasn't looking forward toexplaining to Paul Blaisdell why he'd allowed the kid to get knocked around.

Peter didn't bother with amenities. The strain of waiting was literally written all over his face."What did you find out? Do you know where he is? Can we go there? Now?"

"Hold it!" Kermit protested. "One question at a time. I'm not a damned almanac. Yes, I knowwhere he is. Can we go there? No. Can I go there? Yes. Any questions?'

"I'm going with you."

"I thought we've already been over this. I'm the spy. You're the high school kid. Never the twainshall meet."

"He's my fath-" Peter's voice cut off in mid-word. Sheer panic blanched his face free of color asthe words echoed in his head and he truly heard what he was about to say. He dropped to a seaton the edge of the bed, suddenly silent.

"Peter..." Kermit edged closer, absurdly afraid he might spook the kid. He reached out tentativelyand rested a hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling the slight tremor of reaction that wasnt quitewithin the boy's power to control. He didn't want to pry into all the ramifications of the slip ofthe tongue-he wasn't privy to that much of the kid's background at any rate-so he dropped back tothe safe topic. "Well get Paul back. He's been in this business for a long time and you don'tsurvive as long as he has by not knowing what you're doing. Hell be all right. You just have tocooperate with me."


Peter's head dropped, dark bangs providing effective concealment of his emotions. "Why is thishappening to Paul?' he whispered. "He's a good man. He doesn't deserve this."

Kermit could find no justification, nor did he bother to seek one. He simply rode out the momentof silence.

"I just don't understand," Peter finally said.

"I know you don't, kid," Kermit assured him, "that's why I'm here."

*****

Nightfall seemed to take days to arrive on a backwash of humidity and oppressive heat.

Kermit's time had been spent making final arrangements for their escape from the island. Therewould be no luxury liner for the return trip to the States; clandestine affairs seldom provided anopportunity to travel in leisure.

By the time he had his itinerary fleshed out and his plans had coalesced into a workable format,he was left feeling vaguely dissatisfied. The time frame didn't allow for any deviation. Whichbrought up the uncomfortable dilemma of where to stash the kid while he attempted to retrieveBlaisdell from under heavily armed guards.

A small boat would ferry them to another island under the cover of darkness and at greatexpense. Kermit hoped Blaisdell was running a tab on this. His computer agency was doing well,but financing out-of-the-country covert missions was still not in the budget. Connections-subjectto split second timing-had been made with a small aircraft that could puddle-jump them towardmore conventional transport that would get them back into the States. There was no leeway for atrek back to the motel or any other safehouse that could be arranged on such short notice. In spiteof every shred of common sense and discretion that he possessed, Kermit could see noalternative to letting the boy tag along.

After jockeying credit cards, IDs and excuses-not to mention considerable bribe money-theyfinally set out in a dilapidated Buick sedan that didn't seem to come equipped with shockabsorbers and only the barest minimum by the way of brakes. Kermit figured they might nothave to worry about dodging automatic weapons fire-the car would get them killed first.

The closeness of the ocean, the unrelenting humidity, and the lush undergrowth that straddled thepoorly maintained road, all conspired to cloak them in a low-visibility shroud of fog. Kermitwasn't even going to speculate on how they were going to get airborne on a night like this one.That was the pilot's problem.

Peter had faded into the first silence Kermit could remember the boy exhibiting, tension andanxiety wafting off him in nearly tangible waves. Kermit's attention was so focused on the roadthat he almost missed the softly-spoken words that unrelieved silence had finally coaxed out ofthe kid.


"I haven't ever called him Dad."

Kermit's head snapped around. "What?"

Peter stared blankly out the windshield. "It's like...if I called him Dad or thought of him as myfather, then...then I was forgetting my real father."

Shit, Kermit thought, where's my social work degree when I need it? He heard the pain in thewords, though, recognized it in the tensed profile. "He understands that, Peter," he offered, at aloss to provide more comfort than the lame response.

"If I forget my father...then he's realty gone...forever. I can't do that." Peter glanced at Kermit, hiseyes shimmering in the reflected glow of the dash lights, then he ducked his head away. "NowPaul might die. And I never realty told him how much...how much...." The words were lost, thethought too painful to bespoken.

"How much you love him," Kermit provided.

Peter could find no answer, no way to put the anticipated loss into words.

Kermit found that he couldn't help him, either.

*****

Headlights extinguished, the car edged forward into blackness. Kermit braked to a stop at thefringe of vine-cloaked trees just within sight of the dimly lighted building at the end of themakeshift road. A tepid wind whistled around them. Leaves rustled and rasped in the breeze. Abird cooed off to the right. The restless ebb and flow of waves coasting onto the shorelineprovided a backdrop, the froth of the ocean barely visible off to their right in the fog-dimmedmoonlight. Somewhere south of them, a small boat already waited in a sheltered cove. It wouldonly wait for the allotted time, not one second more.

Kermit reached under the seat and pulled out Paul's gun. He handed it to Peter.

"Use this if you have to. Only if you have to. And for God's sake don't use it on me or Paul. Yougot that?"

"I got it." Peter's voice sounded rusty, unused. He cleared his throat and repeated, "I got it." Thegun was heavy and cold in his hand.

"I don't want you to move out of this car. If we're not back within thirty minutes, not one minutelater, you start the car and get the hell out of here. There's a boat waiting three miles back theway we came. You'll get to an abandoned fishing cabin on your right, take the road that goesaround in back of it, ditch the car and hike down to the water's edge. You'll find a man namedJernigan there. Hell take care of you."


