Episode 4.03

By Suz, Iz & Krys

"One of the greatest discoveries a man makes, one of his great surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't do." Henry Ford was the author of that little pearl of wisdom.

Never let it be said that Albert Eberts wasn't up for some of the more interesting challenges in life. We've all underestimated him at one time or another, but one thing , we've learned is that Eberts was as much an integral part of our team as all of us so-called "real" agents. Too bad we had to learn that the hard way...

Friday, November 7^th, 2003

Albert Eberts hurried from one pile of moving boxes to another, directing the transfer of the Agency's possessions to their new office space in the McKinley building. The earthquake the previous weekend had forced the relocation, and worse, the temporary chaos that currently passed for his daily routine.

While Darien had done his best in spite of the strain it had placed on him physically, it had still taken the clandestine efforts of the rest of the Agency's personnel to finish emptying the equipment and records from the condemned Harding building. This was the last of it, finally, and the end of a week spent hovering over the unending procession of boxes and crates. What complicated the situation was that the other new tenants of the McKinley building were also moving in, and the challenge of keeping their items and boxes separate from the Agency's had taken its toll. He'd had nightmares nearly every night that involved finding tutus and dancing shoes in the boxes that filled his and the Official's offices.

Of course, the former tenants of the McKinley building's ground floor and basement, a dance school by the name of Miss Tilly's, had gone bankrupt three years previously, so the likelihood of costumes and talcum powder ending up in the Agency's packing boxes was minimal. Still, there had been a half-dozen mix-ups already, and with each one, he'd lost even more sleep. He hovered diligently over the efforts of the moving crew the Official had finally been persuaded to hire when Eberts had pointed out that the faster things made it to the Agency's new quarters, the safer they would be. Even though a safe had yet to be installed in the offices, just being able to lock the doors on the rather eclectic collection of, well, sensitive documents Charles Borden had 'acquired' over the course of his career would let him sleep easier.

Four hours later, the very last of the boxes had made their way up to the second floor, which had been designated as the Agency's new headquarters. Albert stood, feeling dusty and disheveled, surveying the stacks upon stacks of boxes that lined the hallways and filled the Official's new office almost to bursting. He'd done his best to make sure that the Official's private papers were all safely stored in the relative security of the office, but the nagging worry that something had been overlooked gnawed at him. He sighed, knowing he'd never get to sleep if he didn't confirm for himself that everything had made it intact.

It was nearly 6:30 p.m. when the tentative rap on the frosted ripple-glass of the office door startled him out of his state of absolute concentration. He turned his attention from the file cabinets he'd been methodically filling with the more prosaic Agency records and made his way through the chaos of boxes to the door. "Yes?" he inquired hesitantly, knowing the rest of the Agency's personnel had long since gone home, save the two agents who'd drawn the short straw and were on night watch. "Agent Heyes? Is that you?" he asked. The sudden uneasiness that niggled at him stayed his hand in its reach for the door knob.

"Uh, no, I'm Morty Siegfreid, from the 5^th floor. Taylor & Tyson accounting? We moved in today. I think we got some of our things mixed up with yours. I'm looking for a box of tax records we're still missing. It's my ass if I don't find them. Mr. Tyson will eat me for breakfast. Our biggest client, and I can't find the files!"

There was no mistaking the stress in the speaker's voice. Albert could empathize, truly, he could. It was the self-same concern that had made the last six days a nightmare for anyone who thrived on organization, himself included. "Just a moment Mr. Siegfreid," he replied, glancing around rapidly to ensure nothing out of the ordinary was evident. The sole evidence that the Agency was more than it seemed was a steel and polycarbonate briefcase loaded with files stamped 'top secret' open on the Official's desk. He could only hope that the Fish & Game seal that leaned up against the front of the old walnut desk hid that small detail from prying eyes. He opened the door a few inches to peer out into the hallway at his unexpected visitor. The slender, almost delicate young man on the other side of the glass peered back through thick-lensed glasses that magnified the watery gray eyes blinking at him myopically.

"Hello," Siegfreid greeted him tentatively. "Would it be alright if I came in?"

Albert waffled a split second before opening the door fully, allowing the young accountant entrance. "I'm Albert Eberts, US Department of Fish & Game," he introduced himself, holding out a hand. It was shaken with choppy enthusiasm that spoke of nervousness like his own, and Albert relaxed a trifle, unbending enough to smile slightly. "I assume you were forced to relocate due to the quake last week?"

His guest nodded, a visible shiver traversing his slight frame. "Yes. Our whole building collapsed. It's a miracle no one was killed. As it is, most of our records were buried under the rubble. All I can say is, it's a good thing I persuaded Ms. Taylor and Mr. Tyson to hire a remote backup service last year."

Eberts could only nod sympathetically. He'd managed to convince the Official of the same need not so long ago, himself. Fortunately, that auxiliary server system was now incorporated into the newly reopened Perseus Project lab, and thus safe even from inadvertent exposure to other government agencies. Unlike conventional business information, issues involving possible national security concerns required considerably more security clearance than the average commercial data storage service could provide. "Don't you have the stored copies of the records?" he inquired.

Siegfreid shook his head negatively. "No, unfortunately. These were the end-of-quarter tax forms and documentation and... and I hadn't finished entering them. The only thing left are the hard copies, and they didn't make it upstairs this afternoon with the rest of our things." The anxiety was crystal clear in the younger man's voice, and Albert nodded sympathetically. Even the best backup system still left a gap of anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours worth of data unsecured between backups. It sounded as if the missing records had fallen through that gap.

"What was the name of the client?" he asked.

"McGreggor BioZyme," Siegfreid answered, peering around the office as if hoping for a neon sign flashing his client's name with an arrow pointing at the correct packing box among the hundred or so that still cluttered the room.

Albert felt an eyebrow arch in surprise. McGreggor was one of the newest firms to open its doors in the greater San Diego metropolitan area, adding its name to the ever-growing biotech presence in the city. His personal nickname for the industrial parks east of downtown that housed the proliferating corporate campuses was the biotech petri dish. "I see," he said. "I can understand why the loss of the records would be of concern. But I'm sure I would have noticed if I'd come across them today," he pointed out.

"But you can't possibly have gone through every single one of these boxes," Siegfreid waved a hand around the office a bit frantically. "Can't we at least take a quick look at the boxes you haven't gotten to?" he pleaded.

Albert considered briefly, then reluctantly nodded. "Very well," he agreed. "But I'm afraid as an employee of a government agency, I must insist that no boxes are opened unless their markings don't match ours." He eyed the other man firmly, refusing to compromise on this point.

"That's perfectly fine," Siegfreid agreed readily enough. "All our boxes were labeled Bekins Moving and Storage, so it shouldn't be hard to spot, if it's here," he said, clearly relieved.

Together the two accountants turned their attention to the quest for the missing box, discussing the more interesting elements of their chosen profession with the enthusiasm of true believers.

Nearly two hours later, in spite of a fascinating conversation regarding the intricacies of tax filings and double-entry bookkeeping, Albert was ready to give up the search and go home to the leftover lasagna on his kitchen counter that had surely defrosted by now. "I'm afraid it isn't here," he said at last, wiping his hands on the seat of his already dusty suit trousers.

"But there's only the ones by the door and that last stack there, in the corner to check through," Siegfreid wheedled, sounding disconcertingly like Darien Fawkes as he pointed at the rickety tower of boxes clearly marked 'Property US Government' behind the Official's desk.

"I don't see how it could have gotten mixed up with those boxes, they haven't left my sight all day," he disagreed rather shortly. "And I'm afraid their contents are potentially sensitive, and therefore off limits to civilians."

"But -" the younger man began, protesting, heading defiantly towards the Official's desk.

Eberts intercepted him before he could do more than peer past the large fiberboard F&G seal leaning against the front of it. "It's nearly 8:30 and it's really been a long day. I will be here for a few hours in the morning to finish the filing, so if I find the box, I'll bring it upstairs to your office. Will anyone be there in the morning?" he asked, knowing that like himself, most accountants worked long hours that often lapped over into weekends.

Siegfreid resisted the gentle tug Eberts exerted on his arm as he tried to head the visitor towards the door, Morty craning his head back to peer a bit desperately at the last pile of unchecked boxes that were now clearly out of his reach. "But, but -"

"You have my word, Mr. Siegfreid," Eberts insisted. "I will return your records to you the instant I find them, if they're here." With his free hand, he opened the glass-paneled door and escorted his guest out into the hall, then walked him down the corridor to the elevator they had been fortunate to acquire along with the new offices, ignoring the whimpers of protest as he hit the call button.

"But Al, what if -" the wispy young man began as the elevator doors slid open almost instantly.

"Good night, Morton," Eberts bade him farewell firmly and guided him into the elevator car, stepping back himself as the doors closed on the upset features of his unexpected visitor. He stayed long enough to watch the floor indicator lights disclose Siegfreid's ultimate destination as the fifth floor, then returned to the offices planning to lock up for the evening. Unfortunately, he was delayed by Agent Heyes' efforts to entice him into doing a snack food run for him. Albert was beginning to think that every new resident of the McKinley building had been taking "How To Wheedle 101" as taught by the master himself, Darien Fawkes.

"Aw c'mon, Eberts, I'm gonna be stuck here all night babysitting this pile'a crates. Least you can do is go get me some food so I don't starve to death in the next 10 hours."

