Episode 15

By A. X. Zanier

Music: Everything You Want by Vertical Horizon

Teaser

"Anything done out of love is beyond good and evil." Back when this whole mess with the gland and the Agency began I learned that the Official and I shared an affinity for that quote, and its meaning in our lives. We both loved our jobs.

Well, times change.

Now, I'm pretty sure the Official still loves his job. Hell, I was damn close to having a fondness for this spy-racket myself. I mean, it might not be what I'd always dreamed of doing, I was pretty much set on making my way on the shadier side of the law, but it's damn close. Come on, I get paid, and not too shabbily, to break into people's homes, businesses, what have you. How's that for irony? Getting paid to do what you love. Not many people get the chance at that and end up spending their lives trying to figure out why they're so damn miserable.

They're better off not knowing, trust me. Living your life is a whole lot easier when you've no idea what lies down the road or where you made that wrong turn, or, as sometimes happens, got shoved down a path you'd never even noticed. Crap, if someone had told me I'd end up working for the Oliver Twist of intelligence agencies I'd've laughed and asked them to pass the joint over, 'cause they would've had to have been smoking some quality stuff. Yet, look at me now.

Like a fool I'd even begun thinking about the future, not making plans precisely, but considering where I'd like to be in a few years. I ain't getting any younger, ya know, but the few vague plans I'd made were ripped away from me with little hope of ever putting the pieces back together again. You know, the usual crap - A warm body to share bed space with, maybe a kid or two one day. Only those kids weren't likely to happen now. Thanks to the gland.

Yep, once again I was tap-dancing to the tune being sung by that uninvited guest in the back of my skull. And was my Keeper any closer to getting it out? Not a snowball's chance in hell.

In fact, there was always a chance the new and improved side-effects might be permanent even if the gland could be safely removed. A couple years back I joked about feeling "like a eunuch in a harem" and now I was one for all intents and purposes.

I thought maybe I'd beaten the damn gland with Adam. He might not have been my biological kid, but he sure was my spiritual brother. And just like everyone else I've ever loved, I lost him. Weird though, when push came to shove, I wound up making the same choice Alex -- and my father -- had, to let Adam go and give him a real chance at a normal life. To be, much like Pinocchio, a real boy and not some puppet dancing to the strings pulled by others.

I know how that feels. Know it and hate it.

And now I was learning the truth of another of Nietzsche's maxims: "What does not destroy me, makes me stronger."

The fry slid through the ketchup, glossy red coating the thin strip of crispy potato before it was lifted upwards to be bitten in half while eyes gazed blankly out the window at the passersby strolling along the sidewalk in the swiftly deepening twilight. Finishing off the fry, he lifted the bottle of non-alcoholic brew to wash it down and mingle the flavors together. As he tipped the deep green bottle to get at the last of the liquid, the sleeve of his nondescript dark blue jacket slipped down to reveal a watchband under which, lay the curve of a tattoo done in a brilliant green. As the bottle lowered, to settle in the ring of condensation that had been formed as it sat unmoving on the table's cheaply laminated surface, a deep sigh was heard, one that echoed the discontent felt.

The slight frown worn by the strikingly handsome face was offset by the wariness in the deep brown eyes that roamed about in suspicion, catching and cataloguing everything that was deemed worthy of their attention. The slightly too loud drunk at the far end of the bar. The bleached-blonde waitress as she smoothly eeled her way through the happy hour crowd to deliver a tray laden with a pitcher of beer and six frosted mugs to a stressed out group of corporate middle-men, their ties loosened and jackets missing or draped over the backs of their chairs. The $20 dollar bill sitting under the wineglass a couple tables over awaiting its retrieval by yet another waitress who was currently out back paying her tithe to the goddess nicotine. The security guard locking the main doors to the bank across the street after escorting the last patron of the day out.

The muffled ring of his cell phone made him grunt as he was pulled away from his observation of the world on the other side of the glass. He dug it out of his pocket while he ran one long fingered hand through hair that stood upright in soft spikes sure to add inches to his already impressive height. Checking the caller ID, his lips tightened slightly while his eyes flashed in irritation.

"Yeah?" He rolled his eyes at the rush of words flowing at him. "I know. Yes." Then with more force. "Yes." He glanced at his watch, noting it was just a few minutes past 6 p.m. "I'll be there."

Hanging up the phone, heedless of the fact that the voice was shouting at him still, he fished enough cash out of his wallet to cover the bill and leave a generous tip and then slid out of the booth. With a nod at the blonde waitress, who smiled at him as he passed her, he left the bar and seconds later crossed in front of the very window he'd spent most of his dinner gazing out of.

Stealthy footsteps were almost inaudible to the man making them as he moved with an easy grace down the darkened hallway. He'd done his homework and knew the security layout like the back of his hand. Well, wrist anyway. Glancing at his watch he counted down the last few seconds softly and then moved quickly, timing his motion so that he remained just out of range as the camera panned from one hallway to the other, a stupid setup in his opinion, but one that saved costs for the building.

His target was the double door at the far end of the hall, one of the huge penthouse suites that were sought after by the rich and powerful of this city. He had 20 seconds before the camera sweep came back this way, but he wasn't concerned. With a skill honed by long practice he went to one knee and picked the locks with swift precision.

He cracked the door open and reached up to find the well-hidden wire just above the doorframe. He quickly stripped a section and attached an alligator clip that was in turn connected to an interesting little toy that allowed him to override the security in the suite without having to find the main controls or sending an alert back to the monitoring company. Cerberus Security just didn't have the reputation it once had after their local offices had gone up in a ball of flames.

Whistling softly he stuck the electronic box to the wall and slipped into the room, shutting the door softly behind him with five seconds to spare. Pulling out his Maglite, he located the elevator that went directly to the roof and then shone the pencil-thin beam over the rest of the room.

"Now where do you keep your secrets?" he muttered to himself as his eyes wandered over the luxurious space before him. The blueprints had only told him so much, but he quickly narrowed it down to one particular wall that seemed to be noticeably deeper than the measurements on the blueprint claimed. He took his time, going over every inch and completely confident he'd find the hidden compartment eventually. It had taken three weeks to find this place and another to get access to the blueprints, security schematics, case the place and set-up. Then it had just been a matter of waiting until the owner was out of town, which had happened far sooner that he'd expected, but he wasn't about to complain.

He found the switch on the underside of a bookshelf, a copy of Kaftka's Metamorphosis right at eye level, and shook his head at the irony. The entire section of bookcase slid aside revealing an impressive safe with a top of the line electronic lock. A few months ago this one would have stumped him, forcing him to resort to explosives to get it open, but not now. He'd begun reacquainting himself with the tools and obstacles of the trade recently and was now up to speed. The fact that he had access to sources and information no average thief did gave him a definite advantage. Pulling out two more items from his satchel he went to work and had the safe open in no time at all.

Carefully checking the interior for booby traps or secondary alarms and finding none, he was pleased to discover more than he could have hoped.

"Sweet," he said with glee in his voice. Once certain it was clear, he began removing files and disks that he stuffed into the satchel until it was bulging with stolen items. He was hoping there would be just the right piece of information to help out a friend who was becoming increasingly desperate with the current situation. Just as he was going to shut the safe, his task complete, he noticed the stack of cash in a back corner. With only a second's hesitation over the fact money was not what he'd come here to steal, he grabbed two of the tightly wrapped packets of hundreds and shoved them into his shirt.

Closing the safe he reset the lock, returned his toys back to the satchel, depressed the button, and he watched the shelves slide back into place. Now it was time for the real fun.

Going to the elevator he stepped inside and with the override code accessed from the building's security system he sent it up towards the roof. Having taken a cue from his experience freeing Mei-Lin from the MSS, he'd disguised himself as part of the team of window washers and surreptitiously set up his escape route. Pulling the carabiners out of his pockets he attached them to the climbing harness he wore and headed for the corner where his escape route awaited. Going over the rope and rechecking that it was secure he tossed it over the side and watched as it uncoiled its twelve-story length in a serpentine freefall.

Hooking on to the line he stepped over the side and, with a laugh, slid down the side of the building. Once on the ground he gave a sharp tug releasing the specially rigged knot at the top of the building and the remaining rope fell to pool about him, leaving only the piton and carabiner behind as evidence. Coiling it up quickly he tossed it over his shoulder and headed for his car parked in a nearby alley.

It wasn't until he'd driven a couple blocks that he realized one of his arms had gone missing and he left fly with a shout of pure joy, "Yeeeehaaaaaa!"

::Cue Theme Music::

There once was a tale about a man who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.

::Music Fade Out::

The fry slid through the ketchup, glossy red coating the thin strip of crispy potato before it was lifted upwards to be bitten in half while eyes gazed blankly out the window at the passerby strolling along the sidewalk in the swiftly deepening twilight. Finishing off the fry, he lifted the bottle of non-alcoholic brew to wash it down and mingle the flavors together. As he tipped the deep green bottle to get at the last of the liquid, the sleeve of his nondescript dark blue jacket slipping down to reveal a watchband under which lay the curve of a tattoo done in a brilliant green. As the bottle lowered, to settle in the ring of condensation that had been formed as it sat unmoving on the table's cheaply laminated surface, a deep sigh was heard, one that echoed the discontent felt.

The slight frown worn by the strikingly handsome face was offset by the wariness in the deep brown eyes that roamed about in suspicion, catching and cataloguing everything that was deemed worthy of their attention. The slightly too loud drunk at the far end of the bar. The bleached-blonde waitress as she smoothly eeled her way through the happy hour crowd to deliver a tray laden with a pitcher of beer and six frosted mugs to stressed out groups of corporate middle-men, their ties loosened and jackets missing or draped over the back of their chairs. The $20 dollar bill sitting under the wineglass a couple tables over awaiting its retrieval by yet another waitress who was currently out back paying her tithe to the goddess nicotine. The gawkers still milling about the saw horses, along with reporters from just about every station in the state and a few from the big names like MSNBC and FOX News looking for fodder to fill a less-than-exciting news day.

The muffled ring of his cell phone made him grunt as he was pulled away from his observation of the world on the other side of the glass. He dug it out of his pocket while he ran one long fingered hand through hair that stood upright in soft spikes sure to add inches to his actual height. Checking the caller ID, his lips tightened slightly while his eyes flashed in irritation.

"Yeah?" He rolled his eyes at the rush of words flowing at him. "I know. Yes." Then with more force. "Yes." He glanced at his watch, noting it was just a few minutes past 6 p.m. "I'll be there, Hobbes. Ain't like I got any other plans." Hobbes' voice rose, but Darien ignored it as he hung up the phone and turned it off, not wanting to deal with his partner's suspicions at the moment.

Fishing enough cash out of his wallet to cover the bill and leave a generous tip, Darien slid out of the booth and gave the pretty blonde waitress a smile as they passed each other in the crowded bar. Moments later he passed before the very window he'd been gazing out of as he ate. Across the street the police were still milling about, the lights atop their vehicles turning the world alternately red and blue as the twilight deepened into true darkness, the bright "Police Line: Do Not Cross" tape snapping in the stiff breeze coming in off the bay.

Darien pulled the car into the parking spot around the corner from where he'd spotted the nondescript form of Golda parked between a beat up Yugo and a late model Suburban attesting to the wide variety of residents this particular neighborhood represented. It was one of the older sections of town, some of the houses converted into businesses or apartments while others were pristinely maintained by owners who had, most likely, lived in them for decades. For a change the van didn't look the least bit out of place.

Darien checked his hair in the rear-view mirror to make sure it was not even considering drooping, as it seemed to be some odd signal to everyone that he was feeling depressed again. The high after last night's little escapade had faded shortly after walking into the office and having Claire once again inform him she'd made no progress. In truth, depressed would probably be a step up at this point as Darien didn't feel he had anything left to lose by taking risks and chances he would have otherwise carefully avoided. But since he really was nothing more than the receptacle that the Official had dubbed him so very long ago he saw little point in taking any extra precautions, thus his little extracurricular activities as of late. It had started with the little Eberts-aided raid to get the information from Chrysalis and had spiraled out from there. Though he was very careful to keep anyone at the Agency from being involved, doing his own research and making the plans on his own, not changing his routines in any obvious way. Made it a damn good thing he tended towards late morning arrival times for work as it allowed him to catch up on the sleep he was missing during his nocturnal jaunts.

It was only Hobbes who had become suspicious, mainly because after so long as partners the paranoid little mook just seemed to know when Darien was up to no good.

After tugging the last few strands back into their proper position Darien slid out of the car, not bothering to lock it. If someone was desperate enough steal the stripped down piece of crap they were welcome to it, and the Official would probably be thrilled to collect the insurance money for it. Strolling casually up the street he did his best to make it look like he belonged there and not attract the attention of any of the locals that might be home and observant.

He didn't see Hobbes through Golda's windshield as he approached, but wasn't surprised to find the driver's side door unlocked for him to use to slip inside. "Hey, Hobbes, anything exciting happen?"

Hobbes poked his head through the sliding door dividing the front of the van from the rear wearing a scowl. "You're late."

Darien shrugged. "What, the place get up and walk away while I was trying to get something to eat?"

"Cute. Listen smartass if Menendez is right, these guys have a major stash of drugs hidden in there." Hobbes hooked a thumb at the passenger window, which framed a typical two-story Spanish-style house common to the area, probably built in the early fifties and obviously well-maintained over the decades. It looked like it should have a couple in their seventies living in it and not what was supposedly a nasty group of drug runners possibly turned bio-terrorists.

"So how come we get baby-sitting duty and not the cops?" Darien asked still doing his best to try to achieve that Nirvana-like state of total disinterest.

"'Cause Menendez and Vaughn watched the house all day while you spent your time trying to meld your atoms with those of your mattress." Hobbes vanished back into the rear of his van. "Where the hell were you last night anyhow?"

"Out," Darien stated in a bored tone.

"Out. You've been 'out' an awful lot lately, ever since saying good-bye to..." Hobbes' voice trailed off. They both knew exactly when Darien's mood had bottomed out and Hobbes had learned it was better not to mention either of the people in question at the moment. Neither one wanted yet another argument. "So, the upshot is we have the night shift. The shipment is supposed to be moved sometime today."

Darien glanced over at the house, noting that although the sun was down there was not a single light on in the place. "Hobbes, define today."

Hobbes reappeared with the parabolic mic and a set of headphones and settled into the passenger seat, obviously intent on trying to hear what was going on in the house. "Huh?"

"Well, nothing moved during the day, ain't no one in there now from the looks of it. Couldn't they have moved the stuff early this morning? '''Today' started at midnight," Darien explained and watched as Hobbes' face fell.

"Menendez didn't get the info till late last night. First watch was dawn this morning." Hobbes told Darien with a frown. "Crap. You better hope your hunch is wrong."

"My hunch? Hobbes, I'm just pointing out the obvious. Every other house on the street has at least one light on, that one," he waved at the target, "is a black hole."