"I can't just-"

"You'll do as I tell you. Period. If you screw around arguing with me, you're guaranteeing thatwe won't have time to get Paul out of there. They're ready to move him and we don't have fiveminutes to spare. I know I'm asking you to grow up in one hell of a hurry, but you're PaulBlaisdell's kid and I figure you can handle it. Am I wrong?"

Peter hesitated only a moment, then shook his head. "No, you're not wrong."

*****

Kermit ghosted into the weaving shadows of wind-ruffled trees, then Peter caught a glimpse ofhis now-unrecognizable form darting across a shaft of open space between the trees and thecinderblock building. In seconds, he merged with the building and Peter, squinting against thedark, could no longer see any sign of him.

Within five minutes he figured Kermit must be inside.

The silence was oppressive.

Concentrating on the building, trying for a mental image of what was happening inside, Petermanaged to shut out the natural sounds around him, effectively sealing himself in a vacuum ofsilence. On his wrist, the lighted dial of the watch Paul had given him for Christmas counteddown the molasses-slow passage of endless seconds.

When he glanced back at the clock, ten minutes had miraculously vanished. Twenty minutesbefore he was supposed to make his retreat. He wasn't sure he'd be able to turn the key in theignition. Not and leave both Paul and Kermit trapped within the bowels of the enemy camp.

He juggled the gun nervously in a shaky hand.

Movement in the yard caught his eye. Peter instinctively ducked lower in the seat as a manstepped out of the darkness and headed for the front of the building. The man was too far away,the night too dark for him to recognize him. Frozen, his stomach twisting, his heartbeatthunderous in his ears, he watched as he strode up the narrow walkway and entered the frontdoor.

Kermit was in there. He would have no way of knowing that the odds had just lengthened.

Direct orders evaporated in a rush of fear. Peter slid out of the car, careful not to slam the doorbut cautious enough to shut it sufficiently that the dome light flicked off. He wrapped his handaround the roughened butt of the pistol, for the first time feeling the comfort and security of theweapon that would soon become second nature to him. He had to guess at which door Kermithad entered, gauging it by the last glimpse he had of the agent before he vanished. He found thesecond entrance around the back of the building, the door canted on loose hinges, just enoughroom for Peter to eel his way inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy


interior. He crouched behind a dented filing cabinet and waited for his vision to clear, strainingfor any sound that might provide a clue as to which direction to try first.

The warehouse had apparently been abandoned for years. Dust lay an inch thick on the surfacesof scarred and pitted desks. Outdated office equipment squatted on several tables, mechanismslong rusted and rendered useless. Filing cabinets spewed their contents forth like projectilevomit. The floor was littered with paper and discarded books.

Kermit flattened against one graffiti-scrawled wall, his ears attuned to any telltale noise or thefall of a suspicious shadow. Kermit had found no sign of life on that level and had snaked hisway up to the second floor landing. A warped door led into the darkened corridor off thestairwell, ajar and inviting.

Kermit eased it open, his teeth clenched against the anticipated squeak of long neglected hinges.There was virtually no sound as the door slid over the tattered carpet that lined the interior hall.Strains of tinny music filtered out into the stairwell. It took only a moment's orientation to locatethe source of the noise. One foot in front of the other. Kermit edged down the hall, his eyes gluedto the thin shaft of light that glowed faintly through the frosted glass window in a door halfwaydown the corridor.

*****

The man had vanished.

Peter scooted through the obstacle course of debris, desperately trying to be quiet, a skill he hadnot quite acquired. He saw the ribbon of light that wove a path down the staircase against the farwall, heard the trickle of music from the upper floor, but there was no sign of the man he'd seenenter from the front of the building. Logic dictated that Kermit would have gone up to trackdown the source of the music. If they were holding Paul prisoner on the second floor, that wouldbe where the man he had followed would head as well He had to get up there and alert Kermit tothe danger.

Peter could only guess that the other man had already gone up the stairs and was, even now,stalking Kermit. He never heard the brush of denim against wood behind him as he crept up thestairs.

*****

Kermit was halfway down the hall toward the shut door and the source of the music when he feltthe displacement of air, the shiver of recognition that tremored up his neck. He ducked into arecessed doorway just as the final footfall touched on the top step. Gun at the ready, fisted in atwo handed grip, he literally held his breath as he monitored, sightlessly, the progress of the mansneaking down the hall toward him.

He caught the sound of a second pair of feet, nearly silent on the carpeted hallway floor, just asthe shadowed form passed his hiding place. He recognized Peter at the first glance of the boy's


tall, lean form, stifled a reflexive curse and pocketed his gun, unwilling to risk alerting howevermany men were secreted behind the closed door still thirty paces further down the hall. At thefirst sound of gunfire, Paul might well be deemed instantly expendable. Whatever happened,noise was the last thing Kermit wanted at this juncture.

Knowing Peter was being stealthily and expertly tailed, he waited out the next installment in themini-drama unfolding before him. Without thinking about the gesture, he slipped a small butlethal knife out of his belt and snapped it open. Peter was just barely past Kermit's vantage pointwhen a huge arm snared around his neck and yanked him backward. Kermit didn't wait for thenext phase of the attack. He slid out of the alcove and was behind the big man at the exactmoment the grip tightened around the boy's throat. The blade skittered across the man's throat,sketching a thin line of red into the flesh. For an instant, the man froze, his arm choking the boyhe still imprisoned, corded muscles flexed in a steel grip that, if allowed, would quickly snapthrough bone and muscle, then a torrent of blood gushed from his destroyed throat, painting himand his prisoner in a splash of gore.