"Shouldn't you have thought of that and come prepared?" Eberts retorted. "You know the vending machines have yet to be installed in the lobby." He didn't bother to mention that he himself hadn't eaten since lunchtime, over eight hours before. "The best I can do is remain here for 10 more minutes while you go to the corner convenience store." He was capitulating, and he knew it, but he didn't have the stomach for a protracted argument, which looked to be forthcoming given the scowl on Heyes' face.

"Done, man!" Heyes' scowl transformed to a smile, and he loped out of the office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass and shake the wall, which toppled an unsteady pile of boxes near the door.

"Oh crap," Eberts sighed, borrowing the epithet from Fawkes. Three of the five had come open in the fall, and their contents were scattered halfway across the floor of the Official's office, which was when the dark green Bekins logo on the end of the middle one impinged on his vision. Siegfreid's box. He crouched and began stuffing papers into the Agency boxes, careful to ensure he didn't mix any of the Taylor & Tyson items in by mistake. Because he was actually taking the time to make sure the papers he returned to his own boxes in fact belonged to the Agency, he was paying close enough attention to what he was doing to be brought up short by what he held. In and of itself it was innocuous, and only his past experience with the IRS told him exactly what he was seeing.

Trying to quell the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, he searched through the remainder of the McGreggor BioZyme paperwork with an eye towards locating two forms in particular. Unhappily, he found what he'd been looking for. He stared at them, comparing the outgoing and incoming bank routing numbers, easily spotting the discrepancy. Grimly he got up and took the three forms with him to the copy room and made Xeroxes of them, then placed the duplicates in the box that had spilled, along with all the other Taylor & Tyson detritus. He could not, in good conscience, allow this to go unreported. He would speak to the Official on Tuesday, when he returned to duty, and to the McKinley building. Until then, it was his duty as an agent of the US government, even if no longer an agent of the IRS, to secure the evidence.

Not for the first time, he regretted the practical reality of San Diego post-quake that had prevented the immediate installation of a safe. He was reluctant, in light of the evening's events, to leave any of the Official's personal papers unsecured, much less the documents he'd just photocopied. He peered distractedly around the office before his gaze fell on the courier's briefcase that currently housed the small collection of 'non-official' documents of potential use to the Official in obtaining certain 'favors' in exchange for his silence. Albert refused to sully the Official's motives by labeling those papers 'blackmail material' but that was, essentially, what they were. It was a useful tool for any powerful man to have in his arsenal, and far too useful a tool to leave lying around haphazardly. He laid the McGreggor documents inside and closed and latched the case.

Hoping it would be enough until he could place the case in the safe deposit box in the bank across the street in the morning, he draped his suit coat over the frosted metal case, picked it up and turned off the lights, departing for the comforts of home with a nervous stomach.

Monday, November 10^th, 2003

"Agent Hobbes, please start from the beginning." The monotone of FBI Agent Larry Cornwall's interrogation technique annoyed Hobbes on general principle. He paced the confines of the small conference room, skirting the oval table and the chairs stacked on top of it restlessly, avoiding the one that presumably waited for him to take a seat. He wondered where the hell his partner was, and more to the point, how Eberts was doing. He was practically vibrating with the residual adrenaline of the morning's events, and there was no way on earth he was going to be able to sit still through this debriefing.

"How many times do I gotta repeat myself?" he snapped irritably, not so much angry with the FBI officer as at himself. He ought to have seen it coming, somehow. The clues had all been there... he'd simply failed to interpret them correctly. The understatement of the frickin' century. If he was lucky, the Official would only bust his pay back to GS-7 instead of firing him. He sighed as he ran a hand over his bald skull reflexively, guilt, anxiety and nervous tension swamping any benefit his meds had provided.

"Agent Hobbes, please take a seat," Cornwall insisted, pulling out the chair and swinging it into Bobby's path.

It was sit down or bark his shins, so Bobby turned and dropped into the chair unhappily, resting his elbows on the conference table and massaging the back of his neck with both hands. "You sure you're cleared for this?" he asked skeptically, not recognizing Cornwall from the local FBI branch's cadre of 'in the know' agents, when it came to the QS-9300 project.

Cornwall eyed him calmly. "Rest assured, Agent Hobbes, I've got clearance all the way to the top of this agency. Now. Let's take it from the top. What exactly happened in there today?"

Hobbes sighed and straightened, leaning back into his chair, shoulders slumping. "It's all my fault it went south the way it did," he announced flatly, schooling his features into blankness, flashing on his days as a Marine. Hell if he was going to pass the buck on this one. He was a trained agent. It was his job to keep things from hitting the fan the way they had today. He'd failed. It was time to take the consequences.

"It all started with Eberts bein' even more squirrelly than usual," he began....

"Fawkes, I swear to god, something's up! Nineteen years in this business says there's trouble on the ole' bottom line." I glared at my partner who yawned, stretching into next week. I swear, another 6 inches, and he'd be able to touch the 10-foot ceilings if he was standing up.

"The o-o-o-o-o-le' bottom line, huh?" Darien repeated like an escapee from a WC Fields flick. "Hobbes, did you take your meds?" he asked with that longsuffering expression of his. "Because, my friend, you are sounding like you are in serious need of a fill-up."

"Yes, I took the damned pills, Fawkes, enough about the damned pills! I just came from his office, and I'm telling you, the F&G gravy train is drying up! I'll lay you odds that our paychecks are gonna bounce higher'n one'a Shaquille O'Neal's free throws." I paced around my desk to stand in front of my partner where he lounged in the other chair, grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him to his feet. "Would you just take a look?" I insisted. Damned if I was going to cave on this, not when the rent money was due. OK, so my building was temporarily off limits, but according to the city engineers, it was gonna be habitable by the end of next week, which meant getting out of the cracker box I was sharing with Fawkes. Don't get me wrong, I was glad my partner was alright with me camping out on the couch, but two guys in a studio apartment gets a little crowded, know what I mean? Especially considering the amount of time Fawkes takes to get ready in the morning. I mean, even my ex-wife didn't spend that much time in the bathroom.

"Bobby, would you just chill?" Darien said, cranky and not bothering to hide it. "I am not gonna spy on Eberts while he balances the checkbook, OK?"

"It's not a checkbook, Fawkes, and all I'm sayin' is, see for yourself. He's sweating like a pig-" I glanced out the window at the wispy late fall fog, "-and it's not even 70 degrees out. Not to mention he tied his tie with something that sure as hell ain't a Windsor knot."

Now that little detail got Fawkes' attention and he blinked at me, eyes narrowing. Eberts always dresses like a low-rent GQ wannabe, so not getting his tie on straight was a red flag to anyone who's worked with the little nebbish as long as I have. Even Fawkes picked up on the significance. It's nice to know he's learned something in the last 3 years.

"Huh," Darien grunted. It wasn't a question, just his way of letting me know he'd gotten the point. "OK, OK, I'll do it. But I'm tellin' ya Hobbesy, if this is all 'cuz you forgot the Prozac this morning, I'm taking you home right now to get medicated." He glared at me one last time and let the Quicksilver come. I swear that little trick will never get old for me. He vanished with a silver gleam, and my office door opened as he slipped out into the hall. I guess all those years as a thief were good for something, because I didn't hear so much as a squeak of sneakers on the dingy speckled green linoleum as I poked my head out the door to watch.

The Fat Man's office is right down the hall from mine in this new set up, but it'll be a miracle if I don't get sent to the dungeon of a basement after this. Anyway, I watched as Fawkes opened the Official's office door and slipped in.

Eberts has his very own office, now. Well, more like a glorified closet, but at least it gives him somewhere to go when he isn't dancing to the boss's tune. About time we got him out of the 'wanderin' the halls' habit. Kinda puts a crimp in Fawkes' and my style, ya know? So Fawkes sneaks into the Official's office, I guess figuring on accessing Ebes' little cubbyhole through the door that connected the two. A better bet than trying to sneak into his office directly, I suppose.

Ten minutes musta gone by, and I was starting to get a little antsy, wonderin' what my partner was up to. I'd almost decided to go after him when I felt the draft comin' off him like a blast off the polar icecaps. "Fawkes?" I hissed, stepping out of my door to let him in. He shut it after himself before he dropped the Quicksilver and shook off the last little flakes onto my floor. "So was I right or was I right?" I asked.

Darien made a face and scowled at me. "Alright, I'll admit, he doesn't look like himself. But that doesn't mean Fish & Game decided to cut their losses," he argued.

"You saw him for yourself, Fawkes. Did that look like a man whose books were balanced?" I wanted to know, hands on my hips.

"OK, no, it didn't. But Hobbes, I am not going to follow him around all day just to validate your paranoid delusions," he told me.

"Did I ask you to? I just want us to keep an eye on him," I assured him.

"An eye," Fawkes said.

"Yeah. An eye. Consider it an exercise in surveillance, OK?"

"Surveillance," he repeated. Everything about him said 'skeptical,' which pissed me off. I mean, we've been workin' together for more'n three years, right? So it's about time he started trusting my instincts.

"What, you're a frickin' parrot, now?" I asked, ticked. "Surveillance, Fawkes. One of the cornerstones of any investigative process."

He thought about that for a second or two.

"I still don't like it, Bobby," he said eventually. But I knew I had him.

"You'll like it less if I'm right and your paycheck bounces," I said. "Come on, kid, let's find ourselves a vantage point."

There's a Peet's Coffee place three doors down from our new building. It was missing a few of the fancy tiles, but it was open for business so Fawkes and me staked out a table closest to the window where we could keep an eye on the front of the McKinley building. Darien scarfed down three croissants, a slice of poppyseed pound cake and four oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies while we nursed our lattes. Damned things were strong, so we were both pretty caffeinated 15 minutes later when Monroe walked past and spotted us in the window.