Hobbes ignored Darien and set the headphones over his ears. After making a few adjustments he aimed the dish first at the suspect's house, the open window allowing him to focus on the home with little or no hindrance. Then he swung it slightly, first to the right and then left before focusing back on the darkened house. With a soft growl of irritation he pulled the headphones off.

"Lemme guess, not a peep," Darien commented drolly.

"Not a one. Damn it. If we blew this..." Hobbes got out of the seat and made his way into the rear of the van where Darien could hear Hobbes moving about, most likely putting away the now unneeded mic and perhaps getting something else. Darien was therefore not surprised when Hobbes reappeared with a headset and its power pack.

"You want me to go check it out, right?" Darien took the headset, holding it as if it were some small dead animal in need of disposal.

"Got it in one. Looks like all that money spent on training you wasn't wasted." Hobbes sniped.

"So why can't you, with the years of experience, be the one to go check the place out?" Darien suggested grim-faced. His mood was definitely on the low end of the scale tonight, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe just too much crap that wasn't going his way lately.

"'Cause I ain't the one with an invisibility gland in my head," Hobbes growled in irritation. "Get up off your ass and do your job." And with that he vanished into the back of the van to set up his half of the equipment.

Feeling just a touch guilty about his crappier than usual attitude, Darien refrained from commenting and slipped the headset over his ear, shifting it until it sat comfortably. He then attached the power pack to his belt, the trailing cord going under his jacket, which he then zipped up to the three-quarter mark to keep the wire out of his way. Getting out of Golda he closed the door with no more than a soft click and, after checking about to make sure no one was watching him, he Quicksilvered and crossed the street towards the house. As he crossed the lawn heading for the backyard gate that lead to the rear of the house he whispered, "Hobbes?"

"Yeah, Fawkes?" The reply was terse.

"Sorry, man, it's just been kinda rough lately." Darien looked over the top of the five-foot high fence, observing the back yard for any signs of pets, especially dogs, but didn't see anything to indicate there was one living here. Opening the gate he stepped inside and closed it behind him. No reason to call attention to the yard by the neighbors or any patrol cars rolling by.

"I know, my friend," Hobbes responded after a moment. "Which is why I've been cutting you some slack, but the Chief ain't gonna put up with it for much longer."

"Screw the Fat Man," Darien muttered, as he tried the first window he came to along the back of the house only to find it securely locked and the blinds closed, allowing him no view of the interior. A few more steps and he tried window number two finding it identical to the first. Then he found an interesting feature: an external entrance to the basement of the house. Cement-lined and double steel doors with an impressive lock, the thing from the outside, appeared to be built like a Midwestern storm cellar. "Hobbes, I found something interesting."

"And what might that be?" Hobbes asked, not really sounding all that curious.

Darien lay one Quicksilvered hand atop the lock and watched the frost develop and thicken on its surface. Once it was well coated, a quick blow with the heel of his hand shattered it. He paused, listening for sounds coming from below, but heard nothing possibly because of the thickness of the doors. With an anticipatory cringe he lifted one, finding it even heavier than he'd expected, and was greeted with inky darkness and silence. "A way into the basement."

"Good. Keep in contact and try to stay out of trouble," Hobbes reminded him like always.

Darien forced himself to bite back another snarky remark that would just start the antagonism going again.

Making his way carefully down the concrete stairs Darien kept alert for the slightest sound that might hint at there being someone in the darkened room. The slight echo of even his Quicksilver muffled footsteps bespoke the room being not only open, but also fairly large for a basement. Once out of direct range of the ambient light coming down the stairwell, he found himself near blind with not even enough of the non-visible spectrum of light available to allow him to see. Backtracking cautiously and wishing he'd done something as simple as bring a flashlight, he found the bank of switches near the bottom of the steps - a modified breaker board from the feel of it, and began flipping the switches.

The first couple did nothing as far as he could tell, but the third turned on a light on the far side of the room revealing the plain dark gray concrete and not much else. Now able to see the breakers and the shorthand written next to each he quickly got the remaining basement lights flipped on, showing the place to be not only empty, but that it had recently - very recently - been occupied. Some of the shorthand for the other breakers intrigued him, but he set aside pondering on them for the moment.

Allowing the Quicksilver to drop away even more starkly showed the place had been abandoned, but not hastily. The place had had been cleaned out in an organized and planned manner. Not even a scrap of paper remained behind, and it was a good bet the upstairs would be just as empty.

"Crap."

"Fawkes, gimme your sit-rep," Hobbes requested in a perfectly professional tone.

"They're gone and the place is cleaned out," Darien told him, wandering across the floor and not kicking up so much as a dust bunny. He could see the outlines of tables, spills from the mysterious substances leaving outlines, spots rubbed shiny from chairs rolling back and forth, but what it meant was a mystery to him. In fact it was truly odd that for a supposed drug house that there was no lingering odor of what was being made or grown here. Marijuana required special equipment to grow -- UV lamps and irrigation. Both methamphetamine and crack left obvious olfactory traces behind and in such concentration that it usually required gas masks or even HAZMAT suits to be worn to clean up the mess. The chemicals used to make GHB, which was odorless and colorless on its own, still left a distinctive scent in the air during the creation process. Yet all Darien could detect was the faint scent of almonds.

"I'm on my way in. Don't touch anything," Hobbes scolded Darien much to his annoyance.

"Whatever," Darien grumbled and then yanked the headset from his ear, currently his only way to ignore Hobbes and protest the grade-school reminder of what to do. Like his days as a professional thief and the couple of years of formal and informal training in the spook biz hadn't firmly entrenched what to do and not do in his mind.

Hidden around a wall Darien found instead of the typical wooden staircase leading up into the house proper, a heavily reinforced one of steel. The door at the top of the steps was also metal and looked like it sealed perfectly to the frame, much like the one outside in the backyard. Something was going on here, something stranger than some drug dealers trying to make a step up in the local underworld.

"Fawkes," Hobbes called out from near the entrance.

"Here." Darien stepped back into the view. The half wall blended in so well that from the other side of this room, you couldn't tell it was there. Tipping his head to the side Darien gave the whole place a sweeping look. "Is it me or is this place bigger than the house?"

"Not just you, my friend." Hobbes waved at the pair of ells off the main room, one to either side of the exterior stairwell. "Looks like they expanded right into the backyard." He pointed out the slight difference in color to the new concrete of the section to his right. "Heavily reinforced from the looks of it." He wandered over to the other ell, the entrance of which was noticeably narrower, but the room widened to match the one opposite after only five feet. Hobbes examined the doorway carefully, obviously finding it fascinating.

"Whatcha got there, Hobbes?" Darien asked looking over the shorter man's shoulder to try to figure out what he'd spotted.

"Looks like they had one hell of a door here. Maybe even had it set up for clean room or isolation protocols," Hobbes responded. "I called Menendez and the Chief. Forensic teams'll be here within the hour to take this place apart."

"This was no drug lab. Least not one of the usual ones," Darien pointed out.

"No kidding, Sherlock. Makes you wonder exactly what they were up to, though." Hobbes headed back to the stairs with Darien trailing along to await the arrival of the professionals. There was no way they were going to risk losing the one piece of evidence that might allow these bastards to be caught.

"Up to? Well, that one's easy. No good just like every other one we've hunted down recently. Things have been going nuts lately, between Al-Quaeda and Hussein and all those eager beavers willing to supply them with every toy of mass destruction," Darien said in complaint.

"Oh and lets not forget Javier's goons, a lovely lady bent on hacking the government's computers, and Chrysalis looking to create their own private Ragnarock," Hobbes tossed out casually, encapsulating the events of the last few weeks in one short sentence. "Hey, did you ever call that lawyer chick? What was her name?"

"Alison Jennings. Like you didn't remember." Darien frowned, not wanting to be reminded of yet another lost opportunity. Her being a civilian and never likely to gain the clearance needed to know about his little... talent, nipped any potential relationship right in the bud. He didn't even dare even risk a friendship with her. All it took was the thought of one of the many enemies he'd made over the last few years, learning about Alison and using her against him, to keep Darien from doing anything beyond keeping an eye on the Carter Lincoln situation as he had promised. He'd lost too damn many people over the years to risk yet another. "And, no, I didn't call her."

Hobbes shook his head. "You gotta get out more, Fawkes. Can't spend your whole life chasing down bad guys. You'll end up popping more pills than I do."

"All right, earlier you were complaining about me being 'out' last night and now you're telling me to get out more. Could ya pick just one 'cause this mixed signal thing is gonna give me a headache," Darien requested plaintively as they climbed the stairs and made their way across the yard, heading back to Golda to await the reinforcements.

"Fawkes, there's a big difference to you being 'out' and you going out and getting a life," Hobbes explained, as he slid open the van's side-door and climbed inside

Darien shook his head not wanting to risk one's of Hobbes convoluted explanations by asking so much as "Huh?" Besides, then Darien would probably find himself backed into a corner and forced to detail his reluctance of why there was little point in going "out" on that endless quest for female companionship. Which would perforce lead into a discussion of exactly what he'd been doing while "out," and Darien was not prepared to do that at the moment. Maybe not ever, if he had his druthers.

Slipping into the passenger's seat, ostensibly to conserve his energy for what might very well prove to be a long night to come, Darien flipped on the radio. He was just in time to catch what sounded like a news conference with the SDPD police detective in charge of the string of bank robberies that had been hitting the county over the last six weeks.

"...believe we have enough evidence to identify the suspect. I fully expect an arrest to be made by morning."

"Can you tell us who?" was shouted from somewhere near enough to the microphones for it to be picked up with minimal distortion.

The detective chuckled. "I don't think it would be prudent to release the suspect's name at this time. No need to give him warning that we're coming for him."

Darien lowered the volume and turned around in time to see Hobbes returning his cell phone to his jacket pocket, probably after another conversation with the Official. "Hear that? Looks like they finally figured out who's been robbing all those banks."

"'Bout damn time. He killed one of the security guards in last night's break in. Got away with close to five mil according to my sources." Hobbes moved forward and sat down behind the steering wheel. "Claire's on her way as well. I want her to take a look around."

Darien kept his look bored, but inside he wanted to scream. Even after her assistance with Adam he still couldn't look at her without seeing the stranger she'd become since he'd found out she'd dated Kevin back at their days at Cal-Tech. It wasn't so much that they had had a relationship that bothered Darien, though the fact that Kev and Claire had known each other was poetic irony at its best. No, it had far more to do with the fact that it had taken Darien over two years before he felt like he really knew Claire, could call her a friend with no hesitation, could trust her as much as he trusted Hobbes. Had even managed to forgive her - mostly - for withholding the madness cure until it was almost too late. Only to learn he was far less of a mystery to her, that she had known exactly who he was at their very first meeting, that it had been her Kevin had discussed his "wannabe punk brother" with back in college and then mentioned in his journals. Kevin's "proper English rose."

Darien felt like he'd been lied to for two and a half years by his best friend. And Hobbes just refused to understand why Darien was so fricking upset. Their once perfect trio was now cracked and broken, and Darien wasn't sure how to even begin an attempt at repairing the fracture. Wasn't sure it could be repaired, or if it was even worth the bother.

"Fawkes..."

"I heard you, Hobbes, and I'll behave," Darien snapped as he turned his attention to the darkened street outside the passenger window.

Hobbes shook his head, but didn't comment.

Bumping the curb as he pulled into the street-side parking, Darien cursed under his breath and hoped he hadn't toasted the alignment on the car. The Official would be sure to bitch and moan for long minutes before grudgingly signing the paperwork that would allow the repairs to be done. He turned off the engine and slid out of the car with a yawn, the night having been just as long, irritating and boring as he had expected. Hobbes had finally sent Darien home when it became obvious there was nothing he either could or was willing to contribute to the task at hand. Darien hadn't argued, just left without a word, though he did manage a few polite nods to the various police officers he recognized from both his days as a regular guest of the local constabulary or from working this case.

Menendez had made one comment early on about Darien's record and miracle reprieve from life imprisonment. Menendez and his partner, Brenda Vaughn, seemed satisfied with Hobbes' "special circumstances" explanation as well as a quick run-down of the arrests Darien had assisted with over the last two and a half years. The subject had not been brought up a second time since the Agency and police had begun working this case together. Just the fact that the police were investigating drug dealers looking to hawk some new designer, and therefore not yet illegal, drug overlapped with Agency-gathered rumors of some big bio-terrorist job about to go down was odd enough. That it was looking to be a real threat on both counts was downright scary.

Squatting down next to the wheel in question he poked at it for a few seconds before it dawned on him there was no way in hell he could tell if he'd mangled the thing. "Brilliant, Fawkes, showing off that there 'above-average' intelligence again," he muttered, his inner Hobbes deciding now would be a perfect time to speak up.

Trying not to think about the fact he would have to be up and moving in less than five hours to "canvas the neighborhood" he headed towards the entrance to his building. He was about to slide the key into the lock to open the side door when someone stepped behind him.

"Fawkes? Darien Fawkes?"

Darien turned about slowly to look at the guy. Jeans, dark shirt visible under the dark blue windbreaker, the guy was vaguely familiar, but Darien wasn't quite sure from where. "Maybe. Who wants to know?"

Darien must have missed the signal, but there were suddenly four others on the sidewalk by the door all with very visible badges and even more visible guns. "On the ground, now!" the guy -- the cop -- in front of him barked as he backed just out of reach and drew his own weapon from beneath the jacket.

Darien's hands snapped up automatically, but beyond that he was completely stunned. "Whoa, what the hell is this?"

"On the ground!" the cop repeated, this time he stepped forward, releasing the gun with one hand to grab Darien by the shoulder and jerk him forward. Two others moved in and dragged Darien to the ground, causing him to hit hard enough to yelp in pain.

"I'm a federal agent!" Darien shouted in hopes it would somehow end this nightmare before it went any further. The knee in his lower back shattered that hope quickly.

"Shut up," the one trying to drive Darien's spine into the concrete sidewalk snapped as he wrenched Darien's hands behind his back and snapped the cuffs uncomfortably tight about his wrists. "You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."

Darien just zoned on the rest of the words, not that it really mattered, he'd memorized them a long time ago. He forced himself to pay attention when the cop hissed, "Do you understand?" for what might have been the tenth time for all Darien knew.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," Darien responded on autopilot.

They manhandled Darien to his feet and went through his pockets efficiently, finding his usual stuff including the lock picks he always had on hand and his Fish and Game badge. "Well, looks like he is a fed. The press is gonna have a field day with this." The disgust was plain in the man's voice.

"And what exactly am I being arrested for?" Darien heard himself ask even as he cringed, fully expecting a blow as his answer, but he was actually surprised when the cop laughed, even if it was bitter and harsh.

"Cute. Real cute. Forgotten you killed that bank guard already?" That from the guy who'd baited him. "Course what you didn't know was that he was an off-duty cop just trying to make some extra cash."