Kermit, still grasping the man from the back was spun around as the giant tried to turn to face hisassailant. Peter lunged away at the first release of pressure. He slammed backward into the wall,his bandaged hand at his throat, his eyes glazed with terror and surprise. The gun was slack in hisleft hand, and a film of blood was smeared over his back and shoulder. He couldn't break awayfrom the horribly fascinating sight of the dying man, still on his feet, one hand pressed to thecrimson flow at his neck. The man glared at him, then turned, finally released by Kermit, andstared at his killer for a long, endless moment as if memorizing the face that had just ushered himout of the world. He finally sagged, then slumped to the floor.

Peter managed to drag his eyes away from the horror to look blankly at Kermit.

"You'd better be hurt, kid," Kermit gritted out through clenched teeth, "or I'll kill you myself."

Peter glanced stupidly down at his shirt. It was stained scarlet with the huge man's blood. Heshook his head. "I-I-I don't...I'm not...not..." He looked up at Kermit again and repeated thebewildered shake of his head.

"Damn you," Kermit growled. "I told you to stay in the car. I told you to wait for me. What thehell does it take to get through to you?"

The shell-shocked expression changed in the boy's eyes. They cleared, glazed, then sparked withsomething approximating anger. He raised the gun in a trembling hand, his finger squeezed onthe trigger, the slightest pressure, then jerked, and the gun spat lead and fire.

Kermit had only a split second to recoil away from the weapon. It happened even too quickly forhis lightning last reflexes. He didn't even have time to steel himself for the impact of the bullet.

Then, the echo of the shot careening off the close walls of the hallway, he realized that the kidhad aimed behind him rather than at him. He spun, his own gun appearing as if magically in hishand.


A second man hung suspended in the doorway, framed by the feint, yellow glow of a single lampfrom within the room. Blood blossomed across his chest. He looked more surprised thananything else. One hand twitched, hovered over the wound, then he slid to the floor and lay still.

There wasn't time to deal with the shock that now glazed Peter's eyes or the pallor that engulfedhis face as the blood drained away. Kermit didn't even try. The kid would just have to hold outlong enough to get out of there and try to deal with the trauma later.

Kermit spun around without a word and stepped over the sprawled body. Darting instantly to theleft, he entered the room, gun at the ready, eyes adapting to the glimmer of light cast by the weaklamp.

Paul Blaisdell was seated in a wooden backed chair, his hands securely tied behind him. His facewas a mapwork of bruising and exploded veins. One eye was swollen shut, his lips were cut andstained with old blood. Kermit made his assessment within a single second. Paul had beenknocked around-rather completely-but there was no sign of more serious injury. That meant hewas ambulatory. That was the only good thing that had happened since they'd entered thebuilding.

"Any more than two?"

"Not now," Paul answered curtly. "But it won't be long. Any minute in fact. They were gettingready to-"

"I know," Kermit cut in, utilizing the blood-slick knife to saw through the. heavy ropes thatbound Blaisdell. "They were about to take you for your final move. Lucky thing for you I've gotgood timing, huh?"

"How"d you know? State notify you?" Paul, freed from the binding ropes, got awkwardly to hisfeet. His knees cracked and popped at the movement and he had to force himself upright, soremuscles protesting the sudden change in position.

"State was willing to let you stay right where you are, friend," Kermit pointed out sourly. "I washired by a private party." He turned just in time to see Peter slide in around the splintered doorframe, gingerly skirting the body of the man he had shot. The still smoking gun was clutchedtightly in his white-knuckled hand.

The boy stopped dead when he saw Paul.

"What the hell-?" Blaisdell demanded.

Kermit shrugged. "He doesn't take orders very well."

"Peter...how did you...what are you doing..." Paul hesitated. "Does your mother know where youare?"


The absurdity of the question completely escaped Peter. He suddenly dropped the gun and flunghimself into Paul's arms. Paul's battered body barely withstood the assault of 160 pounds oftightly muscled teenager. He rocked backward, felt Kermit's hand on his back, steadying themboth, then wrapped his arms around his foster son as the tears Peter had so far denied suddenlybecame an irresistible force.

Paul held him through the first onslaught of fear and grief and relief, his arms tight around thetrembling body, wondering irrelevantly when the boy had gotten taller than he was himself. Hetangled one hand into the thick, dark hair and felt his shirt grow damp. Against his chest, thewords barely audible, Peter murmured, "I love you, D-d-dad."

Tears teased at Paul's eyes and nearly spilled.

He was saved from the indignity of weeping in the middle of a nearly botched rescue missionwhen Peter unexpectedly jerked away from him. The boy swiped at his face, trying ineffectivelyto erase the evidence of his momentary breakdown, then squatted to retrieve the gun.

"We've got to get out of here," he said, his voice roughened but, under the circumstances,remarkably steady. He glanced at Kermit. "You said we didn't have time to waste."

Kermit, deciding he could kill or at least maim the child when he had more time to spare, agreed."Let's get back to the car." He glanced at PauL "We've got a boat waiting to get us to Wileyterminal. From there we pick up a plane that'll get us to one of the outer islands. We can bookpassage once we're clear."