She marched in, the usual spike heels clicking on the ceramic tiled floor, and cocked an eyebrow at the pile of wrappers and crumbs on the plate in front of Fawkes. "I see the bottomless pit is open for business," she snarked, reaching down to pick up a few stray crumbs with her forefinger. "Don't tell me. We've moved again. Now we're taking over a store front," she flicked a smile at us. "At least it's closer to a steady food supply," she added. "Mind if I join you?"

"Uh, we're kinda workin' here, Monroe," I told her. She might not have to worry about where her next paycheck was comin' from, but the rest of us couldn't exactly say the same.

"Hmm. So I see. Working on seeing how many empty carbohydrates you can stuff into your partner's mouth, it looks like." She snagged a chair from the next table and sat her shapely little butt down, blocking our view out the window. "You aren't going to offer a girl a drink?" she asked, the smirk clueing us in she was yanking our chains.

Fawkes gave her this look, amused, and pushed his glass mug in her direction, the last half inch or so of coffee sloshing. "You can finish mine," he told her.

She grinned -- and took him up on it, which surprised the hell outta me, lemme tell ya. She's usually a wheatgrass and carrot juice kinda girl. "Alright, spill it, you two. What's the mission?"

Fawkes hemmed and hawed a little, then looked at me with those puppy dog eyes he does when he wants something. I grimaced. "It's personal," I told her, hoping she'd drop it.

No such luck. Instead, she gave us that arched eyebrow thing she does, the one that makes you feel like you're about an inch high. "Right," she said, dripping sarcasm. "Personal." She swallowed the last of Fawkes' coffee and got up, pissed off, and Fawkes, the wimp, buckled.

"Aw, don't be like that, Suzy," he whined. "It's just Hobbes having one of his paranoid delusions."

"Stop calling me Suzy," Monroe snapped like a crocodile.

I kicked Fawkes' ankle under the table.

"Ow!" he complained pitifully.

Which is when I spotted Eberts scampering across the street to the bank that he'd shifted all the Agency's accounts to when we moved into the new place. "Delusion, huh?' I jabbed a finger at Eberts, and both Fawkes and Monroe turned to see. "That look like a delusion to you?" I asked, triumphant.

"Damn. I don't believe it," Darien muttered, eyes practically popping out of his head.

Monroe eyeballed me. "Alright, what's going on Why are you picking on Eberts?"

"We're not picking on the little weenie," I groaned. Just what I didn't need: Monroe doing a mother hen thing on me.

"Hobbes thinks F&G bailed on us, and the paychecks are rubberized. I didn't think he was right, but there goes Ebes..."

"What makes you so sure he's going to the bank to stop payment on the payroll?" Alex asked, getting a nod of agreement from Fawkes.

"Why don't we go ask him," I suggested, getting up and heading for the door, the other two right behind me. I ignored Fawkes' moaning and complaining as I loped across the street, dodging the mid-morning traffic, the pitter patter of Alex's high heels tapping out a rhythm on the asphalt right behind me. I'll say this for my partner, he moves without any extra noise, no matter what he's doing. Handy having an ex-thief for a coworker.

Eberts glanced around with what could only be a bad case of nerves as he opened the big glass doors and ducked into the bank. He missed us completely, which I guess oughta have tipped me off that it wasn't Agency mooks he was watching for. But like I said, I blew it. Big time.

I gave it about 30 seconds before I made a grab for the door, only to have some business-type in a hurry reach past me and barge on in ahead of me, his briefcase smacking me on the shin. Me, Fawkes and Monroe all ducked in in the guy's wake, doing the unobtrusive thing the best we could while tryin' to spot Eberts.

Fortunately for us, it's one of this big old-fashioned banks with the marble floors and columns and plenty of places to use for basic cover. The three of us scattered, fanning out, looking for our target. He wasn't in the main line for the teller's windows, so I circled around the customer service bench that had all the deposit slips and stuff, hoping I'd catch sight of him somewhere over by where the branch manager and the bank's loan flunkies all had their desks.

Fawkes was about 10 feet away, lurking behind one of the pillars, when I heard him hiss my name. "Hobbes," he said, the stage whisper attracting unwanted attention from the people at the end of the teller line.

"Shh!" I hissed back, making a chopping noise across my throat as I sidled on over to his position. "Someone's gonna call security on us if you don't stop acting like some kinda criminal," I scolded him, tryin' to keep my voice low.

"In case it slipped your mind, Hobbes, I AM some kinda criminal," he mouthed off, and I flicked a light blow to his left biceps.

"Punk," I answered sarcastically. "What is it? Did you spot him?" I changed the subject back to the one at hand.

He jerked his head sideways in the general direction of the big four-foot-thick steel vault door standing wide open just the way it's supposed to during business hours. Of course, it's not like you could just waltz on in. No. For one thing, it was behind a mahogany and marble barricade that looked pretty damned solid. None of the flimsy upholstered partitions they have at your average mall branch. Nope, this was quality workmanship. You might get through with a skiploader, or maybe a battering ram, but it'd take at least that, for sure. No, the only way past that barrier was the legit way -- or Fawkes' way; invisibly.

First, you had to make it past the armed guard leaning against the far end of the waist-high table that held all the safe deposit forms and what-all to get to the desk of the bank officer in charge of the vault access. Not to mention not being able to go in unsupervised, since the assistant manager or some upper level bank official hadda go in with you with the bank's master key in order to get into your safe deposit box. SOP, for the most part, in pretty much any bank anywhere. 'Course, this bein' an old-style bank, there wasn't room inside the vault to go rooting around in your box, so they had a bunch'a little matching semi-private mahogany and marble cubicles, complete with gold-leafed steel grill doors that locked from the inside so you could be all nice and secure while you played tiddlywinks with your great aunt Mary's diamonds, or whatever.

I scanned the area, not spotting Eberts right away until Fawkes pointed a finger towards the opposite end of the counter from where the guard was standing. Eberts was dithering over a safe deposit form, and right next to him, even though there was about six feet of counter available, was none other than the bozo who'd horned his way into the bank ahead of us three minutes before. He had his briefcase standing on the counter top between them as if he was all worried Ebes was gonna steal the answers to some test or something. But if he'd wanted privacy that bad, he oughta've been at the far end of the counter from our little buddy. Which was the first clue I shoulda had that something was up.

Monroe, from her position in the lee of a silk ficus tree collecting dust in the corner by the bank officers' desks, spotted Darien's jab and ducked a little to get a view of our target, glancing back at us with that cocked eyebrow of hers making it look like it was gonna collide with her hairline. She made a 'so what' spread of the hands and shook her head at me, obviously ticked off.

I waved her back to our location, and she sauntered over all casual-like, not makin' any effort to stay off Eberts' radar.

It was starting to feel like a convention behind our column as she joined us, hands on her hips, scowling at me. "Hobbes, you are way out of line, here," she started in on me. "I'll take any bet you want to name he's here for the Official," she said, voice dripping annoyance. "End of story. All this cloak and dagger baloney is way overreacting!"

"Now look, little miss five-star-A, you came in on the tail end of this operation. You ain't even heard all the evidence, yet!" I came back at her. "You don't like it, there's the door -" I waved at the glass doors behind us. "But me'n Fawkes are gonna find out what the heck is going on. Right, partner?" I turned to ask Fawkes. But he wasn't paying any attention to me at all.

"Uh, Hobbes?" he started, sounding a little unsure of himself.

"What?" I snapped. I mean, what's a guy gotta do to get his partner to show a little solidarity in the face of miss high-and-mighty's attitude problem?

"The guy next to Ebes? The briefcase guy?" he went on, still not sounding real confident in whatever he was about to say.

"Yeah? So? What about him?" I gritted my teeth, tryin' not to lose my temper.

"Uh, I think he has a gun," Fawkes announced. I felt like someone'd just pushed me off a 50 story building, my stomach dropped so fast.

"Oh, crap," I said.

I pushed past him to peer around the column at the guy, trying to spot whatever it was Darien had seen. Monroe was right beside me, all business from one heartbeat to the next. She felt at the small of her back under her blazer, double-checking her sidearm while I did the same, unsnapping the leather strap that secured my Colt in the belt holster I wear.

"Fawkes, can you do the Saran Wrap thing? Get us an accurate sit rep?" I asked him.

"Here?" he practically squeaked, pointing at the big glass doors as they opened again and two more customers wandered inside. "It's worse than a fishbowl, Hobbes," he whined.

"You got any better ideas?" I snarled at him, and he scooted out from behind the pillar, heading casually toward Monroe's ficus. He eased between it and the corner, Quicksilvering as he went, using the wall and the fake plant to shield him from prying civilian eyes. Good thing the guard was busy picking at a cuticle or something, cuz even Fawkes couldn't make that move look anything less than suspicious. The trouble was, the movement caught Eberts' attention, and the poor guy went white as a sheet as he recognized Fawkes. He dropped his pen, his hands were shaking so bad. He fumbled another one out of the pen holder on the counter and dropped it, too, the sleezoid with the briefcase glaring at him as Eberts bent to retrieve both pens. He straightened, trying to finish filling out the safe deposit form with his hands trembling so hard he looked like he was hypothermic.

Mr. Briefcase turned it a smidge, and I got a good look at the .22 automatic he had trained on Eberts from behind the case. This was not good. Not good at all. Especially since he was obviously getting tired of the drama-queen jitters Eberts had going on. I saw him thumb off the safety awkwardly, which was a sure sign of an amateur at this game. A double-edged sword if there ever was one. It made him equal parts incompetent and unpredictable, about the worst combination on the planet when it came to an armed suspect.