"But I..." That's when the blow came, silencing his protests of innocence. He doubled over as the fist impacted his midsection, effectively shutting down his diaphragm and emptying his lungs in one huge whoosh.

"I suggest you use that right to remain silent and save yourself a world of pain," the cop snarled.

They didn't give him a chance to recover and dragged him to the nearest unmarked patrol car, which ironically enough he'd parked behind, and shoved him into the rear where he lay curled on his side gasping like a fish out of water. It was long minutes before the muscles relaxed from the cramp the blow had caused and allowed him to suck in a breath of air. He was at a complete loss as to what was going on. He'd thought maybe one of his recent nighttime forays had come back to haunt him even if owners weren't likely to report the thefts to the cops, but a murder? He could never... All right, not entirely true as he had killed several times since this whole mess with the gland began, but it had always been due to the exigencies of the situation, not something planned. He might have become a killer, but he was no murderer.

The cop climbed into the front seat and radioed back to the station, but Darien just let the words drift past his senses, hearing them without bothering to listen to the actual words, not that it mattered, really. He knew what was being said; that the cop was proclaiming their hunt successful, that another killer was off the streets, that life could return to normal for those who'd been living in fear of the latest string of robberies in a town where hundreds, if not thousands of crimes were committed daily. Slowly shifting until he was sitting upright Darien gazed forlornly out the window as the car pulled away, wondering exactly who the hell he'd pissed off this time to deserve this kind of karmic bite on the ass.

"All a man can betray is his conscience." Joseph Conrad had an interesting, though not necessarily incorrect, perspective on the whole betrayal thing. Ya see most people see betrayal as something you do to someone. Betray your friends, your country, your spouse ... your lifting buddy. Most can't, or won't see that all they really are doing is betraying whatever ethical or moral code they've created for themselves. I tried to stick by mine and yeah, I always felt guilty when I failed and I always paid some sort of penance... even if I didn't really want to.

‘Ah, the memories.' The lovely scent of urine and vomit that had become a permanent part of the tiny holding area where Darien sat and waited to be taken to booking wafted about him. It was mainly due to decades of drunks unable to hold it a moment longer along with others who found it a convenient way to protest their current incarceration. No amount of bleach or disinfectant could hope to remove the smell. Then onto the joy of having his picture taken, first the front, then in profile, the tiny placard before him with his name and a long ID number that would now be his for all eternity.

Finally it was on to the primitive fingerprinting, which made it obvious that the SDPD budget did not yet support the cost of a digital scanner. The alcohol wipe that was supposed remove the ink doing little more than smearing it around until his hands were covered in a thin sheen of black.

At least the interrogation room was clean and quiet even if both chair and table were chromed steel, which made the room seem even colder than its already arctic temperature. Apparently winter was when they could afford to air condition the station, so it was a good bet the heat ran all summer long. They also seemed to think Darien was far more dangerous than he was, given that they'd shackled him to the table, which prevented him from even pacing the room to try and relieve the tension swiftly building and causing a dull ache between his eyes. Darien glanced up at the caged clock mounted high on the wall and noted it was just after 4 AM before looking over his reflection in the two-way mirror and cringed at the bedraggled soul he saw there. He could only hope his hair hadn't been that bad when they snapped his mug shots.

He'd been stripped of anything potentially dangerous to others or himself -- shoelaces, belt, watch, his pockets emptied; his badge, wallet, with a couple of credit cards and seventeen bucks, keys, and a couple of receipts all catalogued and shoved into a manila envelope that he might never see again. Hell, he'd had more in his possession the last time he'd been paroled; he'd made a decent amount of cash while working in the prison laundry.

Wiggling until reasonably comfortable, he let his eyes drift shut and fell into a doze, figuring he might as well catch what sleep he could while he had the chance. The oh-so-enjoyable experience of being asked questions he couldn't answer would happen all too soon.

Darien managed to get far enough under that it took a hand slapping onto the tabletop to cause him to wake with a start.

"Well, well, Darien Fawkes. I always knew I'd be seeing you again."

The cop that had called Darien's name outside his apartment leaned over him with a satisfied sneer on his features and Darien finally figured out why the guy was familiar. The cop had arrested Darien back in '94, one of his acquittals. "Officer Severs, long time no see."

"Not nearly long enough, and that would be detective now." Severs shifted the badge he wore to emphasize his movement up the totem pole.

"Nifty, I have one too. Only mine's for a fed job," Darien countered, being his sarcastic best.

"Yeah, I noticed. Amazing how they'll hire just about any type of low-life scum these days. Whatever rehabilitation they had you doing, it obviously didn't work." Severs tapped the file resting on the table and Darien noticed his name typed in offset letters on the tag. "How'd you do it anyhow? According to your file you should be doing life up at Soledad for a stunt you pulled back in '97."

Darien wasn't likely to forget that stint in prison. 15 months for a job he hadn't done. He still owed Merrick big time for that one. "Always good to know you guys can count, '97 was strike two," he said with a hint of a grin.

"Oh, really? Funny, convicted in '89, '92, and '97. That adds up to three for me. Maybe it's you who's having trouble with simple addition." Severs sounded quite self-satisfied and sure of himself.

Darien sat up a bit straighter in surprise. "Ninety-two was overturned on appeal." He'd had a decent PD, Ira Lebowitz, that time around who'd gotten most of the evidence tossed when he'd learned the guy running the forensics tests had a drinking problem and couldn't prove he'd not been drunk at the time he'd run the tests for Darien's case. The DA had declined the option of retrying Darien as it had come to light there were close to 100 cases affected by the results of his case, many of which suddenly found themselves in legal limbo. Retrying one case of burglary was way down on the list, when there were some high profile cases that had to be dealt with first. Ira hadn't been in the PD's office for much longer and now made the big bucks keeping those who could afford him out of jail.

"Cute. If that's true then where's the paperwork for it?" Severs asked in an overly polite tone.

Darien had a damn good idea exactly where that paperwork had disappeared to and the fat bastard that had made sure it would vanish. He shrugged at Severs, unable to answer the question without raising several more in the process.

"Of course none of that accounts for the missing conviction in 2000." Darien stared blankly at Severs. "Come on, you know the one. Splashed all over the papers. Made the Internet too as I recall." He lifted a hand to outline the words as he spoke. "'Burgling Molester of the Elderly.' Who did you pay off to get outta that one?"

Darien squirmed internally, but did his best to keep a bored look on his face.

"Been busy since the last time we met. I even heard a couple years back that you'd gotten yourself some nice new family. So what, you sell your soul to Johnny Books in order to beat the 2000 conviction? Well, what little soul a punk like you has anyway," Severs commented with an amused grin, which faded after Darien failed to respond. "Not that it matters. We got you cold on this one, and I'm gonna see to it they bury you so deep that solitary would be a vacation spot in comparison," Severs hissed in a low voice.

Darien was sorely tempted to lawyer up, but he really, really wanted to know just what the hell was going on and what they thought he'd done. All he knew was that there was an off-duty cop dead and that they thought Darien had killed him. Something clicked then; Hobbes' comment about a security guard killed in last night's bank robbery suddenly seeming far more ominous and far more his direct concern that it had earlier.

"Uh, what am I in here for anyway?" Darien asked without any hope of a real answer.

Severs allowed one eyebrow to rise. "Ah, proof the memory is indeed the first thing to go." He waved a hand at the mirror and a couple seconds later another cop -- Severs' partner Darien assumed -- came in carrying a much thicker file than Darien's own. Severs took it and began thumbing through it. "In the last eight weeks there have been six bank and armored car robberies that we can now tie conclusively to you, thanks to you getting sloppy."

Darien attempted to keep his look non-committal, while inside he was screaming, 'Six robberies!' He'd barely pulled off four in that same amount of time and three of those had been dead easy once he'd found the locations. Only this last one, the one he'd pulled last night, had been a bitch to set up. His stomach sank as he realized exactly how much trouble he was in. Even if he were to deny robbing the bank, deny killing the cop, his only alibi would require him copping to another crime that quite possibly would get him that free trip to a life term that he'd done his damnedest to avoid by taking Kev's Faustian deal. Or worse, would reveal to the owner that quite a bit of data from his hidden safe was now missing and exactly who had taken it. Of course, the Official might not let Darien get that far and enact a warped sort of death penalty of his own by removing the gland.

When Darien remained what appeared to be stoically silent, Severs continued, "Three assaults with a deadly weapon and now one murder." Severs tipped his head slightly to eye Darien critically. "When did you start favoring knives over lock picks?"

"I haven't," Darien blurted out and since he was damned already he let some of his frustration come out. "Look at my record; worst I've ever been caught with is a crowbar for jimmying stuff open."

Severs nodded. "I know, though you have been known to use explosives on occasion. Your stunt in 2000 proved that."

Darien rolled his eyes. There was a huge difference between using a little homemade plastique to blow a safe and knifing a guard.

"I figure it ain't all that big a step up from trying to rape an old man to killing someone in your way," Severs commented dryly.

'I saved that old fart's life!' Darien just barely refrained from shouting, knowing damn well he wasn't any more likely to be believed now than he was back when it happened. "Your... logic is spot on like always," Darien managed through tightly clenched teeth.

Severs went through the file and pulled out several pieces of paper, which he tossed casually at Darien, the pages fanning out across the table to starkly reveal what was swiftly turning out to be Darien's current nightmare. They were printouts of images taken from the security cameras at the First City Financial bank, which, ironically enough, was right across the street from Bob's Bar and explained all the police tape around the bank at dinner earlier. He'd never made the conscious connection between the bank robberies and the scene around the bank for some reason.

While not a frame-by-frame set of photos, there were several with the body of the security guard lying on the floor, the dark pool of what could only be blood growing noticeably larger. One photo in particular stopped him cold, and he found his hand shaking as he lifted it for a closer look. Standing there, the balaclava that should have been hiding the murderer's features boldly slipped up to rest upon the forehead as Darien had often done once inside the target. The shot had caught the thief glancing right up at the camera revealing the strong angularity of the face, a face that, had Darien been able to lift his head from the sight before him, he could have seen in the mirror across the room from him.

Snapping himself out of his stunned staring at the picture he glanced at the video timestamp in the corner which proved, to himself anyway, that'd he'd been nowhere near the bank and instead several blocks away playing keep away with the crappy security of the Symphony Towers

"That is not me!" The protest slipped out before he was fully aware he'd even planned to speak.

Severs snorted. "Like I haven't heard that before."

Darien slumped down in defeat, not having any idea what to do. He seriously doubted even the truth would be believed at this point. It wasn't likely the owner of the place he'd broken into last night would have reported it to the cops. It was far more likely to be handled in house and Darien had made quite sure to leave nothing but the faintest of traces behind.

"All right, Fawkes, I'll bite. If that's not you," Severs tapped one of the photos that clearly showed Darien's face, complete with cocky grin staring right up at the camera. "Then who is it? Your evil twin?"

"How the hell should I know?" Darien snapped in response.

"Of course you don't know, you weren't there. No explanation. No alibi. Typical." When Darien twitched noticeably, his composure toast at this point, Severs' gaze sharpened. "So you got an alibi?" the detective asked, eyes narrowing.

"And if I do?" Darien's temper was going as well; he'd forgotten how much he hated cops and their smarmy attitude. Lack of sleep was not doing all that much for the benefit of his thinking processes either.

Severs crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, let's hear it."

"I was..." A mental screech stopped Darien cold as he realized with a sense of cold dread what he'd been about to say out of pure frustration. "Out."

"'Out.' Lemme guess, no one we can call who'll back up your... story," Severs sneered. "You could have at least put in some effort on the old alibi, there, Fawkes. We could use the laugh."

Darien closed his eyes and tipped his head down, his jaw muscles tightening painfully, oddly thankful he was shackled to the heavy metal table or he might just take a chance at smacking that knowing look off the bastard's face. It lasted only a moment and then a deep sense of hopelessness settled in as if curling up for a good long winter's nap.

"Care to just tell us what happened?" Severs' partner, whose name Darien still did not know, quietly asked.

Darien opened his eyes and turned to look at the guy. "I want a lawyer."

There was a tap on the glass, the DA or whoever ending this interrogation now that the magic word - lawyer - had been invoked. Severs swept the photos back into the file, picked it and Darien's file up and headed to the door, holding it open as his partner stepped from the room.

"You are going down this time, Fawkes, and there ain't no one who's gonna save your ass," Severs hissed as he paused in the open doorway, then to someone in the hallway, "Take him to holding and get him his PD."

"The people request remand, Your Honor," Assistant District Attorney Alison Jennings stated as she glanced over at Darien, who couldn't help but notice her look was hard and merciless.

"Your Honor, Mr. Fawkes has been an upstanding member of the community for the last two and a half years. He's an agent with," the public defender whose name Darien had not yet summoned the effort to learn, looked down at the papers before him. "the Department of Fish and Game and is credited with the capture of several known terrorists." The lawyer finished with an earnestness that would have made Darien groan if he'd been able to dredge up the energy to do so. Instead he stood there trying not to sway out of exhaustion and feeling completely numb.

"And now he's accused of killing an off-duty police officer. Working for the government should not gain him any special treatment," Alison countered. "According to his record he should be serving a life sentence in Soledad on a third strike. Remand would be in the best interests of the people, since he is also a flight risk as his agency could attempt to make him disappear and avoid this issue in its entirety."

Darien couldn't even drum up the enthusiasm to chuckle at the oddly apropos comment made by Alison even though some deeply buried part of him knew it was both ironic and amusing.

"I agree. The defendant is remanded to the San Diego county jail." The judge brought the gavel down with a resounding bang, which caused Darien to flinch ever so slightly and forced him to swallow back the sudden onslaught of tears that threatened. He barely noticed the pair of uniformed officers that escorted him less than gently from the courtroom. They were practically forced to drag Darien along, the full set of shackles he wore making it difficult for him to walk, his normally long steps dramatically shortened. His lawyer made a valiant effort to keep up and eventually managed to push his way to the front as the reporters that had gathered along the back route to the holding cells to catch a glimpse of the bank robber and cop killer pressed in upon them from all sides. Darien could see in some of their eyes that he'd already been tried and convicted and the potential of a death penalty case created a gleam of greed in the eyes of the press corps.

Flash bulbs going off and bright camera lights barley impinged on his awareness, his head tipped down to see little more than his feet shuffling forward. His lawyer's shouted "No comment!" to the questions being hurled at them from the reporters were nothing more than white noise, a deafening incomprehensible roar that made little or no impression on him.

The relative silence of the holding cell only served to make Darien's thoughts even louder, thoughts that circled about like vultures over the carcass of his life. The slight discomfort of the icy cold shackles vanished as they were removed and he was shoved unceremoniously into the cell with a half-dozen others. The slamming of the cell door was apparently the trigger for his mind to return to the here and now and allow the full enormity of the situation to fall heavily upon his heart. Heedless of the other occupants in the cell, he shuffled over to one of the hard metal benches that lined the walls and sank down onto it. His arms draped loosely across his thighs, his head hung down to stare sightlessly at the small section of floor that was between his feet.