"Let's go then," Paul said. "I've had just about enough of this island paradise."

*****

They were nearly across the small clearing when a wedge of light veered into the yard. A car cutinto the drive and the headlights skimmed over the three figures.

Paul grabbed Peter's arm and hauled the boy after him, making a break for the line of trees thatseparated them from their hidden vehicle. Kermit flanked them.

Doors slammed open.

The first gunfire spat up grass inches behind them. Peter's heartbeat thudded in his ears, hisstomach twisted as his mind belatedly told him that he had recognized the first figure to burst outof the still moving car. Jonas Dirk pelted through the darkness, scant yards behind them,followed by a second man.

His coordination off because of the darkness, his fear, and the handicap of the sling-imprisonedright hand, Peter was barely kept from catapulting head first into the darkness-screened car asPaul grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him to a halt.


"Get in!" Paul snapped.

"Kermit!" Peter protested. He turned, struggling against his foster father's efforts to force himinto the passenger side of the car and saw Griffin braced ten feet away against the trunk of agnarled tree.

"Get in!" Paul repeated.

Peter started to obey when gunshots again split the night. He took a step toward Kermit only tobe grabbed and slammed up against the side of the car. The woods behind them erupted intothunderous mayhem. Peter, still fighting Paul's efforts to force him into the car, saw Kermit rattleoff seemingly endless rounds at the two men pursuing them. One man-he could see that it wasDirk-screamed, clutched desperately for his knee, and was thrust backward into the darkness.The second man was better covered. He snapped off a single shot.

Kermit was thrown back from the tree, blood splattered against his jacket shoulder. He landed onone knee, flipped the gun to his other hand and flung blind shots at the still standing gunman.

"Get him out of here!" he shouted over his bloodied shoulder. "Now! Dammit!"

One final push by Paul tossed Peter into the front seat of the car. He slammed the door shutbefore the boy could react and sprinted to the other side of the vehicle. He wasn't fully in the seatbefore he twisted the keys and woke the engine. The wheels spun mud and grass as he slammedthe car into reverse, swung it into a 180 turn and slewed sideways until the tires caught purchaseon the damp ground.

He didn't even look in the rearview mirror as the sound of gunfire faded into the night behindthem.

*****

Explosions clashed with gunshots until they merged into one terrifying cacophony of sound.Acrid smoke swirled around him. Peter tried to force his way through the fog, but it clung tohim, pressuring him back, driving him to the ground, clutching at his arms, pinning his legs.

The darkness parted and he saw a figure funneled through the mist far ahead of him. He pushedto his feet and struggled forward again only to be pressed back. He saw the face then. His father.The features were barely distinct, laced with pain and loss. Peter tried to call out to him, but theform shimmered, wavered, then faded.

His legs were mired, trapped as if in sucking mud. He thrust his way back into the fog, his eyessearching desperately for the figure of his father. He saw it again. Distant. Indistinct.

One hand raised toward him as if imploring his help. He strained against the pull of the mist, hismuscles screaming with exhaustion the hand faltered, and then fell back.


The face swam into focus, back into an anonymous mask of pain, then cleared. It mutated. It washis father; then it shifted again, wavered, then became Kermit.

Kermit tried to lift his hand again.

"You left me," he whispered, the words carried on the clouds of fog that separated them. "Youleft me alone."

The hand was suddenly, inexplicably closer, groping for him, seemingly unattached to thetortured, wounded man they had left behind, bloodied and helpless. The fingers grazed hisshoulder and he flinched, recoiling from the tentative touch. Then they clamped into claws andtore into his skin.

He screamed and lunged up...

"Peter, it's okay. It's a dream Just a dream."

Peter's eyes batted open and slowly the room sharpened into focus. He was in his own bed, hisshoulder throbbing, his hand pin-pricked with pain. He glanced down at the wrapped hand. Heremembered the surgery that had taken place yesterday, then let the recognition bleach out of hismind.

He looked up at Paul who was perched on the side of his bed, his face a study in concern andsympathy.

"I can fix it this time, kid," Paul said, the first hint of a smile lighting his face. "I can take thisdream iway."

Still half-lost in the terror of the nightmare, Peter questioned, "What? What do you mean?"

"I just got a call. From the State Department."

Peter straightened up.

"The trade's been made. Kermit will be back in the States before the week's out."

"But...but...but he was hurt. Is he okay?"

"He took a bullet in the shoulder. Not the first one he's ever taken. And probably not the last. Theisland doctors removed the bullet but they didn't do too great a job. Hell be transferred to thehospital here and they'll make sure he recovers."

"I want to see him. I have to know...I mean, I believe...It's not that I don't...."

"I know, Peter. You'll see him. Just as soon as he gets here. Besides, he said he wants to see you,too. Said he's got a few bones to pick with you."


"Bones?" Uneasiness finally shunted aside the not-quite accepted relief.

"Something about the bill you owe him for his services," Paul said with a genuine smile. "Oh,and he said to tell you that he fully intended to break your fingers but you seem to already havetaken care of that."

Peter ventured a smile. It didn't quite graduate to a grin before he rephrased an earlier concern."He really will be all right, wont he?"

Paul returned the smile and brushed his fingers across Peter's cheek. "Oh, yeah," he said.

*****

Chapter Eleven

Karen Simms became dimly aware of the cold.