Monroe shot me a look telling me she'd come to the same conclusion, and together, we moved out, one of us heading away from each side of the column, circling towards the safe deposit counter from opposite directions. Monroe followed the route Fawkes had taken, and I worked my way past the teller line and over towards the safe deposit area from that angle. We knew better than to pull our guns until we got close, because the last thing we needed was to put a bank full of civilians in jeopardy. Dealing with the guard was gonna be dicey enough in that split second while he figured out where the real threat was. And we had the possibility of Fawkes bein' in the line of fire, too, which wasn't the way I wanted to do business, usually, but we didn't have a lotta options that I could see.

Keeping one eye on Alex, I headed straight for the guard, smiling and every inch the innocent bystander, while Briefcase-boy and Eberts both glanced my way. Eberts went even paler, if anything, and as soon as he's on his feet, Fawkes and I are gonna give the guy poker lessons. He couldn't bluff his way ought of a paper bag, that guy. Lucky for us, Sleeze-o-rama was looking at me, not Eberts. Well, dividing his attention between Monroe and me, where she was sashaying past the bank manger's desk on her way towards the marble and mahogany barricade protecting the vault. The joker actually had the brass to look smug as I distracted the guard totally by starting up a little mindless patter aimed at getting the uniform far enough from the counter he was parked against that I could show him my ID without tipping off the perp.

Nothin' like actin' like a moron to get a guard's attention, I always say. "Officer, I was hoping you could help me," I babbled, taking out my wallet as I moved in on the schmuck. He didn't like bein' crowded, so he stepped away from the counter to meet me, stiff-arming me.

"You need to wait behind the yellow line, he told me, pointing at the scuffed yellow safety tape strip on the marble floor between the two pylons that formed the 'official' access to the safe deposit area. "Only two patrons at the counter at the time."

Pompous jerk. "I beg your pardon? What line?" I asked like a dumb cluck, peering around like I coulda missed the broad side of a barn.

He got me by the arm, the one I was holding my wallet with, and frog-marched me over to the line. Which put him far enough away that I could finally flip open the ID, flashing my Fish & Game shield at him. I kept on smiling, since I was facing the counter and Eberts and his friend. "Federal Agent," I told him, my face kinda frozen around the fake smile. "You have a situation, pal."

The guy stiffened like rigor mortis had set in. "What?" he asked, on his way to a major freak-out.

"Shh! Keep it down will ya?" I managed, still with my face frozen in a plastic smile. "Guy with the briefcase is armed. He's holding the other guy at gunpoint. I don't know what the deal is, but if you don't want a shooter cutting loose in this place and screwing up the decor real good, do exactly what I tell you," I ordered. Over his shoulder, I could see Monroe making her way all casual-like past the Manager's desk towards the secure cubicles along the wall behind Eberts and the perp. I just kept prayin' that Briefcase wasn't the 'eyes in the back of his head' type. Another 10 yards, and Alex would be close enough that she could hopefully get Eberts outta the way while I took down the bad guy.

The guard nodded slightly, eyes getting wider and wider, and I went on. "My partner and another agent are moving into place. Stay out of the way when we move in, OK? Do you have a silent alarm in this place?" He nodded again. I was starting to think that was about as much as this guy was gonna contribute to the conversation when he spoke up, sort of. It was barely above a whisper.

"Behind the teller's windows, another inside the vault, and one at the manager's desk," he filled me in.

My turn to nod. "Thank you so much, officer," I said cheerfully, this time loud enough that Briefcase could hear me. "And the manager's desk is...?" I hinted.

"Third one from the left," the guard said, voice a little raspy, but pretty good considering.

"Left," I repeated absently, heading right.

"No, sir, your other left," he said, choked, as he took another step further away, clearing the counter. Bingo.

Counting on Monroe and Fawkes to do what they needed to, I grabbed the guard by the arm and shoved him down onto the floor behind the other side of the marble counter and pulled my Colt, aiming it right at the little weasel threatening Eberts. "Freeze, jackass, Federal Agents," I ordered at full bellow.

Only Monroe had moved in -- and was in the way, almost directly behind Briefcase, who had finally tipped that the jig was up, and was raising the gun he held, waving it towards her. I felt the chill breeze as Fawkes ran past, taking cover on the other side of the counter as he unQuicksilvered, only Monroe, Eberts and the perp seeing the end of the reappearing act. The special effects were enough to hang up Briefcase's try for a quick draw, or it oughta have been, anyway, but the guy was faster on the recovery than I gave him credit for, and he had the gun swinging towards my partner faster'n Monroe could clear the field.

I... I don't know exactly what happened, but both Eberts and Monroe were suddenly in harm's way, and if I'd tried to get off a shot, I woulda been as likely to hit one of them as Briefcase. Not to mention my inviso-boy partner somewhere in the mix on the far side of the counter. Briefcase didn't have any such problem, though, and he popped a cap at Darien who hit the floor rolling, the slug taking a chip outta the marble, then he shifted to Monroe with all the speed of a striking cobra. Which is when Eberts gave this little squawk, sorta like some parody of a martial arts master about to break a brick wall with his forehead, and the stupid little... Damn. He has guts, Eberts does. He grabbed the guy's gun hand with both his own, not letting go even when the guy whacked him around the shoulders with the briefcase, swearing at him in pretty much every known language or somethin'. It hadda hurt, but Eberts had the guy's wrist in a death grip and no way in hell was he gonna let go. They wrestled for control of the gun, and as long as they were that close, there was nothing Monroe or I could do except yell at Ebes to get clear.

He managed to get Briefcase's arm down, so at least stray bullets weren't gonna go flying around the place, hitting innocent bystanders, but it left Eberts wide open. The gun was down between their bodies, so I didn't see exactly what happened, but when the gun went off, both of them froze. I swear, it was like something outta a bad movie or somethin'. And when Eberts looked down at the gun between them, then back up at me, I knew he'd been hit. Even before his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped like a rock.

Briefcase made a run for it, only he tripped over Fawkes and ended up braining himself on the marble floor. I had him moved and cuffed with his arms around the pillar near the end of the safe deposit line before he was even awake, Monroe and Fawkes doing a field assessment on Eberts' condition while I holstered my piece. Damned cheap calling plan the Agency has me'n Fawkes signed up for, the stupid cell towers weren't working yet. So I went for the nearest phone to call for the EMTs...

"And that's the way it went down," Hobbes said flatly. "My fault he got shot. If I hadn't stood there like a jerk -"

"Who knows how many civilians would have been at risk, Agent Hobbes." Cornwall sat back in his chair, putting his notebook down. "I'd say the self-castigation is unnecessary, Agent. You handled it by the book. The only fault involved would be Mr. Siegfreid's for committing one crime to prevent the discovery of another." He reached across the small gap separating him from Hobbes, and held out a hand.

Bobby hesitated a fractional second, then shook it. "Thanks," he said awkwardly, standing. "I wanna be there when you interrogate the little scum-bag," he added with a ferocity that surprised even himself.

"I'll take it under advisement, Agent Hobbes. You can send in Agent Fawkes on your way out," Cornwall nodded pleasantly, dismissing him.

"I'll do that," Hobbes said, turning and leaving the conference room.

Darien slumped in the chair, arms crossed defiantly, and eyed the neatly-suited Agent Cornwall. "How come you guys can't let Fish and Game do their own internal investigations?"

The FBI agent likewise crossed his arms. "What happened in the bank, Agent Fawkes?"

"How high are you cleared?" Darien scowled at him.

"All the way," Cornwall said evenly. "I'm well aware of your... abilities."

Darien snorted. "Well, I'm not going to make your pen invisible--or your sunglasses, or do any other kind of demonstration."

"Agent Fawkes. Just tell me what happened."

Darien heaved a sigh and ran careful fingers through his mussed hair, trying to ignore the blood on his clothing. "Okay. I blew it. Just make sure you get that straight, all right?"

"Fawkes, I swear to god, something's up! He's hiding something, and we are not in on it, my friend."

Bobby Hobbes is a great guy, but he picks the worst moments to interrupt. I was kicked back in the chair behind his desk, reveling in a Monday morning with no prospect of hard work, other than unpacking a few boxes, and in some quiet moments away from my partner, who's also been my roommate for the past week. I yawned in response, and he glared at me. "Who's hiding something?" I asked, to pacify him.

"Eberts, Fawkes. Haven't you been listening?"

I groaned. "Can't you leave the guy alone? He's already stressed out by the move."

Hobbes was the one not listening this time. He continued pacing. "Nineteen years in this business says there's trouble on the ole' bottom line."

"The o-o-o-o-le' bottom line, huh?" When in doubt of a partner's sanity, repeat whatever he says. He laughs it off, everything's fine; he gets ticked, not so much. I didn't watch for the reaction this time. "Hobbes, did you take your meds? Because you are sounding like you're in serious need of a fill-up."

"Yes, I took the damned pills, Fawkes, enough about the damned pills! I'm telling you, the F&G gravy train is drying up! I'll lay you odds that our paychecks are gonna bounce higher'n one of Shaquille O'Neal's free throws." He marched around the desk and grabbed my shirt collar, dragging me to my feet. "Would you just take a look?"

I shoved Hobbes away and tried to smooth my wrinkled shirtfront. "Bobby, would you just chill? I am not gonna spy on Eberts while he balances the checkbook."