The thought of escape, which for him should have been a tantalizing challenge, was instead ignored as a useless option. They knew where he lived, where he worked, where he liked to hang out and could easily find him as Severs had already proved. Any hope of help from those at the Agency was faint at best. The 'Fish was far more likely to let him suffer for a while before making arrangements to yank the gland out, whether or not Darien was a willing participant. Eberts would follow the party line just like always, and Alex, had she not been off consulting with Agent Zembach on some case, would probably just click her tongue and say 'I told you so' in that oh-so-superior tone of hers. And while his working relationship with Claire had improved over the last couple of months thanks to her assistance with freeing Adam from his icy sleep, their personal relationship, their friendship was nearly non-existent.

Of course he had considered calling Hobbes, but Darien was afraid to learn that partners or not, friends or not, Hobbes would believe the evidence over himself. Even Darien would freely admit that the evidence was damning and had left him wondering if he'd pulled the jobs and not known it. Maybe it was just another weird side effect of the gland; maybe Cole had somehow finagled his way back to some horrid half-life and was trying to take out his anger on Darien. Maybe... maybe this was nothing but a very vivid dream and he'd wake up soon to discover Adam had finished off all the milk and Casey... or someone else with feminine curves and sleepy smile was making breakfast for all of them.

A loud shout from one of the other holding cells snapped him back to his real existence, his eyes focusing on the garishly bright orange cuffs of the ill-fitting jumpsuit that was the wardrobe provided to him by the county for the duration of his stay. A pair of scuffed blunt toed boots topped by frayed jean cuffs intruded upon his line of sight, but did not encourage any real contemplation of the meaning of their sudden appearance. However, the meaty hand coming down on his shoulder did and Darien resigned himself to whatever punishment he was surely about to receive. Lifting his head he looked over the large hairy, man standing before him.

The man's hand jerked away as if burned and Darien could only wonder what the guy saw to make him react so. "What?" Darien asked with little energy.

"Yer lawyer's here." The guy, who was dressed like a biker and smelled like brewery, hooked a thumb towards the door of the cell and Darien turned his head expecting to see his PD -- Friedman, he'd finally learned -- but instead he saw ADA Alison Jennings herself. The very person who'd seen to it he'd never see the light of day again.

"Not my lawyer," Darien growled softly.

"And not your enemy," Alison responded just loud enough for Darien to hear.

"Could've fooled me," Darien hissed. Not that long ago he'd pulled her ass out of the fire, he should have known better than to expect anything in return, even something as simple as not getting involved.

"Darien, please. I just need to speak with you for a moment." At her use of Darien's first name, a chorus of hoots and whistles echoed from the throats of every other occupant of the cell until a guard shouted for them to shut up.

Getting to his feet he crossed the intervening distance at a stalk with a frown firmly in place to glare down at her. "Lady, you trying to get me seriously hurt?"

"No, I'm trying to offer my help," Alison explained, wisely lowering her voice.

Darien snorted in derision. "I think you've helped enough already."

"Darien, until I saw you in that court room, I had no idea it involved you. Travis is out sick, so I got tagged for the arraignment," Alison told him, but Darien didn't buy a word of it. "I've recused myself from the case even though I was offered second chair."

"What? You don't want the glory of putting away a cop killer?" Darien sneered and was therefore surprised by the anger he saw flare to life in her eyes.

"Not if its the wrong man," she snapped, showing the temper Darien had met during that Carter Lincoln mess.

"Oh, and you suddenly know better than everyone else?" Darien questioned, his tone harsh. "You don't know me."

"I know enough to realize that someone who stopped me from killing a bastard who deserved it probably isn't likely to be capable of murder himself," she countered in all seriousness.

Darien was forced to admit she indeed knew at least a little about him and for a moment hoped flared. Only to quickly be snuffed as the reality of the situation intruded. "You can't help me."

"Let me be the judge of that," Alison said, her tone insistent.

Darien shook his head. "Alison, you're a DA. If you ever want a chance to wear those robes you can't go around helping the bad guys." He saw the stubborn look deepen. "And you damn well know it."

"Only if I'm wrong," she stated, fiercely confident she was right.

Darien's look changed, becoming one he reserved for people he truly hated, like Arnaud and Stark. "Are you certain of that?"

She blinked and took a half-step back, putting herself out of his reach even though he hadn't moved a millimeter.

"Stay out of it, Alison," Darien ordered. "Remember what happened the last time you stuck your nose in where it didn't belong? Or do you really need another guy like Lincoln breathing down your neck?"

She shook her head, but lowered her eyes; no longer able to meet his and he knew then and there that he had won, that she would stay out of trouble... this time. "Can I, at least, call someone for you? Age... Mr. Hobbes?" She was quick enough to stop mid-word and not reveal to the low-lifes he was sharing accommodations with that he was a fed. Having that become common knowledge would do nothing more than put Darien at even greater risk. His fellow detainees would be sure to see that his misery also became a world of hurt.

Darien slumped, his forehead resting against the cold steel of the cell's bars. "Crap." For a long moment he closed his eyes, hope flaring to life within him. Though previously rejecting the idea of calling Hobbes, now, with Alison's belief to bolster his beaten and bruised confidence, he reconsidered. Maybe his fears were unfounded and Hobbes wouldn't just assume he'd fallen off the ‘straight and narrow' wagon. Hobbes, his partner, his friend, his brother by choice if not by blood; maybe he'd believe as well. "Yeah, call him." Darien's eyes snapped open. "But that's it. You stay outta this, a'ight?"

Her lips tightened, forming a thin line and Darien fully expected a stubborn protest, but instead got a curt nod. "I still owe you."

Darien snorted. "Yeah and maybe I'll collect... how about conjugal visits?"

Alison looked appropriately shocked for several seconds, then got this dangerous, sultry glint in her eyes, a sly smile turning up the corners of her lips. "Well, if that's what it takes..."

Darien actually laughed and was shocked at how badly he needed the release it provided. "Thanks, Alison."

"Not needed." She stepped forward and set a dainty hand over one of his. "Have a little faith, Darien."

Darien didn't reply, just met her gray eyes, which were filled with concern and worry, until she finally released him and walked away.

The day passed in a blur for Darien, everyone else seeming to move at breakneck speed about him while he did little more than sit and try and comprehend what was going on. After being transferred back to the more secure lock-up at the police station while it was decided where he'd be staying while awaiting trial, he suffered through two visits from his lawyer, the first of which included another recitation of the evidence piling swiftly against him. The supposed offer by the DA, which involved little more than taking the death penalty off the table, was rejected out of hand by Darien, much to his lawyer's dismay, and no amount of persuasion could make Darien even consider it, or after a while even speak. Darien damn well knew if he was convicted that he'd be in until the day he died anyway, so what, really was the point of taking the offer. He didn't even bother wasting his breath to protest his innocence as everyone had already convicted him in their minds, including his so-called lawyer.

The second visit was short, only 15 minutes long, Friedman pleading with Darien to simply take responsibility for his actions and save everyone the trouble of a trial by taking the deal.

Darien finally growled that he wanted a new lawyer and then sat in sullen silence until he was taken back to his cell. A windowless box that was a twin to the one where Kevin had appeared in like a savior with a sheet a paper that might have as well have been signed in Darien's blood considering the hell he'd sold himself into that day.

When the guards showed up a third time, he figured it was just going to be the same thing, but with a new face to parrot the words ‘take the deal' at him, so he was rather shocked to find Hobbes waiting in the room instead. A very pissed off Hobbes.

By this point Darien had figured that either Alison had forgotten to call Hobbes, because she was too busy, or and far more likely, she had called and no one wanted to lay claim to him. No one wanted to help; no one wanted to consider the possibility that he might very well be innocent.

"So this is what you call ‘out'?" Hobbes snapped.

"Hobbes."

"Shut up!" Hobbes barked, jerking out a chair he ordered, "Sit!" and stood there waiting for Darien to comply.

"Man, you can't..."

"Sit!" Hobbes roared and Darien found himself shuffling forward and dropping into the seat in pure shock.

"Bad ‘nuff you go AWOL while on a major case and the Chief sends every agent he can spare to look for ya. All of us thinking someone snatched ya, only to see your name... your face splashed across the TV." Hobbes paced about the table as he spoke, ending up directly behind Darien, Hobbes' hands coming to rest on the back of the chair.

"Didn't Alison..." Darien tried only to have one of Hobbes' hands shift to Darien's shoulder and squeeze hard enough to hurt. "Ow!" Darien yelped.

"Oh yeah, she called. Gave us all the details." Hobbes leaned down, his head close to Darien's and he turned to face him. "How could you?"

"I didn't, Hobbes.... I..." Darien protested, stunned beyond belief that Hobbes doubted him. Those fears he'd so hoped would have no basis in reality turning out to be true.

"Where were you the night before last?" Hobbes asked, making it plain he expected an answer.

Darien's temper flared. "Out."

"Out where?" Hobbes moved until across from Darien; the width of the cold steel table creating a no-man's land between them, from where Hobbes glared daggers at Darien.

"Out," Darien repeated in the same anger-filled tone.

"Not good enough," Hobbes stated flatly.

"And since when has my word not been good enough?" Darien shoved the chair away from the table and got to his feet.

"'Bout the same time you started robbing banks, my friend. You think I wouldn't notice you acting hinky for the last month?" Hobbes snarled one hand slamming into the tabletop. "Yeah, so's your upset about having to send Adam away and Doc Casey dumping you again, but that ain't no excuse for you to be pulling crap like this."

Darien snorted in ironic amusement, trying to ignore the searing pain that Hobbes' final comment sent through him. "Been there, done that." The statement was effective and Hobbes blinked.

"What?"

A harsh bark of laughter escaped past Darien's lips. "About a week after the Keep gave me the cure, I hit a bank in the Gaslamp. Walked away with three or four mil easy as pie."

Hobbes froze, a look of confusion upon his features, which, to Darien's way of thinking, was preferable to the anger and distrust that had been there. "Then what the hell are you still doing here? With that kinda money I'd've been making the moves on some sweet thang on a beach in the Caribbean."

Darien shook his head. "I didn't keep it. Left the money in a nearby alley." He sat down on the edge of the table and ran a hand through his hair. That headache was returning, making his head pound in time with his heartbeat.

Hobbes' posture relaxed a bit, and he tapped his fingers on the table until the pieces fell into place. "I remember that. They found the cash and logged the whole damn thing off to human error."

"Hobbes, if I couldn't do it then, why the hell would I now?" Darien wasn't surprised when the anger and distrust flared in Hobbes' eyes again. "Thought you didn't bail on your partner," Darien asked at a distressed whisper.

Hobbes frowned. "I'm not too sure who my partner is any more," he admitted with reluctance.

The door-flinging entrance of Severs, who was waving papers about and practically foaming at the mouth, forestalled Darien's aggrieved response. "What the hell is this?"

"Papers?" Darien offered unable to resist the temptation to point out the obvious.

"I know that, you little fu..." Severs began at a low growl only to be interrupted by Hobbes.

"You read ‘em, or yer boss did anyway. It's orders releasing him into federal custody." Hobbes moved quickly around the table to place himself between the obviously angry detective and Darien. For which Darien was very thankful as Severs looked ready to throttle Darien and eliminate the need for either a trial or deal on the spot.

Severs glared at Darien. "How'd you pull this off?"

Darien wisely kept his mouth shut, knowing Severs was looking for any excuse to get in some pummeling before releasing Darien as he'd been ordered to.

"Where's his stuff?" Hobbes asked in a firm tone.

The invective that escaped past Severs' lips was both creative and physically impossible unless the male was very limber and the duck cooperative. "I'll have you back here by morning," Severs promised Darien, then turned and left the room presumably to retrieve Darien's belongings as requested.

"Hobbes, how?" Darien was truly curious; he'd fully expected to be left in here to rot until the Official had cooled down... in about a decade.

"You don't want to know, but I can guarantee you are going to be owing the boss-man for the rest of your unnatural life," Hobbes answered in a soft voice, not wanting those surely listening in to overhear.

"Great," Darien muttered as the door opened and two agency suits walked in with Severs' partner who carried papers and the paper bag with, presumably, Darien's belongings.

The bag was set on the table and slid towards Darien who opened it up to see exactly how much of his stuff had been skimmed by the cops in the property room. He was pleasantly surprised to find everything returned untouched.

Hobbes signed the paperwork that released Darien into the Agency's custody for the time being and, once the cop had left, said, "Hurry up and change, you have a meeting with the boss."

Darien groaned as he pulled out his clothes. Quickly shedding the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, he hurriedly changed back into his slacks and shirt. He took a couple minutes to thread the laces back into his sneakers and tie them, but decided to forgo the belt and jacket as Hobbes was impatiently tapping his toe by that point.

"Move it, before some one else pulls a string and you find yourself a guest here for another night." Hobbes waved at the doorway and Darien grabbed the bag with the remainder of his belongings and clutched it to his chest.

Darien was not thrilled with the black suited bookends that flanked him, but assumed they were just for show. Hoped they were just for show. Hobbes' back was stiff as he briskly walked through the station and out the back where the van waited. Darien was shoved in rear with one of the agents following him in and the other sitting up front in the passenger seat, in what Darien had come to think of over the years as his seat.

"Hobbes, what..."

"Shut up," The agent sitting beside him ordered, his hand going to the gun under his jacket. "Agent Hobbes, isn't he supposed to be in cuffs?"

"He ain't going nowhere," Hobbes said as he slid the key into the ignition and started the van with a throaty roar.

Darien's hopes sank along with his stomach, his headache trebling. For awhile there he'd thought Hobbes was beginning to believe that this was all some huge cosmic mix-up, that there was no way Darien could have committed these crimes, could have hurt those people, could have ever done anything like that. Though he wanted to protest, Darien sat in silence for the entire ride back to the Harding Building. He wanted no more than to get this upcoming meeting with the Official over with so he could maybe go home - with baby-sitters of course - where he could bang his head into the brick wall until unconscious or he woke up from this horrid nightmare

Hobbes parked the van in the courtyard and both he and the agent sitting up front got out without a word. When the side door slid open Darien could tell by the look on Hobbes' face that he'd better cooperate with whatever was going on or even more and far worse things would be sure to happen. With a sigh Darien stepped out and allowed himself to be escorted into the building, but instead of up to where the Official's office was located they went down, ending up in the hallway that Darien knew dead-ended at the cell.

"Hobbes?" he hissed questioningly, only to have the suit on his right grab his arm and twist it up behind his back and make him shout in pain. "Hey!"

"Orders Fawkes," Hobbes replied, his voice stiff and formal. "It's just for the night if yer lucky."

Darien was shoved forward through the first doorway and released with a push that made him stumble and go to his knees.

"Watch it," Hobbes snapped at the agent, who frowned slightly.