It seeped into her body, tightening her limbs, sparking an ache in her head. She stirred fitfully,wondering why her bed was so uncomfortable, the room so chilled. Memory flooded in on thevagrant thought and she realized she was slumped over, her head cushioned on Peter's pillow, hisfever-warmed body still clasped lightly in her arms. She disentangled herself from him and laidhim back against the pillow. He moaned, but didn't waken.

When she straightened in the chair she had snugged up against the bed, her back protested withan arc of pain that lanced through her shoulders and darted down her spine. She flexed the kinksout and glanced around the room. Shadowed light filtered in through the windows and rain stillpelted against the glass. She could hear the wind buffeting the small cabin, emitting a shrill butfaint whistle threaded through the drone of rain.

Across the dimly lit room, Kermit was sprawled in a chair, his neck bent at an angle thatpromised some serious pain when he woke. It was difficult to tell if it was still night or ifdaylight simply couldn't penetrate through the storm raging outside. A glance at the Kero-sunheater showed her that sometime during the night they had run out of kerosene. The flame thathad provided them with a modicum of warmth and light had been extinguished.

"He's here."

The soft, hoarse voice startled Simms and she jerked around to the bed. Peter was staring at herwith a suspicious brightness in his eyes that woke a spark of worry in her.

"He's here," he repeated in a whisper.

Before she could formulate an argument or even a reassurance, Kermit stirred out of hisawkward slump in the chair.


"There's someone outside," he said, his hand suddenly filled with the lethal-looking gun hecarried.

Without question, Simms snatched her own weapon off the bedside table.

"Lie still," she said, using one hand on Peter's shoulder as reinforcement to the order. "I mean it,Peter," she added, "lie still and don't make a sound."

He nodded, but she wasn't sure he was understanding a word she said. There was no time torepeat a directive that might have well been useless even under the best of circumstances. Shetrailed after Kermit as he ducked out the bedroom door.

Kermit turned halfway down the hall. Motioning with one hand, he said, "Stay with him." Hesaw the reactive protest register in her face before she could make a retort and smiled. "There's awindow in that room," he explained quickly. "We don't want him to be a target. Get him out ofthe bed and down onto the floor."

With a mental promise to have a little talk about just who was the computer nerd and who wasthe precinct captain at a later-and safer-date, Simms retreated back into the bedroom.

*****

Rain slashed at the living room windows; trees abutting the building mutated into torturedshadows as the wind battered them. Kermit skirted the furniture, shielded by elongated shadowsthat criss-crossed the room. It was impossible to tell what was wind-tossed leaves and whatmight be more sinister shapes beyond the dingy windows. He had just decided to take the fightoutside, keep it away from Simms and Peter if possible, when one window imploded.

A fireball burst through the sheer curtains and they caught instantly. Before he could take asingle step backward, an afghan draped over the back of the sofa burst into flames. A second firebomb shattered a window behind him and flame rolled across the kitchen floor, tearing at thecloth-covered table, skimming over the shag rug that lay in the center of the room. He heard acry and another crash and spun back toward the bedroom.

"Karen!"

He found her, flanked by flames, choking, struggling to keep a semi-conscious Peter on his feet.He grabbed them both and wrestled them through the door and into the hall. Smoke, dense andacrid, rolled out through the open doorway, clinging to the ceiling, drifting lower as the flamesfound more fodder and ate their way hungrily through the three stricken rooms.

Kermit shook Peter's shoulder-hard.

"How many?" he demanded. "Peter! How many?"


"Three," Peter whispered, his head dropping forward, his eyes squinted shut. He landed proppedagainst Kermit's shoulder and remained still.

Kermit glanced at Simms. "That means they'll have both exits blocked, waiting to flush us out."

"We don't have any choice," she countered. "We've got to go out one of the doors. If there arethree of them, they'll have at least one window covered and we don't have a prayer of knowingwhich one."

"Peter can't make it out a window anyway," Kermit said. He risked a second's thought, his throatclosing with the caustic smoke that was crawling closer to them with each fleeting second. "We'lljust have to play Wild, Wild West and go out the back door, guns blazing."

"I'll go first."

"The hell you will."

Her eyes, abused by the smoke and advancing heat and streaming tears, she said, "This is not thetime for misplaced chivalry. Ill go first. You take Peter and keep him on his feet. I can't carryhim. You can."

There was no argument against that logic. No time, either. Smoke tendriled down from theceiling pressuring them to either choke to death or attempt an escape. Kermit made a quick checkof his weapon, then slung Peter's lax arm over his shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Simmswas beside him, her face pale, her gun at the ready. On impulse, hampered by Peter's weight, heleaned over and gently kissed her on the cheek.

"After you, Captain," he said.

Visibility was nil. They had to rely on an improvised Braille method to locate the back doorwhich, so far, was out of the range of the rapidly escalating fire. Kermit braced his back againstthe doorframe, dragging Peter closer, tightening his hold on his waist.

"Ready?" Simms questioned.

Kermit nodded.

Simms managed a credible Dirty Harry move with a solid kick that split the door frame andslammed the door open into wonderfully fresh air and teeming rain. Her gun spat fire evenbefore she burst out into the yard. A single shot met them. Simms braced her legs and, her gun ina two handed grip, she sprayed the yard with gunfire. She didn't move until she could see Kermitand Peter vanish into the first line of trees. Smoke billowing from the flaming house shelteredthem quite effectively and she started after them.