Hobbes shook his head, pacing furiously again. "It's not a checkbook, Fawkes, and all I'm sayin' is, see for yourself. He's sweating like a pig...." He glanced out the window at the murky fall sunshine. "...and it ain't even 70 degrees out. Not to mention he tied his tie with something that sure as hell ain't a Windsor knot."

Now I was interested--not quite worried, but definitely intrigued. I mean, last time Eberts was messy, it turned out to be Arnaud impersonating him. "Huh."

Hobbes knew he'd gotten to me. "Huh? Huh? Go on, check it out."

"OK, OK," I raised my hands in mock surrender. "But I'm telling you, Hobbesy, if this is all 'cuz you forgot the Prozac this morning, I'm taking you home right now to get medicated." I shook myself to get the kinks out, and let the Quicksilver flow. I had to grin to myself as my partner eyeballed the space I had been in and the world shifted into monochromatic grays. Hobbes never knows where to look when I'm invisible. I slipped out the door to the hall and snuck along to the Official's door. No sound coming from inside, so I figured Ebes was taking advantage of the 'Fish's absence today to tidy up his own new office.

I slipped into the Official's place. Honest to god, it was the only room in the building that morning that looked ready for business, tidier than its twin ever was back at the Harding Building. I figured this would be a little less likely to alert Eberts to my presence than using his own hallway access. And luck was with me--the connecting door between the two offices was open.

Eberts sat tapping away on a laptop computer. Papers littered his desk, and boxes were stacked in all corners of the room, filling most of the available walking space. I watched him for a minute or two. Sure, he looked frazzled--hair tousled instead of sleek, shirt collar not folded down right, his tie half out from under it A couple of times he reached up to wipe his forehead, absently, and once looked at his damp hand, disgusted, and rubbed the sweat off on his slacks.

I picked my way through the maze of boxes to get a better look at what he was working on. So as not to tip him off to my presence, I approached on the opposite side of the desk. Everything seemed to be IRS tax forms-type stuff. Might as well have been a foreign language.

Eberts didn't look so hot. Hobbes was right about the tie, and he didn't really seem to be working. Like he was having trouble concentrating. I was about to head out the door, when he got up and started pacing around. Looked like he was talking to himself, some kind of debate. Between his low tone and trying to keep out of his way among the stacks of files, I didn't catch most of the words. Not till the end, when his voice rose almost plaintively: "I don't know what else I can do." As if that settled something, he straightened and snugged up his tie. "I can't risk anyone else," he said firmly. After a moment, he nodded, then returned to his desk and hunkered down over the paper work again. I toyed with the idea of reappearing and just asking him what was going on, but decided not to.

Hobbes was still standing there, his door cracked, watching for me. I brushed past him and shut the door before shaking off the Quicksilver. "So was I right or was I right?" he asked.

I scowled at him. "Alright, I admit he doesn't look like himself. But that doesn't mean Fish & Game decided to cut their losses."

"You saw him for yourself, Fawkes. Did that look like a man whose books were balanced?" He actually had his hands on his hips, staring at me.

"OK, no, it didn't. But Hobbes, I am not going to follow him around all day just to validate your paranoid delusions."

"Did I ask you to?" he said. "I just want us to keep an eye on him."

"An eye." That's what I'd thought. I saw the rest of my easy day sliding down the drain.

"Yeah, an eye. Consider it an exercise in surveillance, OK?"

"Surveillance," I repeated wearily.

Hobbes bristled. "What, you're a frickin' parrot, now? Surveillance, Fawkes. One of the cornerstones of any investigative process."

"I still don't like it, Bobby." But honestly, what else did I really need to do today?

"You'll like it less if I'm right and your paycheck bounces," he told me, grabbing my arm to haul me out of the room.

As wrong as he can be, Hobbes was right about that. So I went.

Hobbes calmed down enough to let me pick our vantage point. From the window table at the Peet's Coffee place, you can see the whole street, including the front of the McKinley building, and anyone out walking. Considering it was a post-quake November Monday morning, I guess it could've been busier. I let Hobbes do all the paying attention, while I sat back and enjoyed my latte and some of the finer sweet stuff they sell here. A latte goes down even better chasing fresh oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. If my partner was content to sit here for our "surveillance," I was starting to think it might be a pretty good day after all.

I said there weren't all that many people out, but one of them just happened to be Alex Monroe, the woman who misses nothing. She sauntered in and stood over our table. "I see the bottomless pit is open for business," she teased. "Don't tell me. We've moved again. Now we're taking over a store front." She moved over and took the empty seat, blocking Hobbes' and my view out the window. "Mind if I join you?"

"Uh, we're kinda workin' here, Monroe," Hobbes told her.

"Hmm. So I see. Working on seeing how many empty carbohydrates you can stuff into your partner's mouth, it looks like." She smiled brightly at both of us, swiping a taste of a few of my cookie crumbs. "You aren't going to offer a girl a drink?"

Everything's fair game around Monroe. I grinned a little and shoved my nearly empty coffee mug over in front of her. "You can have mine."

She grinned, and actually chugged it. I hadn't seen her in such a good mood for a while. "Alright, you two, spill it. What's the mission?"

I looked to Hobbes, hoping he'd get the message and keep his trap shut.

"It's personal," he said shortly.

Monroe's eyes narrowed. Her voice dripped ice water. "Right. Personal." And she got up to stalk away.

"Hey, Suzy, come on," I said. "It's just Hobbes having one of his paranoid delusions."

"Stop calling me that," Alex glared at me furiously.

"Ow," I grumbled. Hobbes didn't need to kick me; the look of death he shot my way was plenty.

But that was when Hobbes turned to the window, intent. "Delusion, huh?" he said tensely, pointing down the sidewalk. "That look like a delusion to you?"

Eberts had emerged from the McKinley building, and was heading for - the bank across the street? That would be the first real proof that his state of mind was actually related to our finances. "Damn. I don't believe it."

"What's going on?" Alex protested. "Why are you picking on Eberts?"

Hobbes tried to defend himself. "We're not picking on -"

I interrupted, filling Monroe in as quickly as possible. "Hobbes thinks F&G bailed on us, and the paychecks are rubberized. I didn't think he was right, but there goes Eberts."

Monroe shook her head. "What makes you so sure he's going to stop payment on the payroll?"

It was good question, but Hobbes brushed right through it on his way out the door. "Let's go ask him." Alex exchanged an exasperated glance with me, and we headed after him.

Hobbes pretty much ignored us as he arrowed after our accountant. Eberts didn't even notice my partner -- like I said earlier, he was preoccupied. Hobbes wasn't the only determined bank customer, though; this business-type shoved past him on his way to the entrance. That was enough for me and Alex to catch up, and we all wandered in and scattered, trying not to look like a group.

It wasn't hard in this old bank. Marble columns, a scuffed stone floor, some fake plastic-looking trees scattered here and there. An easy place to spread out in, unnoticed. Not so easy if you really wanted to hide, though; the front was all plate glass, filling the place with sunlight like water in an aquarium. I took a single second to case the joint, just for practice, and started looking around for our missing accountant.

Hobbes was still scouting when I spotted Eberts at the safe deposit counter, near the vault at the back of the bank. Most of the customers were in the teller line on the other side of the lobby. It was just Eberts, standing there at the far end closest to the vault, a business guy using his briefcase for a privacy shield for the forms he was filling out standing right next to him, and a half-comatose security guard at the opposite end of the table. "Hobbes," I whispered.

He slunk back to the pillar I was unobtrusively leaning behind. "Shhh!" He glanced around. "Someone's gonna call security on us if you don't stop acting like some kinda criminal."

"Hobbes," I reminded him, "I am some kinda criminal."

"Punk," he muttered. "What is it? You spot him?"

I poked a finger toward Eberts' position near the vault.

"What's he doing over there?" Hobbes wondered.

Monroe, who had lurking behind one of the fake trees ten yards away, glanced back at us and did the 'now what' gesture, both hands out, palms up, a snarky look on her face. Hobbes impatiently waved her over, and she strolled up without any attempt at secrecy. I could hear Hobbes gritting his teeth. As soon as Alex was in range, she started in on him. "Hobbes, you are way out of line, here. I'll take any bet you want to name he's here for the Official. End of story." She tossed her hair back. "All this cloak-and-dagger baloney a total overreaction!"

I wasn't paying much attention. Something about that businessman over by Eberts had caught my eye, so I took another look at him. Right: it was the guy who'd nearly run over Hobbes on the way in. I thought he must really need his privacy, because not only did he have his briefcase up on the counter as a shield, but he kept glancing at Eberts like he expected the guy to steal his answers. Then I realized he had at least six more feet of counter he could be using for privacy. It didn't make much sense -- until I realized that the other end of the counter was occupied by a security guard, and I saw the dull metallic gleam from something in his hand.

"Uh, Hobbes?" I think I interrupted a whispered argument.

"What?" Bobby snapped.

"The guy next to Ebes? The briefcase guy?" I leaned forward, trying to get another glimpse.

Hobbes almost growled. "Yeah? So? What about him?"

"Uh, I think he has a gun."

Hobbes pushed past me to peer around the column, and his hand went to his waist holster. "Oh, crap." For the first time that day I actually agreed with my partner. Monroe was right beside him, checking her own gun, suddenly all business.

"Fawkes," Hobbes asked abruptly, "can you do the Saran-wrap thing? Get us an accurate sit rep?"

"Here?" I pointed to the glass front doors, just as they opened again to let a couple more customers breeze in. "You're nuts, Hobbes. It's worse than a fishbowl."

"You got any better ideas?" he bit out.