Moving as swiftly as he could he got to his feet, turned about and rushed to the cell door in time to hear it slam shut with a bang that sounded far more like a knell of doom than simply a cage door swinging shut. "Hobbes, man, don't do this to me." Darien pleaded, suddenly realizing how Adam had felt when shut in here, even though in his case the doors had been left open.

Hobbes didn't respond, just turned his back on Darien and walked back through the doorway.

"What about the meeting?" Darien called after his partner, willing to undergo the torment of facing the Official in order to get out of the cell.

"In the morning," one of the two agents standing outside the locked cell door answered. "Food will be brought to you shortly." Then they too walked out the security door and Darien watched in horror as it slid shut behind them, leaving him alone in the dank basement cage. Staring at the blank door for several long minutes, attempting to open it by will alone, he slowly, inevitably, came to the conclusion that no one was going to help him.

Carrying the paper bag over to the bed, he emptied the contents onto it. Without any joy he noted and put aside the few items that might serve as potential lock picks and get him his freedom from the cell, at least. Coming to his badge he picked it up and looked it over. It had come to mean something to him in the last few months, something important, something that he could be proud of. With a snarl of despair he flung it through the bars to smash into the far wall and then fall to the floor, now little more than the useless piece of tin, paper and leather it always had been.

This five-year-old hellion named Calvin once bitterly complained, "The worst part is that I don't even have the fun of doing the things I'm getting blamed for."

Man, tell me about it.

Another day, another early morning meeting with the Official. But the cuffs firmly in place about Darien's wrists made this anything but an ordinary meeting. The addition of Detective Severs and his partner, Franklin Chesterfield, standing by the windows and wearing identical frowns was sure to make this meeting a rare one indeed. Darien detected the lingering echoes of the shouting that had been quickly silenced when Hobbes had knocked on the rarely used unmarked wooden door, which sent a shiver of alarm down Darien's spine, before being granted entrance to the Official's inner sanctum.

Hobbes directed Darien to the single hard backed chair that sat directly before the Official's desk and the wayward agent was all but forced to sit upon it, which suddenly made him feel like an unwilling penitent making an obeisance before his easily angered and wrath-loving god. The look on the Official's face was not pleasant to say the least. He was flushed with poorly contained anger, while beside him Eberts' look was surprisingly stony, though the hint of disappointment in his eyes almost caused Darien more hurt than Hobbes' blatant distrust.

The man behind the desk, the man who literally held Darien's life in his greedy, penny-pinching grasp, cleared his throat and aimed his steely gaze at the ex-con seated before him. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Darien knew the ‘Fish getting him reassigned to federal jurisdiction, and more specifically to the Agency, was anything but altruistic; all the Official wanted was to make sure the receptacle - the gland - was where it belonged... under the Official's watchful eye.

"What?" You want me to say I didn't do it? I didn't. And, no, I ain't got no alibi to back up my claim." Somehow Darien kept his voice calm, not a trace of anger or despair anywhere to be found. "How much money is missing? $10, $15 mil? If I did this where's the cash, tell me that, huh?"

"In an off-shore account in the Caymans. Account total $32,756,812.43," Eberts recited from memory.

Hobbes whistled. "Impressive."

Darien could only stare at Eberts for long minutes, the ticking of the clock the only sound to be heard while he tried to make sense of what Eberts had just told him. He finally muttered, "Maybe I do have an evil twin."

"Why are you even bothering?" Severs sneered. "You've seen the security videos, the test results, every piece of evidence says he did it and you're protecting him."

"Evidence has been wrong before," Darien said just barely loud enough to be heard by all.

"Fawkes," Hobbes warned.

"No, Hobbes, I've been railroaded before, so I damn well know it can be done. With the exception of the video, which could have been doctored for all I know, the so-called evidence is all circumstantial." Darien straightened in his seat as he warmed up to his subject. "What? You have some prints, maybe some stray DNA - all of which could have been planted by the real killer."

Severs snorted, but Darien caught the look on Eberts' face, that sudden jolt of realization that was just enough to bolster Darien's confidence for the moment.

"What makes you think you might be being... railroaded?" Eberts asked and ignored the glare the Official threw his way.

"Like I said, I've been through this before," Darien answered meeting Eberts' eyes and silently praying the lackey would believe him.

The silence that had fallen about the room was broken by, "Oh, this bit of imagination I have to hear." Severs moved to stand next to the Official's desk and watch Darien's reactions.

"That '97 conviction for Grand Theft. The MO was similar to mine, the prints and hair samples were mine, but that was the only evidence. I even had a solid alibi, but I was convicted anyway," Darien answered knowing they wouldn't want to believe. Hobbes, however, surprised him.

"Wait, ain't that the one that sperm bank thief from a couple years back... what was his name?"

"Manny...," Darien began.

"Merrick," Eberts finished.

"Yeah, him. Ain't he the one who set you up? Lifting your prints off a set of free weights?" Hobbes absently scratched the top of his head as he did his best to remember.

"And in the event this bluster of a fantasy is true," Severs shot a glare at Hobbes before looking back at Darien., "just how do you know it was him who set you up?"

"I found out from a girlfriend of his after I made parole." Darien knew Severs wouldn't care one way or another, but Darien was hoping the rest of those listening might consider that the current situation could be just as unusual.

"You should've just stuck with the evil twin bit." Severs stalked away from Darien and back towards his partner. "It may be clichéd, but at least it was amusing."

"Actually, doppelgangers are not all that uncommon," Eberts stated earning a sharp look from Severs and a grateful one from Darien.

"When will the remaining evidence arrive?" the Official interjected quickly to forestall yet another screaming match with Severs.

Severs snarled softly as his partner answered, "You will have the samples by 5 p.m. Though I do have to wonder why, definitive matches have been made to Mr. Fawkes' fingerprints and DNA at five of the six crime scenes."

"Five out of six, not bad, but did you run every sample? Couldn't there have been another match that you missed 'cause you was too lazy to look beyond Fawkes here?" Hobbes asked, surprising Darien by coming to his defense even partially.

"You're kidding, right? Your average bank has thousands of stray prints as well as fiber and hair samples. Blood and other bodily fluids are less common, but still numerous." Chesterfield made it clear he had more than just a passing acquaintance with police forensic routines. "The glitter left at each location threw us for quite a while since it biodegrades so quickly, but it was also the key in linking all the robberies. Six with glitter and five with trace evidence Mr. Fawkes had been there. How would you interpret the data?"

The reference to glitter caused the Official's eyes to narrow slightly, but he held his tongue even though Darien could see his doom in those cold blue eyes. "An unusual set of dots to connect I am quite sure."

"That's putting it mildly. Your Mr. Fawkes is quite adept at remaining invisible when he wants to," Chesterfield said, sounding far more amicable than Severs.

"Oh yeah, we all thoroughly enjoyed his little game of catch me if you can," Severs snapped, plainly tired of the polite conversation. "I'll be watching you, Fawkes, just one hint of you trying to bail, and I'll haul your ass back into lock-up so fast it'll make your head spin."

Darien shook his head, knowing there was no response he could make. Hell, he wasn't even sure how the Official managed to get him cut even this semi-loose.

Hobbes stalked over to Severs. "I'll be expecting an apology from you after this is over." Hobbes glared up at the detective. "Last I checked a person was innocent until proven guilty in this country."

"Why you pint-sized...," Severs began, straightening up to his full height, which was a good four inches taller than Hobbes, and puffed out his chest in preparation for a full throated rant.

Chesterfield stopped him with a hand on Severs' upper arm. "We're done here, Dale."

"That you are," the Official agreed from behind the protection of his desk. "Five p.m., gentlemen. One second later and I will be on the phone to your supervisor." The threat was evident in the Official's tone.

"It'll be here," Chesterfield assured the Official as he practically dragged Severs from the room.

"Thanks for stopping by, Officer Severs," Darien proclaimed jauntily as he turned about in the chair and waved, the chain between the cuffs rattling in counterpoint to his words.

Severs response was swallowed up by the slamming of the wooden door as one of the bookend agents that had been following Darien everywhere escorted them out.

The creak of the springs on the Official's chair dragged Darien's attention back around to face the full fury of the man that had proved over and over again that he never once trusted Darien. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't order the removal of the gland and turn your carcass over to the police so they can close this case out?"

"Aside from the fact that I didn't do it? How about ‘cause you'd be out one invisible agent since there ain't no one else stupid enough to put up with the crap you dish out on a daily basis." Darien didn't even bother trying to be polite; he was damn tired of being treated like a thing by the fat man who ruled this small kingdom with an iron fist.

The Official actually laughed, his entire body quaking with it. He stopped after a moment, his voice going icy. "I think you'll find that lacking one invisible agent isn't nearly the problem it once was, Darien."

Darien glanced over at Hobbes who shrugged, not having any more idea what the Official was talking about than Darien did. "So then why spring me from jail? It certainly ain't because you believe me when I say I didn't do it."

"Can't get anything past you now can I?" The Official's question just dripped with sarcasm.

"As you should be aware by now, Darien, the Official prefers to handle his... problems quietly," Eberts explained, shifting his hands behind his back.

"Great, just great," Darien muttered to himself, not enjoying the feeling of knowing that the last time the Official wanted things handled quietly it involved a blatant crock of manipulation to con Darien into tracking down Arnaud at his Hacienda in Mexico.

There was a soft knocking at the glass door followed by Claire entering the room carrying a hefty stack of files. The look she shot Darien would have caused far stronger men to wither, but Darien was already so miserable that it made little impression upon him.

Hobbes went to Claire and took the files from her, setting them on the conference table for her. "Any good news, Keep?"

"I suppose that would depend on your definition of good, now wouldn't it?" she replied in a sharp tone as she sorted through the files looking for the one she wanted. "I worked all night on this and near as I can tell all they were making was a designer drug with components similar to Ecstasy. I spoke with Detective Menendez and learned it hit the streets about five months ago under the name Utopia."

"It is very potent and has some effects similar to LSD, as well as Ecstasy. It is technically not illegal, but the various law enforcement groups are pushing to have it added to the lists," Eberts added and Claire nodded in agreement.

"So there's no connection to the bio-terrorists we've been looking for?" Hobbes asked as he picked up one of the other files and began to thumb through it.

"Not as far as the samples you supplied me with suggest," Claire answered with a slight frown. "Though it appears we are on the correct track for the drug dealers the police have been after."

Darien stuck a hand up, his other trailing along as he still wore the cuffs. "Where'd you get samples from?"

Hobbes shot Darien a look that meant severe pain was in store for him later if he wasn't very careful. "While you were a guest of the local police yesterday we still did our jobs. Canvassing the neighborhood paid off and we tracked down a few of the trucks they used to transport the stuff in." Hobbes waved for Darien to join them at the table and pushed an open file at him showing photos of several trucks.

Darien looked over the pictures and skimmed over the information neatly typed out all the while knowing something was wrong with the whole thing. "Hobbes, what did you find at the house?"

"Next to nothing, why?"

"I'm not sure... Just if they were so careful not to leave a trace at the house, why be messy and leave evidence behind in the trucks?" Darien asked aloud, not entirely sure he would be able to explain it any better if questioned.

"Perhaps, they ran out of time?" Eberts suggested.

"Nah, these guys knew what they were doing." Hobbes looked at Darien. "The place was set up for satellite up-links, high speed computers, the works. There was a full blown lab in that basement." Hobbes sat on the edge of the table. "It smells all the way around."

Darien tapped the photo before him thoughtfully until what he was looking at registered. "What if the drugs are a cover, or just the cash cow for the real thing?"

The Official grunted. "Make and sell the comparatively cheap drugs to fund the cost of producing the bio-weapon? They would still need an expert to design the drug and assist in the creation of both."

"I can run a search and check with a few contacts who might know who has been working this type of deal lately," Eberts offered.

"Do it," The Official ordered, then added. "Just on the off chance Fawkes is working on our side for the moment."

The reminder if Darien's precarious position did little more than add yet another knife into a back already full of puncture wounds, so he didn't even bother to comment. "Hobbes, why would they need a freezer truck?"

"Dunno. Maybe it was all they could get?" Hobbes suggested looking over the picture himself.

Darien sorted through the papers until he found the report for the lone freezer truck that had been linked to the house. "Says here it was clean, not so much as a smudged print left behind, yet you found some evidence in the other three trucks."

"Darien?" Claire queried softly, her look not nearly as hard as it had been when she first entered the room, but still not friendly by any means. "What are you thinking?"

"That maybe there were two labs. One for the street drugs and one for the big nasty they've been cooking up." Darien turned to face the Official. "Hobbes said one of the sections of the basement might have been rigged for isolation, don't they use that in big labs when playing with anthrax and such?"

Claire answered, "Yes, among other places."

"Fawkes, what is going on in that furry head of yours?" Hobbes stepped up beside Darien, but turned his gaze the same place Darien had, at the Official.

"I'm thinking that we need to know exactly what the threat was." Darien watched the Official whose face had gone completely blank. "And when it's supposed to go down."

The staring contest between Darien and the Official lasted several minutes and ended with him nodding in acquiescence. "Eberts, just the basics."

"Yes sir." Eberts took a moment to retrieve and review the file in question before speaking. "We were informed of the threat the day before you were briefed." Eberts began in an obvious attempt to soothe ruffled feathers ahead of time.

"Just get on with it, Eberts," Hobbes urged.

"The threat was somewhat vague and only referenced a major event that would be hit somewhere in southern California within the next two weeks. We have yet to ascertain which event or the exact location. The threat also goes on to imply there would be more killed than in the events of September 11^th," Eberts finished in a slightly hushed tone.

"So were talking another Bin Laden attack?" The anger was just under the surface in Hobbes tone.

"That, I'm afraid, is need to know," Eberts told him.

Darien snorted in derision. "Of course. So how do you know it's a bio-weapon and not a bomb?"

"That would also be need to know," The Official stated. "But it appears you have a place to start." He waved vaguely towards the photograph of the freezer truck. "I suggest you get to work."

Claire straightened. "Darien, come with me."

"Why?" Darien asked, his tone more than touch belligerent.

"Fawkes, you will go with your Keeper now or I will have you dragged down to her lab and have you restrained." The Official didn't even bother trying to hide his irritation and with a nod the remaining agent cum baby-sitter took a step forward with his hand coming to rest on the butt of his gun.

"Hey, none of that. Fawkes is gonna be right cooperative, now aren't ya?" Hobbes waved the agent off. "Look, you behave and we'll have you outta the jewelry in just a few minutes."

Darien debated for a few seconds about resisting and making them sweat a little, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. They all knew that he could have frosted the cuffs at any moment and been free, could have gone invisible and walked out of the building, but he hadn't bothered. What was he going to do, go on the run from both the local police and every government agency in the country? Not even the FBI would touch him at the moment no matter how valuable they thought his talent was. Shrugging he stood up and headed for the door, getting there before Claire. "What's the matter, Keep? ‘Fraid to have me behind you?"