A second shot rang out of the dark and she spun, then went down.


Kermit, his senses on overdrive, felt rather than saw her fall. He dropped Peter against thegnarled trunk of a tree, barked an order to stay put, and darted back into the yard. By the time hereached her, Simms was up on her knees, still pouring gunfire into the trees. Rain drenched them,the ground rivuleted with mud and dangerously slippery. His feet almost went out from underhim as he stooped and slid an arm around her slender waist. He dragged her to feet, only thenvisually placing the site of the bullet that had dropped her. Blood, thinned by the pouring rain,drooled down her right thigh. She stumbled against him, then wrapped her arms around his bodyas he crab-walked sideways with her, setting up his own barrage of gunfire to cover their retreat.

He eased her to the ground next to Peter. She gasped at the change of position, one hand wrappednumbly around her gun, the other clenched around her leg. Kermit grasped her pants leg withboth hands and ripped it open.

"It's okay," he said with a sigh of relief. "Only a gouge. Probably hurts like hell, but it's not bad."He looked at her, registering the pale face, the slight widening of her eyes. He grinned. Shegrinned back. "Stay here with Peter," he said. "I'D see if I cant improve the odds considerably."

"Okay," she conceded, then the grin slipped back across her ashen face. "But only because I'mbleeding. Next time, you stay in the car."

"It's a deal" He vanished into the maze of low-hanging, thrashing branches, and was swallowedinstantly by the furious storm.

Simms sagged back against the tree trunk, her stomach roiling in protest to the flare of pain thathad taken up residence in her right leg. Her hair, drenched by the rain, straggled around her face,stringy locks plastered to her cheeks and neck like seaweed. It was cold. A bone-numbing,penetrating, wet cold. Three armed bad guys circled them in the grey dawn like wolves skirting acampfire. Even torrential rain couldn't discourage the raging inferno that ate away at the haplesscabin, the toss of which would probably descend on the Hundred and First Precinct's pitifullyoverextended budget. It couldn't get much more miserable. A thunk against her shoulder joltedher. Her number one homicide detective had slumped against her, his limp weight proppedagainst her side. She sighed, then put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

*****

Shadows wove through the storm-tossed trees, streaked with silvered rain, forming phantomthreats, then dissolving. The wind had risen to an unearthly shriek like special effectsmanufactured for nightmares. Kermit used the darkness and thick trees to conceal himself fromunfortunate chance encounters. The problem was that the same conditions that provided himsuch effective cover worked equally well for their assailants.

Movement off to his left tickled the hairs at the back of his neck. Without questioning thereaction, he spun and fired off two quick shots. A grunt exploded out of the wavering shadows.There was no answering fire. Kermit had taken a single step toward the sound, his gun leading inthat direction, when a dark figure stepped out of the shadows off to his right. He turned.


Jonas Dirk stood not fifty feet away, his gun in his hand, the barrel pointed at Kermit's chest. Hewas smiling, his teeth gleaming in the feint light. Kermit froze.

"Bang, you're dead," Dirk said, the weapon not wavering in his grip. "You must be slipping,Griffin. Never would have thought anyone could get the drop on you. Especially not a cripple."He nodded toward the cane that reinforced his shattered leg. "Maybe I should return the favor.Shoot your knee out from under you before I kill you. You can't even imagine the pain." Heappeared to consider the idea "Would be a nice touch, don't you think? Kind of like smashingPeter's hand again. Has its own inherent element of justice."

Kermit didn't even breathe. His gun, wasted by being pointed in the wrong direction, remainedsteady in his hand. He considered just how long it would take him to swing it around, comparedto the fraction of a second it would require for Dirk to pull the trigger on his own weapon. Theequation didn't balance.

"You've lost," Dirk said, his voice barely carrying over the wind and rain that separated them."All I have to do is kill you, and then I can take my time with Peter and your lady friend. You'velost, and because of that, they've lost too." The gun barrel bobbled just a fraction, then steadied."I can make it last, too. Think about it for the little time you have left. She's a beautiful woman.There are a hundred ways to make sure she doesn't stay that way."

Kermit inched in a breath. For some reason Dirk seemed to be trying to prod him into making anill-advised move, as if he needed some form of justification for killing him, or maybe he wassimply enjoying tormenting him with previews of what he had in store for Karen and Peter.

"And Peter..." Dirk continued, his ebony eyes never leaving Kermit's face. "You think he's amess now? I have years of experience in causing pain. He'll want to die long before I grant himthat concession She can watch while I work with Peter and wonder just what I have planned forher. Plenty of time for her to imagine-"

The sudden, fragmented image of Dirk's eagle-claw hand on the porcelain skin of Karen's facestrolled through Kermit's mind and tipped the scale. He flung himself to the side.

Dirk's finger twitched on the trigger.

The bullet caught Kermit in the right shoulder. He absorbed the impact and rolled in the muddyweeds, coming up on his stomach propped on his elbows. Pain knifed through his shoulder andarm, deadening his fingers. He forced his finger to move against the trigger, his aim destroyed bythe numbness that traveled through his hand and up his arm. The bullet flew off the mark, butsomehow managed to shatter the cane, toppling Dirk to the ground. Kermit was on his feetbefore the other man hit the sodden earth. The gun dropped from insensible fingers, to fall, lost,in the thick tangle of underbrush. Heedless of the loss of the weapon, he crossed the distancebetween them at a lopsided lope, his wound pouring blood down his coat, his balance lost in theweight of pain that burned through his entire left side.