I hate not being able to argue with Hobbes, but Eberts looked way more nervous than he had before. This situation could get really bad, really fast. I wandered out from behind the pillar, toward the fake tree Monroe had been lurking around. The angle between it and the wall provided some cover, just enough for me to Quicksilver without anyone noticing.

The stone floor was great, no worries about leaving footprints on carpet as I slunk along. Like I said, most of the customers were in the teller line, so I had a clear path straight to Eberts and Briefcase.

I was vaguely aware of Hobbes, heading for the guard at the near end of the counter, and Monroe, several feet behind me as she wandered toward the bank manager's desk. Probably trying to circle around behind the perp. I beat her to it, coming up on them in time to see Briefcase fumble off the safety on the automatic revolver he held. "Hurry it up," he spat in a whisper.

"I'm trying," Ebes muttered. He looked white as a sheet, and the handwriting on the form in front of him was barely legible.

I should have just jumped the guy then and there, but the safety was disengaged and I was afraid I'd set the gun off. As I hesitated, Monroe crossed behind me, walking up to the little safe deposit security rooms as if looking for an employee to help her out. Briefcase watched her suspiciously, till he was distracted by Hobbes' moron-act with the guard. He actually smirked as the guard pushed Bobby away from the counter, following him.

Monroe continued to wait there, apparently paying attention to everything but Briefcase. He didn't buy it, though--I watched his aim shift from Eberts to Monroe. Hobbes dodged around the guard and took a couple more strides toward the table. I realized I was in the line of fire, and backed slowly toward Hobbes' end of the table. Then everything went to hell.

Briefcase swung his gun at Monroe, just as she pulled her own. Hobbes shouted, "Freeze, jackass! Federal Agents!"

I ducked below the counter--the only cover I could find at the moment--and dropped the Quicksilver so Hobbes and Alex could see me. But, surprise, so did Briefcase. And he's a quick draw, if not a good shot. He jerked his gun around and fired at me. I rolled, heard the bullet take a chip out of the floor, and rolled back in time to see Briefcase take aim at Monroe.

And to see Eberts grab the guy's gun hand in both of his own.

It was a phenomenally brave thing to do. Eberts wrestled Briefcase's arm down, keeping his grip while the guy was whacking his head and shoulders with said briefcase. Then the perp dropped that and went for the gun with both hands. They struggled for a few moments, so close together that I didn't dare go for the guy. Monroe and Hobbes yelled for Ebes to get out of the way.

Then the gun went off. Nobody moved for about the longest second in history. Eberts looked down at the gun, then up again before just...collapsing.

Briefcase turned to run, but I think he'd forgotten I was between him and the door. I tackled him around the knees. He rolled, trying to kick at me, but his gun went flying. I shoved him down and smacked his head into the floor. Then Hobbes was all over him.

I ducked back behind the counter. Alex was awkwardly holding Eberts, as she'd caught him when he fell. There was blood all over him, Alex, the floor... "Right thigh," Monroe told me tersely.

I felt his throat. "He's got a pretty good pulse," I told her hesitantly.

"Yeah, but look at where he's been hit," she said, taking off her coat, folding it and putting it under Ebes' head as a pillow. I didn't need a medical degree to know the amount of blood that covered Eberts' upper thigh was not a good sign. Looked like a major vein was hit, at the very least. "We need the EMTs here yesterday," she snapped, sounding really, really pissed off. "Give me your belt, Fawkes!" she ordered, bitchy as usual. Only I totally got it, this time.

I don't think I waited too long before I wrestled the belt off, knowing I was doomed to an afternoon of holding my pants up with both hands. I handed it to her and she tightened it around Eberts' leg. "Is he gonna be OK?" I asked.

"Do I look like Claire?" she hissed at me, and it was the first time since she'd given up James that I can remember seeing her so freaked.

"Hey... he'll make it," I touched her on the arm. "He has to, or the 'Fish will kill him." Neither of us so much as smiled. We knew it wasn't a joke.

Agent Cornwall glanced up from his notes. "Agent Hobbes implied in his debriefing that his behavior in this situation might have been responsible for Agent Eberts' injury. How do you feel about that?"

Darien stared at him. "No. No, it wasn't Bobby's fault.." He looked away, scratching the bridge of his nose. "Hobbes isn't the one who could have gone invisible and tackled the perp with a safe element of surprise." He glanced back at Cornwall, eyes dark, painful.

"So it's your fault." Cornwall flipped to a clean page in his notebook. Pragmatic. Uncaring.

"I dunno." Darien shrugged dejectedly. "Probably."

"I suggest you let me evaluate all the testimony before you begin assigning blame. To yourself or anyone else." Cornwall stood and offered his hand to Darien. The younger agent rose awkwardly and shook it halfheartedly.

"Why don't you send in Agent Monroe?" Cornwall suggested.

Darien turned to leave. "Sure. Hope you have fun."

He hesitated at the conference room door, pondering whether or not to warn Cornwall about Monroe's temper when cornered, threatened, or challenged -- pretty much any time she was thwarted, at least when it came to people she cared about. Decided against it. He was angry and unsettled enough to want to share the misery. He stepped out into the new-old hallways of the Agency without a backward glance.

"Agent Monroe, thank you for taking the time to make your statement now." FBI Agent Larry Cornwall smiled engagingly at her, or rather, at her breasts.

She swore, it never failed to disgust her how shallow men could be, although it made it pretty easy to pick out the decent guys from the duds. This one might very well be one hell of an agent, but he came off just like Agent Jones. Hmm, maybe they were brothers, now that she thought about it.

"Not a problem, Agent Cornwall," she replied without batting an eye. "And please, call me Alex." She sat down in the chair, hoping she didn't have to hang out in the dusty furniture-filled conference room forever. What was it about interrogations? There must be some sort of company out there that made Eau De Sweat & Fart or something. And this was the Agency's semi-new conference room. Maybe the smell traveled with the fibbies.... A novel thought, that.

"Only if you call me Larry," he grinned. Aie, stupid bastard thinks I'm actually flirting with him. She exercised her CTS skills and resisted rolling her eyes. "Why don't you start with when you became aware of the situation?" Cornwall suggested.

"Well, that would be this morning, when I was taking a short walk around the neighborhood," she began. "I was passing by a coffee shop when I noticed Agents Fawkes and Hobbes hanging around nursing some lattes, and they obviously were up to something, so I went in to see what they were doing to get themselves into trouble again."

Cornwall grinned lopsidedly. "Would you say that they tend to be magnets for trouble?"

"Let's put it this way -- you know how Murphy's Law goes?" At the agent's nod, she continued. "I swear those two are on Murphy's permanent hit list."

He chuckled and waved her to continue on.

"Okay, to be fair, they do have incredible instincts, and they do sniff out the strangest things sometimes, and they're rarely ever wrong. Like this morning. I thought for sure, once they'd told me what was going on, that they were just hounding Eberts because they were incredibly bored." She paused to let Cornwall catch up with his note-taking. "As I said, I went inside to see what they were up to this time. Hobbes was acting more paranoid than usual, and as good an agent as Fawkes has become, he still sucks at acting. His body language was so projecting; 'We're up to something'."

I was strolling down the street, taking a little walk around the neighborhood, getting a better feel for the locale. Any good agent would take stock of her surroundings in a new environment, to be aware of any potential problem areas near the new office. It never hurts to know the area intimately in case one is involved in a chase. Like the situation over a year ago when the Agency had to rescue a very pregnant Dr. Mei Lin Chong from the clutches of the Chinese Embassy.

It also didn't hurt to see if there were any good shoe shops around, either.

And yet, somehow I wasn't all that surprised when I walked past a Peet's Coffee shop to find Fawkes and Hobbes on an obvious stakeout. I narrowed my eyes a little, wondering what the hell they were getting their noses into this time. Since there hadn't been any mission briefings in the Official's new office, or anywhere else that I knew of, for that matter, I knew that whatever my co-workers were doing could be considered off the books.

Better to be sure that they weren't doing something incredibly stupid.

I sighed and strode into the shop. It was pretty full even for this late on a Monday morning. Most good little office drones were in their cubicles with their thermos commuter coffee mugs by ten to ten in the a.m., at least in downtown San Diego. I figured that most of the customers here were the poor souls who had yet to replace their beloved cappuccino makers post-quake, as all of the stores around the city were swamped with orders to stock every known household appliance that had been damaged.

I was definitely certain that the two men positioned so conveniently by the big picture window were up to no good, especially when I noted how Hobbes' back slightly stiffened and Fawkes just seemed to slouch down even further into his chair as I approached. Guilty conscience by the look of it.

I couldn't resist cocking an eyebrow. "I see the bottomless pit is open for business." Actually, it was quite a relief that Fawkes was doing so well. Last week, in the days following the quake, I'd been really worried about how horribly he'd been feeling. The ex-thief just didn't have the constitution to suck up as much abuse as Hobbes and I did. But then again, Darien Fawkes was not your average secret government agent, either.

I continued, not wanting the others to think I'd gone soft. "Don't tell me. We've moved again. Now we're taking over a storefront. At least it's closer to a steady food supply." I grinned a little, knowing that my next question would absolutely prove whether or not my suspicions were true. "Mind if I join you?"

Bingo. Look at how Bobby's face firmed. And damn if Fawkes wasn't able to scootch down about another inch. How can he do that? The guy was the Jolly Green Giant!

"Uh, we're kinda workin' here, Monroe," Bobby almost snapped. Yup, these two were digging themselves a nice hole, and I made a private bet as to which one of them was the instigator this time around.