"Not at all, Darien," Claire replied stiffly as she stepped past him to lead the way down the hall.

"Oh that's right, you prefer being behind people, makes it easier to stab them in the back." Darien flinched when Hobbes' hand flew out and smacked him in the back of the head.

"You just won't let that drop, will you?" Hobbes asked in exasperation.

"Gimme one good reason to," Darien snapped at his partner.

"How about she's gonna be the one running the tests on the evidence the cops are bringing. You might want her in a good mood when she does it or you're gonna find yourself staring eye to eye with a death sentence, my friend," Hobbes pointed out in the driest tone he could manage.

Darien's steps slowed as Hobbes' words sank in. "Uh, good point." Darien reminded himself, yet again, to think before he spoke, especially now when he was indeed facing a death sentence if he couldn't prove his innocence.

Bookend number two stepped closer to Darien and barked, "Move it, Fawkes."

When Hobbes said nothing to the agent in reprimand, Darien quickened his pace until he was just a couple of steps behind Claire. The rest of the walk down to the Keep was done in silence, their footsteps ringing hollowly in the stairwell as they made their way into the depths of the Harding building. Then through the maze-like corridors of the lower levels to the Keep itself.

Claire keyed open the door and stepped inside where she waited for Darien to enter. Hobbes followed while the nameless agent took up his post just inside the door, from where he watched Darien who slouched over to the piranha tank to look over the fish solely to avoid doing anything else.

"Darien, sit," Claire ordered, her tone curt.

"Woof," Darien responded, but did as she had told him, biting back the far less pleasant commentary that jumped to the forefront of his mind. Hobbes was right, now was not the time to piss off Claire.

"Bobby, if you would remove the handcuffs," Claire requested as she moved to get the items she needed.

"Got it, Keepy." Hobbes hustled forward digging the keys out of his pocket. Once the cuffs were unlocked Darien rubbed his wrists even though they had not been on tight enough to cause him any real discomfort.

"Thanks," Darien mumbled softly and Hobbes gave him a quick nod in response, then backed away as Claire returned carrying a rubber tourniquet. He didn't even wait for her to ask and held out his arm. She wrapped it about his biceps and waited for the veins in the crook of his elbow to stand up before choosing one. Sliding the needle into the vein du jour she then set the first test tube in place and watched as it filled with blood. She filled two more of different sizes before pressing a cotton ball in place and removing the needle.

Once she'd put them away in the cooler, she returned carrying what looked like a thermos, but that Darien recognized as a storage container for Quicksilver. Before she could ask, he started the Quicksilver flowing across his palm to drip off into the container. "Why do you need the Quicksilver?" he asked out of curiosity.

Claire lifted her head and met his eyes, hers appearing surprisingly cold. "In the event the glitter recovered from the most recent crime scene is indeed Quicksilver," she motioned for him to stop and sealed the container while he shook the remaining droplets off his hand and onto the floor, giving the illusion of ACME-type holes on the concrete surface, "I should be able to run a comparison and verify whether or not it came from you."

"Oh goody, another nail for my coffin," Darien muttered, leaning back against the seat.

"Only if you were there." Claire returned to his side, snapping on a pair of latex gloves as she did so. "Which you have apparently been denying, other evidence to the contrary." Sliding open a drawer in the base of the chair she removed a hospital gown and held it out to Darien. "Strip."

"Ah, man, what for?" Darien whined; he'd been lucky to get through his most recent visit to lock up without a surprise exam; he certainly wanted no part of one from his Keeper.

"Fawkes," Hobbes growled, coming around the glass divider to reminder Darien exactly how tenuous his situation was.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Darien grumbled even as he pulled the shirt over his head. As his hands moved to unbutton his pants he looked from Claire to Hobbes. "Uh, some privacy. It ain't like I'm gonna go running out of here half-naked."

Claire rolled her eyes, but walked about the chair and unfolded the frosted glass divider completely while gently pushing Hobbes back. "Not like we haven't seen it all before, Fawkes."

For an instant Darien was sorely tempted to Quicksilver and try and escape the confines of the room, but sighed and finished stripping down to his skivvies. As he pulled on the hospital gown he heard the door to the Keep slide open and the voice of his other Agency baby-sitter. "Here's his stuff."

"What stuff?" Darien asked peeking around the glass.

"Nothing you need to worry about right now, Darien." Claire rushed forward and shoved him back towards the chair, but did not have him sit. Instead she picked up a magnifying glass and began to examine his skin inch by inch.

"Claire..."

"Keeper, Darien. I am your Keeper and that is how you should address me." She didn't even look up at him while she spoke and Darien couldn't help but realize exactly how far they had fallen in recent months. The woman before him, coldly poking and prodding at him may have resembled the sweet and beautiful Claire he'd grown to care about over the last couple of years, but this woman was the cold and enigmatic Keeper he had quite literally hated the first six months he worked here at the Agency. Even knowing her reaction was partially his fault he still felt a deep sense of loss and wished he knew what to do to put things back where they should be.

Darien wanted to ask what this close-up examination was about, but was afraid to risk invoking her wrath. After about 10 minutes she stepped back, set down the magnifying glass and stripped off the gloves. "Bobby."

Hobbes arm appeared holding a small duffel bag, which Claire took from him. She, in turn, handed it to Darien. "Get dressed."

Darien opened the bag and found a fresh change of clothes inside. "Shower?" he asked in a pitiful tone, hoping to garner at least some small amount of sympathy.

"No time, Fawkes. We got a meeting with Menendez in 30 minutes," Hobbes answered from the other side of the room.

Darien grumbled under his breath, but pulled on the clothes, which at least gave him the illusion of being a human being. As if psychic, Hobbes folded the divider as soon as Darien attempted to pull on his sneakers.

"Hold up there, my friend." Hobbes was holding a thick black bracelet in his hands and it took Darien only a second to figure out what the hell it was.

"No way. You are not putting that thing on me." He backed away from his partner until he bumped up against the brick wall.

"No choice, it was part of the deal. You wear this or you head back to county jail." Hobbes waved the house arrest bracelet back and forth. "Though rumors are they want to hold you at RJD until your first court date. Bet your old pals Russell and Luthor would be glad to see you again."

Darien sagged against the wall in defeat. "Crap."

"Come on, Fawkes, it won't hurt a bit," Hobbes wheedled, waving towards the exam chair, and after a moment Darien reluctantly shuffled over to it and sat down.

It took Hobbes less than 30 seconds to get it around Darien's right ankle and activated. "All done."

"Great, so I've got myself a new leash. You gonna train me to heel and beg too?" Darien sneered as he hopped off the table and continued with the task of putting on his shoes.

"I'd say you already beg quite well," Claire said sarcastically as she handed Darien his watch.

Darien shot her a glare and tore the watch from her hand and put it in its accustomed spot on his right wrist. "Well, you should know, Keeper," he shot right back, his temper flaring.

"Enough." Hobbes stepped between the two. "We have work to do." He handed Darien his tan leather jacket, which had seen far better days by this point, followed by the other pieces of Darien's life - his badge, wallet, keys and other miscellaneous items that had been left lying in the cell.

"And how am I supposed to do anything?" Darien questioned, tapping the foot that bore the bracelet to remind Hobbes of the leash.

"Simple," Hobbes reached into his pocket and pulled out the relay box. "Right now, I'm your home. Stay within 500 feet of me, and you'll be fine."

"Great. And what if that's not possible." Darien made it was plain he didn't like this idea one bit.

"You better make it possible, Fawkes, or you'll be in a hell of a lot more trouble than you are now.

The whispers and looks that followed them as they made their way to the back corner of the police impound lot made Darien's skin crawl and realize that for the moment he might very well be a major liability to this case. Hobbes had called Menendez and suggested another look at the truck might be a good idea; this change in plans had allowed them to avoid the police station proper, which is where the meeting had been scheduled.

When yet another cop shot Darien a thousand watt glare, he caught up with Hobbes. "Man, this might not have been such a great idea."

"What? They can't touch you unless you do something stupid." Hobbes waved at the blue uniformed cops that were just so exceptional at their jobs they pulled impound duty.

"Do we really need them?" Darien hooked a thumb at the two Agency suits who were following at a less than discreet distance behind them.

"No can do, my friend. Heckle and Jeckle or their identical twins are gonna be with you ‘til this whole thing is sorted out. Get used to it." Hobbes' tone was brusque and definitely did not encourage Darien to continue his complaints. So he just hunched his shoulders and tried to ignore the goose bumps that rose along his flesh as he felt yet another pair of eyes focus upon him.

Darien was oddly relieved when they finally reached the trucks off in their own little corner and was forced to face the two detectives he and Hobbes had been working with for close to a week on this particular case.

Menendez stepped forward as soon as they drew near. "Heard you had a bit of trouble yesterday, Agent Fawkes."

Darien just blinked in confusion for a moment. "Yeah, that's one way to put it. Uh, you do know exactly what's going on, right?"

Menendez turned about and led them towards the freezer truck. "Oh yes. Detective Severs made sure to personally inform me of his... opinion of you."

"Severs is a jerk," Detective Vaughn stated blandly as she stepped from between two of the trucks to intercept them. "Once he sinks his teeth into something he doesn't let go even when contradictory evidence is dumped in his lap."

Darien was taken completely aback, and based on the look that skittered its away across Hobbes' face he was as well. "You think I didn't do it?" Darien knew he should just keep his mouth shut, but found that he wanted to hear the answer.

Menendez glanced at his partner before answering, "Let's just say that based on your more current record that we're willing to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"More so if it'll let us break this damn case," Vaughn added.

Amazingly enough, Darien found it was an answer he could live with. "The benefit of the doubt," he repeated softly, his eyes locking with Hobbes' who was, if anything, even more unreadable than ever.

Vaughn moved to the rear of the truck and opened the rear door. "So, according to Agent Hobbes you got a hunch about this case." She climbed in once the doors had swung wide with Darien right behind her.

"Maybe," Darien responded, slightly distracted as he walked deeper into the truck and took a deep breath. There was the faint scent of... "Hobbes, do you smell that?"

Hobbes sniffed and nodded. "Almonds. Like in the basement of the house."

"Almonds, that's the scent. Its been driving me buggy trying to identify it." Menendez snapped his fingers and glanced over at Vaughn. "It's not from you, right?"

She shook her head. "I tend to avoid heavy scents these days. This is from the truck. But what the hell is it?"

Darien looked over the interior finding it just as spotless as the reports had stated. "No idea. But this is a freezer truck and not a refrigerated one. So where did they off-load the contents?"

That brought on a rapid-fire discussion about where the truck had been found and any storage facilities nearby that could handle an 18-foot semi's worth of stuff that needed to be kept good and frosty. It was unavoidable that they adjourned to the police station, though Darien did try to persuade them to impose on Eberts instead, to use the computers to augment the search and begin making the necessary phone calls. By the time late afternoon had arrived they had narrowed the possible locations to three, but a call from the Official forced Darien and Hobbes to leave the legwork to Menendez and Vaughn. The Official did agree to loan two other agents to the detectives to complete the search, but was insistent that Darien be returned to the Agency... now.

Turning the page Darien allowed his eyes to drift from the dog-eared copy of The Cat Who Walked Through Walls to the lighted numbers of his alarm clock on the nightstand next to his bed, noting it was well into the witching hour. Closing the book and setting it aside, he rolled off the bed and padded quietly towards the windows that overlooked the street in front of his apartment. Opening the curtains the least amount possible he gazed about until he spotted this shift's Agency POS-mobile, this one a dirty off-white, but still a mid-eighties Ford LTD. Darien knew this meant that the Heckle and Jeckle pair standing right outside his apartment door had been replaced with updated versions, one of which had the relay tucked into his pocket making it impossible for Darien to leave his home. Or so they believed.

With quiet steps he headed for his kitchen and lay down on the floor with his feet shoved up against the cabinets at the sink and opened the skinny cabinet door between his Zippy Cola fridge and the stove. Working by feel alone he shifted the false panel he rigged inside it and set it aside. Running his fingers over the items within he identified each by feel, spare lock picks, number generator, magnetic key card creator, set of skeleton keys for locks the picks wouldn't be of any use on, and stopped over the set of miniaturized tools. Pulling those and the lock picks out - Hobbes had confiscated his usual set - he replaced the panel and shut the cabinet door.

Taking his prizes with him he then made his way into the bathroom, dropped the lid to the toilet down and sat. Setting his right foot on his left knee he examined the electronic leash wrapped about his ankle and was pleased to discover that it was an older model that, thanks to one of those long-term stays in state custody, he knew how to remove. His brow furrowing slightly as he concentrated - knowing how to remove it and doing so without screwing up, were two entirely different things - and minutes later was greeted with success; the cuff off and still functional.

Putting the tools back in their proper places in the black cloth pouch, Darien then quickly changed out of his pajamas and into the clothing he'd laid out for himself earlier. While dark, the clothes were far from his usual nocturnal activity wear. Black jeans were topped by a dark gray long sleeved shirt, the addition of a dark blue V-neck sweater and his black leather jacket would allow him to pass as just another guy out for a night on the town. Slipping the picks and the tools into the inner pockets of the jacket and shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers he made his way over to the bed. He switched off the light he'd been reading by, the room instantly plunged into darkness. He left the cuff sitting atop the bed, its green "on" light shining like a malevolent eye in the darkened room.

Then it was time to make the rounds of the windows again to make sure his baby-sitters had yet to move from their appointed places. Satisfied, he went back to the kitchen where, earlier that evening he had spent some time rearranging the various bottles and knickknacks, the end result being the windowsill overlooking his sink was now empty and the blinds pulled up to show the view of the exterior stairway it overlooked.

Sliding the well-oiled window up he climbed up onto the counter, feet placed on either side of the sink; he slithered through the space. Most people wouldn't fit through the window, but he, slender as he was, easily could. On this occasion his jacket scraped the window frame as he twisted about to grasp the finger holds he'd carved into the brickwork years ago. This wasn't the first time he'd needed to escape the confines of his apartment unseen. Bracing himself he pulled the lower half of his body through and set one foot against the wall while the other searched for the railing he knew to be below and just barely within reach. Once both feet were solidly on the railing he shifted his hands and slid the window shut. Getting back in would be interesting - it always was - but if things went as he hoped he'd have the proof he needed to clear himself.

Once on the stairs proper, Darien Quicksilvered and made his way down the steps and walked for several blocks until he knew he was out of sight of any potential Agency watchers. He dropped the Quicksilver as he spotted an available cab cruising down the street and let fly with a whistle. The cabby slowed at the sound, but didn't stop until Darien stepped under a streetlight and flashed a twenty.

Fifteen minutes later Darien stood in the shadows of the alley next to Bob's Bar, assessing the bank across the street. The crime scene tape was gone, but he was willing to bet the piece of paper taped to the inside of one of the double doors stated the bank was still closed for the time being. He knew he was going to have to do a perimeter check of the place to find the best way in, but for the moment was waiting for traffic on the street to thin a bit.