Dirk lifted his head, his right hand trembling but managing to bring the gun up. A flying kickfrom Kermit sent the weapon sailing off into the trees. Dirk followed through with a loopingblow from the splintered half of the cane still clenched in his hand. The silver handled shaftsmashed into Kermit's wounded shoulder. Fiery pain burned a swath through his entire body andhe tumbled into the threat of semi-consciousness.

"Pop?"

"Look, Peter," Simms protested, "I don't mind your mistaking me for your mother, but I draw theline at impersonating your father." She untangled her arms from around him and eased him backagainst the rough bark of the tree that still supported them.

"I thought he was here," Peter whispered.

"I wish he was," she said. She had been reluctant to leave Peter unguarded even when sporadicgunfire broke off behind the screen of trees. She was left hoping that the final report came fromKermit's gun and not one of the three people tracking them. Movement teased at the fringe of hervision. She nearly dismissed it as more of the storm's antics, then it was repeated, an elusiveshadow beyond the corner of the fiercely burning house, moving closer to them. She flexed herleg, testing it for strength. Pain bit into her, but it was bearable, and the muscle of her thighresponded to the tentative motion. It was going to hurt, but she was fairly confident that it wouldsupport her weight.

"Peter." She got no response. "Peter!" She shook his shoulder. He groaned, but his eyes flickeredopen. "Stay here. Don't move, no matter what you hear. Do you understand me?"

He nodded, obviously too weak to argue. Worry at the lack of reactive complaint teased at hermind. She shunted the concern aside. There was no time to consider it. He'd be okay. They justhad to get him out of here. In order to do that, she had to confront the danger approaching themfrom the rear of the house. She hated the idea of leaving him absolutely defenseless, but even ifshe had a gun to leave with him, there was no guarantee that he was in any shape to use it..

Doubt prickling at her, she eased to her feet, bit her lip against the pain as her leg objected toweight being forced on it, and slipped through the trees.

Her leg was dragging through the mud by the time she came close enough to identify that theblack-clad figure edging toward her was a woman. A woman with a very large, very lethal-looking gun held securely in both hands.

"Drop it," Simms ordered, relieved that there was no quaver in her voice in spite of the stabbingpain traversing her leg. "Drop it now or I'll blow your head off"

The woman stopped, cocked her head as if trying to place her position by sound, thendeliberately brought the gun around.


Simms didn't hesitate. She wasn't about to invite another piece of lead into her tender flesh. Shesqueezed off twin shots. One slammed into the gun, showering Miranda with sparks. The gunflew out of her hand. The second shot caught her wrist, fragmenting bones, tearing flesh andspattering blood over her. She screamed and dropped to her knees. Simms didn't bother withsmall courtesies. She flipped handcuffs out from her belt and slapped one on the uninjured wrist.The other end of the cuffs she attached to the metal railing of the porch of the burning house.

"You can't leave me here," Miranda squealed. "The house! It'll fall! You can't leave me."

Karen looked at her a moment, letting memory stir up the sound of Peter's tortured voice as hepleaded with the hallucinated image of this woman for another dose of the drugs she'd forcedinto him.

"You better hope that the rain puts the fire out then," she said and turned her back on the stunnedwoman.

*****

Kermit fought off the darkness threatening to descend on him.

He shook his head, caught the blur of movement behind him and twisted around on one knee.His good hand speared wedged fingers into the form looming over him. Dirk screamed asKermit's hand stabbed into his groin. He doubled over, vomiting into the boggy grass. Kermitdidn't wait to see what Dirk had eaten for supper; he spun into a roundhouse kick that took thefallen man in the right temple and slammed him backward.

He hit the tree hard, a broken arm of branch impaling him, effectively pinning him upright like abutterfly mounted to a board. His hands fluttered uselessly at the bloody branch. Awareness lefthis eyes slowly.

For a moment, Kermit screened out even the sound of the storm, his eyes pinned to theunmoving body, waiting for the first indication of movement. A stab of pain in his shoulderbroke the spell. With his good hand, he prodded the man's neck, searching for a pulse.

Cold flesh met his touch.

At least he had kept his word. Jonas Dirk would never lay hands on Peter again.

He staggered away from the body, kicked through the mud and weeds in a cursory search for hisgun, found it courtesy of a convenient splash of lightning, and started back to where he thoughthe'd brought down the other man. Gunshots stopped him, then spurred him into a run.

*****

Kermit nearly collided with Karen. She brought her gun up, recognized him, and breathed, "Shit!Don't do that!"


"What happened?'

"I took care of the lady," she said.

"Is she dead?"

"No. I shackled her to the porch."

Kermit's voice was hoarse with disbelief "Of the house?"

"Of course, of the house."

"The house is on fire," he reminded her.

"Yes," she agreed. "I suppose I should feel bad about that."

"Maybe the porch wont burn."

"I'm sure that's what she's hoping. What about Dirk and the other man?"

"Dirk's dead. I'm not sure about the other one. I think I hit him, but when I heard your shots, I..."

"You played cavalry," she said around a smile.

"Chivalry lives."

"You're hurt."

"So are you."

"Their car shouldn't be far. Let's get Peter out of here."

"Good idea."