"Hmm. So I see. Working on seeing how many empty carbohydrates you can stuff into your partner's mouth, it looks like." Which was something else I felt really needed to be pounded into Darien's thick and fluffy troll head. The man was frickin' skinny enough without adding in his horrible diet. The time of the Quick Fix was long gone, and I made a mental note to send a little birdie Claire's way about Fawkes' poor eating habits. But since I hadn't had breakfast yet, I reached over and helped myself to a few leftover crumbs. Hey, there aren't any calories in the broken bits, everyone knows that.

I grabbed a chair from an adjoining table and planted myself right in the guys' line of sight out the window. "You aren't going to offer a girl a drink?" I smirked, knowing that if my expression were otherwise those two would be clueless to the humor.

Fawkes must have gotten it, since his eyes twinkled a little as he pushed his mug at me. "You can finish mine," he offered.

My smirk morphed into a genuine grin, and I took a sip from the glass mug. Crap, this stuff was so high-test I was surprised that Fawkes wasn't literally vibrating. "Alright, spill it, you two. What's the mission?"

Fawkes suddenly acquired this funny look, like a particular black and white cat that'd opened its mouth to reveal the cute little Tweety Bird ensconced within. He shot Hobbes that hurt puppy look, and I almost guffawed out loud at how easy these two were to read.

Hobbes scowled and grunted, "It's personal." His eyes practically begged for me to let it go, and I had a sudden sickening conclusion that this could be very well about Vivian, Hobbes' ex-wife. I'd heard the stories. If it was about Vivian, I knew that the boss would keel-haul him back into the Stone Ages.

My eyebrow arched as if it had a life of its own. "Right," I replied sarcastically. "Personal." Yessir, it most definitely was about Vivian, and I was disgusted that Fawkes allowed his paranoid and normally brilliant partner to bamboozle him into this ridiculous endeavor. 'Well,' I thought as I downed the last of the cool latte. 'They won't have anyone to drag their butts out of this mess this time around.' I stood with every intention of leaving, but Fawkes' soft whine stopped me.

"Aw, don't be like that, Suzy. It's just Hobbes having one of his paranoid delusions." I pursed my lips, and began to open my mouth to let loose the vitriol barely contained inside it, when Darien winced and jumped backwards all at once. "Ow!"

Ah, Hobbes must've kicked him. How mature. "Stop calling me Suzy," I growled.

Hobbes stiffened in his seat again, his glance around me indicating that he'd spotted his quarry.

"Delusion, huh?" He pointed out the window. I spun around on my heel to look, and saw the unmistakable figure of Eberts scurrying across the street to one of the banks.

"That look like a delusion to you?" he snarled at Fawkes.

I turned back to the guys, thoroughly confused now. Well, if it wasn't about Vivian, then what...?

"Damn, I don't believe it." Fawkes did a remarkable impersonation of one of those bug-eyed pugs.

"Alright," I settled for a glare over a befuddled look. "What's going on? Why are you picking on Eberts?"

Hobbes rolled his eyes and groaned. "We're not picking on the little weenie."

God, he sounded just like a petulant child.

Fawkes piped in, once again playing referee to the impending snipe fest. "Hobbes thinks F&G bailed on us, and that the paychecks are rubberized. I didn't think he was right, but there goes Ebes..."

Sheesh, give these two some seriously needed downtime, and they would, of course end up pulling a Chicken Little act. I almost expected Hobbes and Fawkes to jump on their chairs and start crowing at the sky.

"What makes you so sure he's going to the bank to stop payroll?" Fawkes nodded in agreement, and I realized that even though the lanky man was going along with this insane scheme, he was still doing it with reservations of his own. 'Good. At least he's using that fuzzy head more for thinking than as a punching bag these days.'

Hobbes set his expression in the classic Hobbesian stubborn mode and rose from his chair. "Why don't we go ask him?" He headed for the door, and with an exchange of concerned glances, Fawkes and I followed.

"Look, you know how Hobbes gets when he doesn't have something to do," Fawkes spoke in an undertone as we all crossed the street. "But I gotta say, Eberts has been acting kinda weird this morning."

"You ever think that maybe it has to do with the mountains of files the poor man is responsible for keeping track of?" I shot back, and Fawkes had the grace to wince a little.

Eberts had reached the doors of the bank and furtively glanced around before he went inside. My trouble alarms went off, and I admitted to myself that Eberts was acting oddly. I hadn't laid eyes on him since seeing him walk out of the elevator this morning. Usually, we ate breakfast together. Me a yogurt smoothie, him a bagel or some disgusting pastry.

I also noted that Eberts' panicky gaze darted right over us without recognition, and I frowned at that. Something was spooking my favorite little file clerk, and I once again marveled at Hobbes' finely tuned instincts. I silently thanked whatever Gods there were that the man was on the side of Good.

Hobbes slowed down to a nonchalant stroll, and we all waited for about half a minute before following Eberts into the bank. But just as Hobbes was opening the door, a harried-looking guy with Coke-bottle-bottom glasses and a suit that reeked of "Boring Accountant" shoved his way through ahead of us. I heard Hobbes' muttered curse as he was whacked with the guy's metal briefcase, but he sucked it up like a good soldier, and we continued inside.

We came in a few feet to keep the door clear and scanned our surroundings. Even Fawkes, but somehow I just knew it wasn't recon so much as that his thief's senses were tingling with the all the ways he could break in and rob the place. We split up to cover more ground, since the bank was one of those old-fashioned ones I used to see in the cop shows I stayed up late with Dad to watch. It had columns, counters and desks scattered throughout. Not exactly the easiest kind of place to check out with all that visual distraction.

I strolled off to the left, looking as if I was checking the bank officials' desks for a specific person. I noticed a guard eyeing me up from where he was positioned at the safe deposit counter, and I flashed him a warm smile as I nodded to the harried looking guy sitting at the bank manager's desk, obviously arguing with someone on the phone. The guard's face split into a sardonic grin, and I knew he thought I was there to meet with the geek for some late morning delight.

Men. They're unbelievably predictable.

I paused by a huge fake ficus plant and spotted Eberts immediately. He was at the end of little counter near the safe deposit area closest to the vault area, I guess filling out an entry authorization card or something. I glanced back the way I'd come and noted that the dynamic duo had wandered over towards the tellers' lines on the right side of the lobby. They must've been in a snit over me coming with them, since they weren't even bothering to notice my attempt to get their attention. When they realized that Eberts wasn't on their side of the bank, Hobbes strode back to the little work area with the spare deposit and withdrawal slips to checkout the situation.

Even from the other side of the lobby, I could hear Fawkes' hissed stage whisper, and fought the urge to hurl my shoe at him. Hobbes' face echoed my sentiment as he tried as unobtrusively as possible to make the slashing 'shut up or I'll slit your throat' gesture as he stalked over to where Fawkes was hiding behind a pillar.

They murmured back and forth for a few seconds, and I could feel the frustrated scream rising in my throat. Why were these two acting like complete idiot greenhorns? I had more than a half of a mind to just walk out and let them get themselves arrested right then and there.

But there was just something about how Eberts was carrying himself as he stood scribbling furiously on a form at the safe deposit counter. His back was all hunched, and he kept shooting little looks over at the man standing immediately to his right, in spite of the fact there was no one else at the counter.

Wait a minute... That was the guy that'd shoved past us on our way in. And he kept aiming these little glares at Eberts over the top of his briefcase, looking just as nervous and twitchy. As Hobbes would say -- "This just screams hinky."

But then again, maybe it was all Hobbes' paranoia rubbing off on me. I must admit, even I was getting bored with just performing basic manual labor the last six days, and the thought of something exciting to break the monotony was appealing.

I looked back at Hobbes and Fawkes, and they had finally spotted Eberts. 'Took you long enough,' I mentally snarked. But still, Fawkes had to literally point at Eberts before Hobbes saw him. 'That's it. I'm saying something to his shrink. And the boss. He really needs to take some vacation time. I'll pay for it myself, if I have to.'

Hobbes looked over at me to see if I'd noticed what was going on. I waved my hands a little and raised my eyebrow. 'Well, duh,' I thought at him as I shook my head. 'What's the brilliant plan now, oh great and wise one?'

Bobby grimaced and waved me over. You know, if we kept skulking around, we were going to raise the suspicion of the obviously bored-out-of-his-mind security guard propping up the safe deposit counter with his doughnut-filled waistline. I sauntered over, figuring it'd be better if Eberts spotted us. Since I knew he eventually would, it'd freak him out a little less if we weren't acting like a bunch of criminals casing the place.

"Hobbes, you are way out of line here. I'll take any bet you want to name that he's here for the Official." More than likely, Eberts was ensuring that some of the juicier tidbits the boss had on various powerful men and women in the government were kept away from prying eyes. You know, the more I thought about it, the more irritated I got with myself for letting these two waylay me from my seventh inning stretch with their shenanigans. "End of story. All this cloak and dagger baloney is way overreacting!"

Well, that pissed Bobby off. "Now look, little miss five-star-A, you came in on the tail end of this operation. You ain't even heard all the evidence yet!"

Okay, first thing? If you want to guarantee that you'll never procreate, just spit on all my years of torturous work to claw my way to the 'respected'- or better yet, 'feared' - lists of many powerful people in as many powerful countries. I worked my ass off to get where I am today, and Hobbes' constant sniping over my rating had worn thin a long time ago. It had also worn down my resolve to keep him on my allies list. Second, this wasn't an operation. It was Bobby's rampant paranoia and Fawkes' hopeless susceptibility to boredom that allowed them to cook up some vague conspiracy theory. And third? Evidence? What evidence? I'd seen no surveillance photos, no notes on contacts milked for information, nothing.