The sound of something moving behind him caused Darien to spin about and stare intently into the inky darkness for a long moment. Just about the time he'd decided it was nothing more than a stray cat he heard tsking and someone stepped forward allowing Darien to see legs and torso, while the face remained hidden.

"How very cliché; returning to the scene of the crime." The voice was eerily familiar and caused Darien to shiver in reaction. "Don't you know the cops always expect that?"

"'Commit a crime and the earth is made of glass.' Emerson," Darien responded almost without thought.

"A looking glass maybe," The figure said as he took that last step forward and the light, dim as it was revealed his features.

Darien found himself looking at... himself. "What the hell?"

The man wearing his face swung his hand and nailed Darien in the side of his head with the hilt of the wickedly sharp knife he held. Darien went to the ground without a sound. "Nighty-night."

"Sir, I think we may have a problem," Claire stated with a slight frown as she stood before the Official's desk. Even she was having difficulty believing what the test results compiled in the documents and disks lying on the conference table behind her had revealed.

"What? You are not going to tell me Fawkes is actually guilty, are you?" the Official asked in resignation and surprising her with his seeming belief that Darien had not committed the crimes of which he was accused.

"No, or at least I've found enough evidence to suggest he did not act alone." Claire hoped the Official didn't want those details first as, to her mind, there were far more pressing issues than Darien having returned to a life of crime in order to express his current unhappiness with his life in general and the side-effects of the gland specifically.

The Official looked moderately surprised at her response. "Really, well I suppose that's better than nothing, reasonable doubt can easily be played into a dismissal with the right persuasion. So, if that's not the problem, what is?"

Claire glanced at Eberts, knowing he was doing his best to remain neutral with the whole QS-9300B project. "It's the Quicksilver sample from the last crime scene. It has some... unusual properties."

The Official canted his head slightly and looked at her in expectation. "And?" he prompted.

"Well, as you know I have successfully created a prototype gland for testing..."

"Yes, yes, I know," The Official said brusquely and motioned for her to move it along.

"I ran the tests three times, the police sample does not match Darien's Quicksilver at all. However, it is frighteningly similar to the Quicksilver produced by the prototype." Claire paused, waiting for a response, but when none was forthcoming she added, "The only noticeable difference is the trace amounts of the host's DNA, which, of course, the prototype lacks."

The Official sat in silence for several minutes, which caused Claire to exchange a worried glance with Eberts.

"Sir, are you all right?" Eberts asked, taking a couple steps closer to the seated man.

The Official removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead. "Doctor, in simple terms, what does that mean?" he asked in a stiff voice.

Claire took a second to toss out the detailed explanation she'd planned on using, complete with pictures and computer graphics to back up her words, in favor of a more succinct response. "It means that the source of the Quicksilver must be from a gland created by the base sample with few, if any alterations to adjust the serotype for implantation."

"Damn it!" The Official snarled softly. "Can you give me a time frame?"

The question was unexpected and Claire had to think it through before answering. "Four to eight months, minimum."

"That quickly?" Eberts sounded shocked at how quickly a complete gland could be created from scratch.

"The four month estimate is assuming no prototype or animal testing was done, that they simply created the gland and implanted it," Claire explained. "How many actually have access to the sample?" Although Claire knew the sample code and the name of the storage facility it was supposedly safely hidden in, she did not know the actual location, though she had her suspicions.

"Not as many as you might think, Doctor," The Official stated blandly, plainly not about to give anything away. "Eberts..."

"Yes, sir. I'll have the records pulled and the identities verified. Go back... a year?" Eberts efficiently anticipated his superior's request.

"Albert, I'll also need you to run a DNA sample through CODIS," Claire said softly.

"Why?" the Official asked.

"At the fifth crime scene blood and skin tissue was found. I ran DNA tests on both and while the skin seems to match Darien, the blood does not. Also, I examined Darien for any recent cuts and found no evidence of anything that would account for the amount of blood recorded at the scene." Part of Claire had known all along Darien was innocent of these crimes, knew he was not capable of cold-blooded murder, save for, perhaps, Arnaud. Yet she had grasped onto his guilt tightly, almost wanting it to be real as if it would ease the ache in her heart that his current anger and distrust in her had caused. As if it would justify her need to cause him as much pain as he had managed to inflict upon her with his callous and indifferent treatment of her the last few months. Like she was no more than another tool to aid him at his job with the Agency.

She knew her harsh words of yesterday had set the relationship even further back, had, in effect, ripped the slowly healing scab off and exposed the wound to the open air once again. Her heart was slowly bleeding out over this, and knowing Darien as well as she did, was certain his was as well, but they were both too stubborn to back down and say the needed words of forgiveness and contrition as of yet.

Eberts latched onto one word. "Seems?"

"Yes. I need to run some more tests, but my preliminary findings suggest it might be cloned tissue." At the Official's look of surprise she continued. "Much like the mask we recovered after Arnaud disguised himself as Albert."

"Arnaud." The Official muttered.

"Yes!" Eberts crowed. "Sir, I looked deeper into the account the stolen money is in..."

"Fawkes' account."

"In his name, yes, but the money came through four dummy corporations that led back to Arnaud's casino in Las Cruces. I am quite certain the casino was used to launder the money, making it untraceable." Eberts rattled this off quickly while the Official's frown became even more pronounced. "Sir, Darien is not working with Monsieur de Fohn."

"Of course not, but if - and I stress if - de Fohn has the time to cook up this elaborate scheme to go after Darien, then he has more than consolidated his power," the Official paused to rub his eyes, "he's back in business."

"And Darien is in danger," Claire added needlessly, fear surging through her. Even if Arnaud no longer needed Darien for the gland, based on his personality he would most certainly go after Darien for revenge.

"Eberts, call Hobbes and have him bring Fawkes in," the Official ordered.

"Sir, Robert is currently with detectives Menendez and Vaughn; they believe they may have found the location where the biologic was stored," Eberts explained. "Perhaps I should contact Agent Timmens; he is in charge of this shift."

"Damn, I wish Monroe were here. Send the two best remaining agents to replace Hobbes and make sure the police detectives get whatever assistance they need to wrap up this case swiftly." He tapped the desk for a moment. "Contact Timmens, but Fawkes is not to be removed until Hobbes arrives. Understood?" Then he focused on Claire. "Get that DNA search done and work up a report that leaves room for doubt as to Fawkes' guilt. If you can get a name to go with that blood sample that would be even better."

As one both Claire and Eberts responded, "Yes, sir."

"Where is it supposed to be going?" Hobbes asked, incredulous.

"Staples Center, for the Laker's game tonight, even against Portland the place should sell out. Some problem with the ice machines. Our LA warehouse didn't have enough to cover the order so..." The day shift supervisor shrugged as if it were an every day occurrence.

"Crap," Menendez muttered, startling Bobby and forcing him to contain a smile. "How many trucks?"

The supervisor's looked sharpened. "Three... no four. Left an hour ago."

"We're gonna need you to call them back," Vaughn ordered.

"No." Hobbes shook his head. "We can't warn ‘em. We need descriptions of the trucks, plate numbers, GPS tracking codes if you use ‘em, everything."

"Agent Hobbes, we can't act outside San Diego County," Menendez reminded him.

"With fed backing you can," Bobby countered as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket intending to make the ‘Fish give him everything he needed to end this now. The Staples Center easily sat 20,000 people and though they were still unsure what the biologic was or what it did, it was safer to assume it was deadly and with that many potential victims... The possible results didn't bear thinking about.

Just as he was about to dial the cell phone rang in his hand. "Hobbes."

"Robert, the Official wants Darien in his office ASAP," Eberts said in an overly calm tone that sent off alarm bells for Bobby.

"No can do. We have a lead and it'll require fed...," Hobbes began, only to be cut off by Eberts.

"Anything they need will be arranged, Robert. There is the possibility that Darien is in danger," Eberts explained hastily.

"Danger? From who?" Hobbes questioned, his anger flaring at this interruption. This had better be damn good or he was going take a few layers of skin off of Eberts next time he saw the little geek.

"Arnaud de Fohn," was the response.

"That Swiss-Miss mutha..."

"Robert," Eberts dragged Hobbes back on track. "Agents Henderson and Niles are on their way to replace you. Menendez and Vaughn will receive all the assistance they need."

"They better," Hobbes growled. "It'll be beyond bad if we don't catch these bastards."

"Understood, Hobbes." The Official's voice surprised Bobby, though he should have realized that his boss, most likely via the speakerphone, was overhearing the conversation. "The bio-terrorists can be handled by any capable agents, and will be. I need you to make sure Darien is... all right."

Bobby mulled the Official's choice of words. He hadn't said "secure" he'd said "all right," which meant the threat from Arnaud was serious. "Yes sir, as soon as my relief arrives." Hobbes ran a hand over his head, trying not to notice how few hairs still remained. "What do Fawkes' baby-sitters say?"

"While the relay is still functional and has not gone off, we have been unable to contact any of the agents assigned to watching Darien for this shift." Eberts did his best to sound completely neutral, but Bobby knew better, catching that undercurrent of fear running through the lackey's voice.

"Damn it," Hobbes muttered. "If he's gone AWOL again, I'm gonna..."

"Later, Bobby, find him first," The Official interrupted. "Check in when you reach his apartment."

"Yes, sir," Hobbes hung up and turned to Menendez and Vaughn to give them the news they were going to have to part ways.

The scent of almonds swirled about him like a miasma, thick, cloying and choking. Literally choking, leaving him unable to breathe even though his lungs tried to pull in air. Thrashing, he tried to get his hands to his throat to relieve the terrible pressure building there, the desperate and necessary need to breathe, only to be unable to move them. For one instant everything made sense, the picture clearer than it had been for a long time and fear, not for himself, but for others, for the thousands of innocents that would surely die if he couldn't take just one more breath of precious air right now.

With a whooping intake, Darien forced himself into consciousness and onto his side, pulling his face from the foul smelling blankets he'd been trying unsuccessfully to breathe through. He coughed, trying to convince his lungs to work again even as the ache of his head competed with the searing pain in his ribs for his attention.

Once finally able to take a breath without causing another responding urge to cough, he muttered, "Cyanide. Damn it, its cyanide."

"Oh, his little project," An eerily familiar voice commented. "Guaranteed money he kept saying. Yet he had me out pulling piddling bank jobs when I could be doing so much more."

Darien slowly shifted about, not all that surprised to find himself bound hand and foot, just somewhat relieved his hands weren't bound to his feet this time. The additional fact that he'd been used as a human punching bag yet again was par for the course. If he didn't finish a mission with bruises somewhere on his body it couldn't be called a success. How he longed for more unsuccessful missions. He had to roll completely onto his back, his hands cramped awkwardly beneath him before he could see his captor. His memory, fuzzy and unreliable at the moment, seemed to be trying to tell him he'd hit himself, but that didn't make any sense.

The figure pacing back and forth before the windows didn't seem to be very imposing, thin as a rail, in black slacks and a dirty white t-shirt covered in sweat stains. The military-style boots fell heavy and hurried upon the floor as if he were angry or nervous.

"So what? Taking out the bank guards was just to add some spice?"

Darien's captor stopped, chuckling. "You know it. Hell, ‘cept for having to learn the delivery schedules so's I could hit when the max cash was available, the jobs were just too damn easy." He spun about and Darien was confronted with the reality of his own countenance staring back at him. "You know exactly what I mean, don't you?"

Darien didn't say a word, part of him was just too stunned to discover he did indeed have a doppelganger, a twin, even after seeing the photographic evidence with his own eyes. What frightened him the most was not the psychopathic killer who'd restrained him with what felt like duct tape, but that he had understood. Yeah, Quicksilver made pulling jobs easier, but it could also make them boring as hell, which is why Darien tended to not use it during his personal escapades. The Quicksilver was another tool in his ever-growing arsenal, not the only one.

Darien's clone stepped over to Darien and crouched down beside him. "Then again maybe not, being the Agency's pampered pet and all."

Darien snorted and forced himself not to groan at the surge of pain it inspired. "Pampered pet. You're insane."

The guy raised his right hand and looked at the wrist for a moment before turning it about to show Darien. "Oh, any time now."

Darien found himself staring at a tattoo nearly identical to the one that lay coiled quietly on his right wrist, the strap of his watchband combined with the tape cutting into skin. There were two major differences with the snake he gazed upon and his own; first the snake curled the wrong way, the head was facing left and not right, and second it had seven sections dyed a blood-red crimson. It was a good bet whoever had designed the gland his captor was in possession of had included the lovely bonus of some variant of Quicksilver-madness.

"Oh crap," Darien mumbled.

The doppelganger laughed.

The ambulances and police vehicles pretty much told Hobbes everything he needed to know about the situation at Fawkes' place. All four of the agents who had been watching his partner were down for the count, alive but in need of minor repairs before being released. Injuries ranged from a mild concussion to one knifing. Timmens had fought back before being subdued by his attacker.

A quick discussion with the detective in charge, thankfully not Severs who hadn't arrived yet, got Hobbes the bare minimum of information. Fawkes was gone. He was being blamed for the injuries accumulated by the Agency suits, and there was now an APB for his arrest with an "armed and dangerous" notation attached. Talking to Timmens was about as useful as talking to the cops since he insisted that it was Fawkes who had knifed him. However, there were a few things that didn't add up. Like the fact that the agents in the car had been knocked out first or that Fawkes' door had still been locked from the inside with the agents, including Timmens stationed just outside. The fact that the home arrest bracelet was found sitting on Fawkes' bed - still functional - suggested to Hobbes that Fawkes had been his usual smartass self and had managed to sneak out of his place with no one the wiser. It made no sense that Fawkes would then come back and beat the crap out of those assigned to watch him after getting away clean.

Nothing was adding up.

Sunglasses shading his eyes from the bright mid-morning sun he leaned back against Golda and pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

"This is the Keeper," Claire's distracted voice wafted out from the phone.

"Keepy, did you make that addition to Fawkes' stuff?" Bobby asked sounding bored.

"Yes, Bobby. Three of them, in his wallet, his badge and his watch," Claire responded, concern tingeing her words. "Is he all right?"

"That's what we need to find out," Hobbes told her, suddenly far more worried for his wayward partner than angry at him for flying the coop. "Meet me at the 5^th Street Café with the gear in... 20 minutes." He could hear her moving about the lab already as she collected the pieces she'd need to track down Fawkes.

"I'll be there, Bobby."

Claire showed up five minutes early, mere moments after Hobbes had parked the van across the street from the coffeehouse that his irascible partner favored. With her oversized medical bag slung over her should she approached where Hobbes stood on the sidewalk next to the van a frown upon her features.

"Claire? Everything okay?" Hobbes asked as she withdrew the handheld tracking device from her jacket pocket.

"I'm not sure. Two of the tracking devices register as being near his home, so I assume they are in his apartment, but the third..." She made a few adjustments to the handheld and grumbled to herself.