They were nearly twenty yards from the sheltered tree where they had left Peter when they weretreated to an unpleasant surprise. Hogan, blood streaming down his face from a slash carved intohis temple by Kermit's bullet, had a death-grip around Peter's chest and the muzzle of his gunjabbing painfully into the young cop's throat. Peter tried once to jerk away from the huge man,but increased pressure against his broken rib stole his breath and folded him in Hogan's arms.

Dragging his prisoner backward, Hogan retreated deeper into the trees.

"Take one step closer," he growled, "and I'll blow his damn head off."


Hogan risked a glance backward, gauging his path, when Peter suddenly came alive in his arms.One elbow drove into the big man's belly, a booted heel smashed into his shin, and Peter droppedto the ground as Hogan reacted to the pain.

Kermit didn't waste time weighing the ethics of the situation His first bullet took Hogan in thechest, his second drilled a hole dead center in his forehead.

*****

One hand encased in plaster up to the elbow, his ribs taped and strapped, bruises fading into agarish yellow, and slightly stoned on his father's latest herbal concoction, Peter Caine walked thegauntlet of well wishes and 'welcome back's that assaulted him as he made his way through thesquad room and over to the Captain's office. A kiss from Jody, a lewd pinch from Skalany,threats of paperwork from Strenlich when he reported back for duty, and multiple, friendly andenthusiastic back slaps that woke slumbering twinges of pain-before he made it into the relativesafety and privacy of Simms' office.

The captain was conspicuously absent.

Momentarily nonplussed, reluctant to venture back out into the beehive of activity and start thewell-intentioned teasing all over again, Peter hiked one hip up on the corner of the cluttered deskand considered his next move.

Absently, his gaze wandered the room. The pictures on the wall were different. The cracked,stained and much beloved coffee cup he'd given to Paul one birthday-with the irreverentinscription "Bad Cop, no donut" emblazoned on its side-was missing. The paperwork on the desklooked familiar. Faces had changed. Crimes and reports did not. The faded Navajo rug had beenreplaced by sleek wall-to-wall carpeting.

It was entirety different.

It was still Paul's office.

Peter sighed.

He guessed, at least in his mind, it would always be Paul's office.

Not that he begrudged Simms her place in it, or even the changes she had wrought with hercoming, changes which far outreached the minor redecorating she had inflicted on this room.Long before she had accompanied Kermit to save his sorry ass from Jonas Dirk, Peter had cometo respect and even like her. It had taken a while, but he had eventually seen the gentlenessbeneath her polished exterior, the woman beneath the badge and title.

A smile teased at his lips. If he expanded on the facts a little, he could even claim to have sleptwith the Captain. It didn't realty matter that she was slumped in a chair at his bedside and he was


unconscious in the bed. They had at least shared a pillow. Wonder how Kermit would react tothat interpretation?

The door slid open.

Kermit stepped in, as if on signal "You're off duty for another week," he reminded Peter.

"I just stopped in..." Peter waved his good arm vaguely around the room. "I thought I'd see howyou and the Captain were doing."

"How do you think we're doing, kid?" Kermit retorted sourly. "You managed to get both of usshot." He glanced down at his sling-supported arm.

Peter ignored the jibe. "I bet it's a bitch to try to work magic on a keyboard with only one hand."He thought a second. "How come I'm still on sick leave and you're working?"

"Because I'm much easier to live with," Griffin shot back.

"Kermit..." Peter's voice dropped a level.

"Yeah?'

"What was Miranda's stake in this?"

Kermit grinned and dropped his glasses down to a precarious angle on the bridge of his nose."That's a story for another time, kid."

"What is this, a convention of the walking wounded?' Simms demanded as she stepped into herinvaded office. Only the feint trace of a limp told of her close encounter with a bullet. She settledher gaze on Peter until he realized he was still propped on the corner of her desk. He bolted to hisfeet.

"Captain." He ducked his head, glanced at Kermit as if hoping for rescue, then said, "Captain. Iwas wondering...I mean, how are you feeling?'

"I'm fine, detective," she said, only the faintest twinge of a curve at her lips as she took her chairbehind the desk and gave him a quick once-over. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Peter said, too quickly. "I'm ready to go back to work. Today, if you need me."

"Let's let the doctors decide that," she suggested, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Gohome, Peter. You're interrupting the smooth efficiency of my squad room. Let your father takecare of you for a little while longer. Relax. Enjoy your time off!"

His face fell. "Do I have to?"


She nodded. "You have to."

"He keeps feeding me healthy food and unidentifiable herbal concoctions."

"Drink them."

"I don't have a lot of choice," he complained. "My father doesn't take 'no' for an answer."

"Good. Go home."

He sighed deeply. "Okay. I'm gone." He started for the door, turned back and his glance flittedfrom Kermit to Simms. "I just wanted...I mean, I wanted..."

"You're welcome, Peter," Simms said, finally letting a smile smooth over her face. "You'rewelcome, and I'm very, very glad that you're okay. I'd take it as a personal favor if you tried toremain that way for a while."

He mirrored her smile. "I'll try," he conceded.

She wondered just how long that particular promise would last. Maybe at least until he made itout of the precinct house. When Peter left, she glanced up at Griffin.

"What's the matter?' she said. "Don't you have any work to do? No more crime in this city?"

Kermit scowled, sighed, then said, "Oh, yeah."

The End

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Mercenary Blues By Kathy Poffenberger and J.M. McClure