"Out with it, Keep, we don't exactly have any other way to find him at this point," Hobbes virtually snapped, too little sleep added to the pressure of a major case and Fawkes' newest vanishing act was doing little for his mood.

"He appears to be west of here." She showed him the screen with the little blip that represented Darien on it. "Across the Bay from the looks of it."

"Good enough." He stepped over to the van and opened the passenger door, directing her inside. "You navigate and I'll drive." Climbing in the driver's side he started the engine and, after a quick glance to check for traffic, he pulled out heading west to pick up the Pacific Coast Highway. Once on it he turned north until hitting West Laurel, hooked a left and followed it until it merged with North Harbor Drive. From there it was just a matter of dodging the lunatics heading to and from the airport as he drove as fast as he dared to get to the far side of the Bay, the lovely view outside his window doing absolutely nothing for him today. He had far more pressing concerns on his mind.

He almost wished he could think of something to say to Claire aside from "Are we on the right track?" to keep his mind from running through tight circles. Part of him was hoping, odd as it may seem, that Fawkes was in deep kimchee and in need of a rescue because it might very well mean that he'd been telling the truth, that he hadn't committed those crimes. That there may still be a chance that he hadn't been playing Bobby all this time to lull him into a sense of complacency and await the opportunity to return to a life a of crime now that there were no real consequences from the gland. Super-spy by day and law-breaker by night. Hell, Hobbes could even see Fawkes enjoying that kind of double-existence, feeding his junkie-like need for an adrenaline rush from both sides of his life.

But the fear, the distrust that had been building since Adam had left and Casey had dumped Fawkes for the second time, causing Fawkes to pull away from everyone, still grated on Hobbes. It forced him to concede that Fawkes might very well have run; had been vindictive enough of his situation with the Agency to take his pound of flesh out on the agents watching him and make an attempt to get away completely. $32 million could hide someone for a long, long time.

Hobbes exited onto the 209 and headed south along the road until Claire suddenly spoke up excitedly. "Back, Bobby, turn around. He's east of us."

"All right, Keepy, don't blow a gasket there." Hobbes exited at Byron Street and traveled east until on Scott. "Keep?"

"North, Bobby, and more east," Claire told him, her eyes flicking from the small computer screen in her hand to the road before them. When they approached the corner of Scott and Dickens she ordered, "Right, and go slow, we're nearly there."

Cruising well below the posted speed limit of 30 MPH, Hobbes looked over the buildings that lined the street, older homes stacked nearly atop one another followed by ancient warehouses that had been converted into apartments on the upper floors and office space on ground level. One in particular looked exceptionally run down, most of the windows soaped over with Space for Rent signs in them. Several windows on the second floor were in need of repair, though a couple had A/C units hanging out of them, a good sign they, at least, were occupied.

"Keep," Hobbes pointed to the place in question as they drew near.

"That would indeed appear to be our target. I can't get much more specific, we'll have to find out where inside for ourselves." Claire put away the handheld, no longer needing it and instead grabbed her medical bag. Opening one of the compartments she withdrew a smaller gun than Hobbes was used to seeing her wield and he gave a moment to wonder if perhaps Monroe had recommended the model to Claire.

Hobbes pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Eberts, we got a possible location for Fawkes. 248 Dickens Street. Run-down warehouse near the water. Send whatever backup you can, pronto. I got a bad feeling about this."

"Robert, I'm afraid there are only two agents still fit for duty. May I suggest we include the police in this matter?" Eberts suggested, and though Hobbes didn't really care for the idea, he knew it would be the best way to go considering how thinly spread the Agency's personnel was at the moment.

"You do that, Eberts, but make sure they know, we're the ones in charge and not them. Got it?" Hobbes made it clear he would not go along with the idea otherwise.

"Understood. I hope you find him, Robert," Eberts sounded more than little concerned for their lost agent.

"So do I, Eberts. So do I."

"It is a mortifying reflection for a man to consider what he has done, compared to what he might have done." Samuel Johnson (1709 - 1784), Boswell's Life, 1770

For all that I still thought of myself as a thief and a rogue I was just about to find out that Liz was right about me all along. I had far too much conscience, too many morals to ever be a real thief.

Climbing slowly to his feet, one hand rubbing the back of his head as if to clear away the remains of the pain, he grumbled, "Gotta admit it's one hell of a leash, ain't it?" He brandished the wickedly sharp knife, waving it about to punctuate his words.

"Jonesin' for your shot?" Darien asked conversationally. Darien wished he dare try to Quicksilver the tape about his wrists and attempt to bust loose, but his double had caught him at it twice now and added a few more bruises to the existing ones. The blood-shot eyes of the guy made it clear that not only was he quickly sliding into Quicksilver madness, but that he'd be full red very soon, the symptoms coming much faster than the version Darien had lived with for two years. For all of that, the guy was still sharp and it was almost like he knew when Darien was surreptitiously trying to make a break for it, however, he wanted no part of the fists being exchanged for the knife and the attendant wounds that would be caused.

Laughter erupted from Darien's dark copy. "Jonesin'. That's one way to put it." Then he returned to pacing the room, his entire body moving, arms, swinging, head twisting, legs jerking into motion as if not entirely under his control any longer. "I'm guessing that shortage of counteragent has become permanent for me. Course that just means it was a good thing I went ahead with Plan B."

"Plan B?" It wasn't so much that Darien cared a ripe fig about this 'Plan B,' but he was more than willing to keep his captor talking if it gave him the chance at escaping.

"Didn't your old man ever teach you about always having a back-up plan?" At Darien's intentionally blank look the guy sighed heavily. "Such amateurs about these days. I've skimmed more than enough of the Phone's money to keep me set for years. Though he wasn't too thrilled with me having some fun on the job, wanted his precious accounts full before setting you up." He shrugged, pausing his headlong pacing for a second to look down at Darien who still lay on the floor. "'Fraid I don't take orders too well even with someone 'specting me to jump through hoops."

"Well, it worked pretty well from where I'm sitting." Darien wasn't sure how he kept his voice steady between the relief of knowing he had been set up and the knowledge that Arnaud had been the one to do it. Though the pieces fit, what with Darien's evil twin stomping back and forth across the floor. He had to be wearing one of those clone facemasks and maybe even ones for his hands, which would explain the prints at the crime scenes. It was more than twisted and roundabout enough to have come from Arnaud's evil little mind.

"So good ole Arnie is just out for revenge now, how petty," Darien griped in irritation.

"Oh no, nothing like that. He simply wanted you and your little Agency otherwise occupied. Wasn't 'til your boss managed to wangle you a get out of jail free card that I figured out I could make my move." He'd begun pacing again, one hand crawling up his neck and into the hair in a vain attempt to ease the pain that was surely building again.

"Oh, come on, man, you might as well tell me everything," Darien prompted even though he had a sudden sinking feeling about the plan. "What, you planning on killing me and taking my place at the Agency? 'Cause I can tell you now, they'll figure it out." He failed to mention that the wee case of Quicksilver madness would be more than enough to convince everyone at the Agency right down to Sally in accounting that it wasn't Darien Fawkes.

"Not exactly. See, you're wanted by the cops for murder. I, on the other hand, ain't." He stalked over to where Darien lay practically helpless on the floor and deliberately altered his grip on the knife to a far more threatening one. "Once they find your body they'll consider the case closed, while I strip off this little costume and ride off into the sunset a few million dollars richer."

Darien swallowed with some difficulty, the simplicity of the plan was undeniable, as well as the fact that it would probably work. The cops, Severs in particular, would be more than happy to wrap up the case and know the guilty party had what he deserved -- death. Except for one small thing. "Ride off into the sunset mad as a hatter, you mean."

"So? Hate to break it to ya, but I was never exactly known for my sanity." With a grunt of pain the knife slipped from his fingers and he arched back as the gland reasserted its control over the situation.

When he collapsed to the ground, his attention taken up by seizures, Darien frosted the tape on both wrists and ankles and snapped them. It took longer than he planned and his current nemesis was already trying to get back to his feet even as Darien struggled to do the same. After hours of reduced circulation he was having trouble getting to his knees, never mind his feet.

"For shame, I wanted to play some more first."

Darien found himself staring into the fully blood-red eyes of his own face and for the first time he truly realized what a frightening sight it was. The knife swung, and Darien dodged backwards, falling over in the process while the knife-wielding maniac closed with him, so when the apartment door was kicked open neither of the two wrestling for the control of the knife were very aware of it.

"Freeze, federal agent. You're under... arrest." The final word trailed off as the pair of combatants paused, the knife pressed dangerously close to the throat of the one on the bottom, and turned to look at the intruders. "Whoa. Holy double vision, I-Man. Keep, you seeing this?"

Claire, with gun drawn and wavering from one man to the other could only manage one word. "Yes."

"Shoot him, Hobbes!" Darien shouted, only to have Hobbes' gun focus on him instead of the man above him who was still trying to force the knife down to his throat.

The single gunshot was loud in the room, but Darien held onto the hand holding the knife as the full weight of his captor settled upon him. "Thanks, Keep." He carefully shoved the body off him and tossed the knife away once free.

"Claire, what the hell did you do that for?" Hobbes shouted, as he kept the gun trained on Darien while Claire moved to the still breathing man she'd just shot.

"Look at his eyes, Bobby." she directed Hobbes' attention to the piercing red eyes of the man lying bleeding on the floor. He coughed then spraying blood everywhere and coated the floor and Claire's shoes with the droplets before more trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Bloody hell!" she cursed. "We need an ambulance now, the shot punctured his lung."

Hobbes holstered his gun and looked over at Darien who was slowly getting to his feet, his hand unconsciously rubbing his throat. "You okay?" he asked as he got his phone out of his pocket to call for EMTs just as the police back-up, led by Severs himself, finally arrived.

Darien stepped over to Hobbes and said only four words: "I told you so." And walked out of the apartment with both police and agents following him.

"So you're sure they got all of it?" Darien asked, sounding far more worried than his relaxed form would seem to indicate.

"It would appear so. All the ice was confiscated and only the trucks from San Diego tested positive for the biologic," Eberts answered. "Aside from complaints about the lack of ice, last night's game went off without interruption."

"So what was it exactly? The almond scent was from cyanide, right?" Darien shifted to sit up a bit and turned to look at Claire who had been busy exchanging information with the CDC who had taken custody of several tons of contaminated ice.

"Yes, Darien. It was rather ingenious in a way. Somehow they spliced cyanide onto a viral vector. It was perfectly harmless in both its frozen state and at room temperature. The ice could have melted and the virus would have destroyed itself within minutes," Claire explained, trying to curb her inherent enthusiasm at discovering something new, no matter how deadly or destructive. "Once absorbed into the human body, however, the virus is triggered and acts like every other virus and replicates itself. As it does so, it releases trace amounts of cyanide into the bloodstream until eventually the host succumbs to cyanide poisoning."

"So only those who got the bad ice cubes would have died," Hobbes stated as he nodded his head sagely, certain he was correct.

"Oh no, Bobby, the virus itself is quite contagious. One cough or sneeze and it would have spread to anyone nearby, thus beginning the process over. From initial infection to death has been estimated at 4 to 6 hours. Thousands would have left that game and infected dozens of people each, who would have infected dozens more, and so on." Claire clasped her hands together as she watched the full horror of the situation sink in on their faces.

"Damn. Are we sure it was Arnaud?" Darien asked softly.

"We cannot be 100% positive as all of the business was done through a middle-man we have yet to uncover. However, the supplier used the appellation 'The Phone' so we are reasonably certain Monsieur de Fohn is behind both the street drugs and the biologic," Eberts summed up concisely.

"And behind his evil twin." Hobbes hooked a thumb at his partner who barely glanced over at Hobbes in response.

"The combination of cloned skin and a Quicksilver gland would most certainly suggest that. I'm afraid the... double never admitted who he was working for before he died," Claire agreed, hoping there would be at least some hint of... relief, happiness, something beyond the look of blank disinterest currently being worn by Darien.

"You have officially been cleared of all charges and are free to go as you please, Darien," Eberts said with a nod of confirmation from the Official.

Darien snorted and got to his feet. "Interesting definition of free you got there, Eberts." Without another word Darien left the room.

"I'll just go make sure he doesn't do anything... stupider than usual," Hobbes offered, getting to his feet as well and following after his partner.

"Doctor, we received confirmation that Arnaud took on the identity of one Dr. Harold Rutherford, a xenobiologist who works for the DOI, and is on the access list." The Official waved a hand and Eberts produced a printed photo showing Arnaud de Fohn sporting a pencil thin mustache and goatee from the security camera at the storage lab.

"So he does have a sample and may have created dozens of glands by now," Claire stated with a frown. "Did you identify the double?"

"Yes, Gavin Barris, ex-army - dishonorable discharge. Was convicted of armed robbery twice and was released just under a year ago. We suspect Arnaud recruited him." The Official rubbed his eyes for a second. "I seriously doubt he's the only recruit. You will need to complete your initial work on schedule, doctor."

"Yes, sir." Claire sensed this would not be the best time to argue the point. "Speaking of which..."

"Yes, you may go." The Official waved at her in dismissal, and she didn't hesitate to escape the confines of the room.

Keeping her steps slow and even she made her way down to the basement level and into Lab 2. Once certain both doors were secured behind her, no need to risk a suddenly inquisitive Darien finding out about this project just yet, she sat down to look over the latest round of tests she'd run. Nearby, in two separate tanks rested the prototype Claire had created and the gland she had harvested from Darien's double.

Responding to the ringing of his doorbell, Eberts was mildly surprised to find a FedEx deliveryman at his door. Signing for the package he then carried it into his kitchen and examined it carefully. The return address was local, though unfamiliar, which meant little, and it, from what he could tell, had been sent overnight.

Curious he fetched a box cutter and sliced through the tape. Cautiously, alert for any possible surprise, he opened the flaps to see... bubble wrap. Shaking his head at his Hobbes-like paranoia, he removed the cushioning to reveal bundles of plain manila files bound with rubber bands, some of which included both floppy disks and CD-ROMs.

The names on the tops of the files shocked him almost as much as the easily recognizable handwriting they were written with. These were private files from three of the most notorious terrorists and arms dealers that the Agency had been investigating locally. At a quick glance, the papers within would probably be enough to get arrest warrants for all three.

The bundle at the bottom was the most interesting to Eberts, as he quickly realized these were the personal files of none other than Jared Stark. The half dozen disks were sure to contain even more useful information. This was an incredible bounty to have fall into his, and the Agency's lap.

At the very bottom of the box Eberts discovered a lone sheet of paper with a single sentence written in a familiar blocky hand upon it.

"Just some stuff I stumbled upon while 'out'."

"We learn our virtues from our friends who love us; our faults from the enemy who hates us. We cannot easily discover our real character from a friend. He is a mirror, on which the warmth of our breath impedes the clearness of the reflection." - Richter

For the first time in a very long time that mirror I was staring into was showing things pretty damn clearly.

End