"You don't like it, there's the door. But me'n Fawkes are gonna find out what the heck is going on. Right, partner?" Hobbes turned to get his partner's vote of confidence, but Fawkes was staring over at the safe deposit prep counter.

"Uh, Hobbes?" That unsure tone in his voice raised warning bells in my brain yet again, distracting me from wondering which way I should twist Hobbes' head to snap his stiff little neck.

"What?" Bobby snapped.

"The guy next to Ebes? The briefcase guy?"

My stomach sank a little, and I followed Fawkes' gaze over to the Official's pet hamster.

"Yeah, so, what about him?"

Nice, Bobby. Rip Darien's head off too, while you're at it.

"Uh, I think he has a gun," Fawkes replied with a trace of shock in his voice. My stomach plummeted sickeningly towards my shoes. From this position, I saw what I wasn't able to by the ficus tree.

"Oh, crap," Hobbes breathed, and I silently echoed his sentiments while I checked the gun I had holstered at the small of my back. I heard the snap of Hobbes' leather strap on his holster as he took note of the barely visible gun the geek had trained on Eberts from behind the briefcase resting on its end between them.

"Fawkes, can you do the Saran Wrap thing? Get us an accurate sit-rep?" Bobby murmured, and I nodded my head in agreement. It was just what I would have suggested, but it was better that these two took point. Especially since they had sniffed this out in the first place; but also it was better to let Fawkes and Hobbes work together without me butting in. Whatever weird communication mojo these two have, it's not something I take lightly any more.

Note to self -- apologize to Bobby and Darien after this was over. Yeah, I'd be eating crow, but I should've known better by now than to underestimate Hobbes' paranoia-meter.

"Here?" Fawkes whined as he gestured at the two customers just walking in to the bank. "It's worse than a fishbowl, Hobbes."

"You got any better ideas?" Hobbes shot back, which sent his partner darting towards the ficus plant I had just abandoned. He ducked between it and the wall to shield himself long enough to Quicksilver.

But he'd moved a little too quickly, and Eberts caught Fawkes' disappearing act out of the corner of his eye, even if the guard was oblivious.

Oh, man, somehow I just knew this was going to be bad. Eberts has absolutely no useful field experience to speak of, and judging from the way the perp was twitching, he also was a novice at this whole hostage thing.

Which meant that the situation was extremely unstable. The odds sucked big time, and I could only hope that no one would get hurt.

Silly me, huh?

Eberts looked like he was having a petit mal seizure, shaking so hard he was dropping pens left and right. Twitmeyer was looking really impatient, and he accidentally nudged the briefcase a little, allowing Hobbes and me a better look at the gun.

Crap. A .22 automatic. The preferred firearm of every dumbass in the country, it seems.

And there went the safety catch.

I shot a concerned look at Hobbes, and I knew exactly what he wanted to do. I sauntered back to the ficus tree, looking like I was checking to see if my "lover" was off the phone yet, and Bobby went straight for Mr. Yogi Bear guard by way of the teller windows.

This was going to be really tricky. I figured Fawkes would sneak up behind the twit to surprise and hopefully disarm him, and I wished again that he would just break down and carry a piece like the rest of us. I can totally understand why he didn't carry one when he was a thief, because even the possession of a firearm, loaded or not, instantly ups the crime and the punishment, and letting him carry one while the Quicksilver Madness was still a problem would have been dangerous beyond belief. But he'd been a legitimate government agent for over four years now, and madness-free for the last 18 months or so. The longer he resisted carrying a gun, the better his chances of getting shot and even killed became. Not to mention it raised the danger level for his partners, too.

I mentally shook myself, prepping for the confrontation ahead. I couldn't let any stray thoughts distract me when this whole situation could blow up in a very messy way at any moment.

Bobby maintained eye contact with me as he approached the guard, which of course raised the alarms of both Eberts and the twit.

Damn, Eberts was going to pass out. That's it, when he's out of the hospital, I'm going to give him some more one on one lessons in acting. It seems like all the work Hobbes did with him last year didn't stick as well as it should have. Just because the guy's talents lie in computers, creative accounting and office work, doesn't mean he still shouldn't be at least competent in a situation that required lying. Especially since this Agency was ultra-top secret. You have one weak link in the chain, and it sets the rest of us up for a nasty fall.

Good. Twitmeyer was checking out Hobbes, and didn't notice Eberts' reaction. Ai, look at that insipid expression. I was going to have a wonderful time slapping it off of him...

Bobby distracted the guard as he tried to get the guy out of the danger zone. Yup, Yogi was the territorial type... there, he went and straight-armed Bobby, and I could tell it took everything Hobbes had to not shove the guard back. Just because the guy's short doesn't mean he can't pack one hell of a wallop. In most fights, I'd bet on Bobby Hobbes any day.

Hmmm, the way Hobbes was behaving, maybe I should ask him to help me with the acting lessons with Eberts.

Yogi grabbed Bobby's arm and dragged him over to a yellow line by the ropes designating where Hobbes should have remained to wait his turn for the safety deposit counter, and I could barely keep the grin from my face.

And there went the F&G shield. Damn, Yogi was gonna blow the whole operation the way his body language practically shouted; "WHAT? THERE'S A GUY WITH A GUN IN HERE?"

Hobbes kept his friendly grin glued in place and kept talking quietly. I snuck a quick look over at Twitmeyer, and was relieved to see he was paying attention to the obviously amusing (to him) display between Hobbes and Yogi. Poor Eberts was still looking like he was going to drop at any second, but when he sneaked a glance at me, I smiled a little and winked at him.

'We're on it, Eberts,' I thought encouragingly at him.

"Thank you so much, officer," Bobby raised his voice, and then proceeded to do his part of the 3 Stooges. If Fawkes hadn't been invisible at the time, Larry, Moe and Curly would have made an impressive performance that day.

Bobby did this little dance back and forth with the guard, which finally succeeded in clearing the counter.

Bingo.

Time to boogie.

I moved quickly, freeing my gun as I came up behind Twitmeyer... right when Bobby shoved the guard to the floor, whipped out his gun and roared, "Freeze, jackass, Federal Agents!"

Damn, this guy must have a Spidey-sense or something, because he whipped around and aimed his gun at me. But before he could do anything though, Fawkes twinkled into view on my side of the counter, effectively freaking the twit out.

Wait a minute. Did I say 'twinkled?'

But the twit had one hell of a reaction time as he immediately spun around and drew a bead on Fawkes.

I could tell that Bobby wanted to shoot the guy, but both Fawkes and I were in the way. I raised my gun as the twit fired off a shot at Fawkes, thankfully missing him as the kid's cat-burglar reflexes snapped into action.

Then the twit turned the gun on me, but Eberts yelled and got in between us, and I could only watch helplessly as Eberts grabbed the gun and tried to rip it out of the twit's hand. The guy snatched the metal briefcase with his other hand, swinging it wide, and whacked Eberts on the shoulder with it, barely missing my head in the process. But Eberts had moved his hands to the guy's wrist, and looked like a rabid terrier hanging off the leg of the postman.

"Eberts, get out of the way!" I screamed, trying to get a bead on the perp. But the two were so close... and then...

Eberts managed to get the gun pointed down before it went off. I was standing right there, so I could hear the bullet rip into flesh with that sickening wet sound it makes as it pretty much annihilated everything in its path.

Oh god...

Eberts looked down, and then at Hobbes, who had also been yelling at him to move, and then he just... crumpled. Like papier-mache left out in the rain.

Twitmeyer had the balls to make a run for it, but Fawkes tripped him, and he fell headfirst onto the floor, out cold.

Bobby took care of trussing up the jerk, and I shakily dropped down to my knees to see where exactly Eberts had been shot. Darien come up behind me, and I shook my head a little. There was a lot of blood on the poor guy, on the floor, on me, and on Fawkes when he knelt beside me, and that was a bad sign.

Fawkes felt for his carotid artery. "He's got a pretty good pulse," he stated grimly.

"Yeah, but look at where he's been hit," I replied as I took off my jacket, folded it up and placed it under the assistant's head. "We need the EMTs here yesterday," I snapped, suddenly really ticked off. "Give me your belt, Fawkes!" I ordered, no time to ask nicely. To his credit, he hesitated about a 30^th of a second and whipped it off. With his non-existent hips, his baggy pants'd probably wind up around his ankles, but Eberts would bleed to death if I didn't stop the hemorrhage from his femoral artery. I wasn't wearing a belt, so it had to be Fawkes'. I wrapped it around Eberts' thigh at the groin, about six inches above the wound, and cinched it down tight. It would take careful monitoring to make sure I relaxed the pressure often enough to keep an adequate blood supply to the leg without letting him bleed out. I prayed the EMTs would get there before I had to make that call.

"Is he gonna be OK?" Darien asked softly.

"Do I look like Claire?" I demanded, scared to death. Damn you, Eberts. Why did you have to be such a frickin' gentleman?

"Hey... he'll make it," Darien touched me on the arm, doing his best to reassure us both. "He has to, or the 'Fish will kill him!" It didn't work for either of us, and we stared into each other's eyes as we waited for the sirens to come into range.

Agent Cornwall closed his notebook with a sigh. "How is Agent Eberts, anyway?" he asked.

Alex shook her head. "It's still too early to tell. Last I heard he was still in surgery."

The FBI agent stood and held out his hand. "Well, thank you for giving your statement so promptly, Alex. I'm sure you'd love to go and get cleaned up, so I won't keep you any longer."

Alex suddenly realized that her shirt and slacks had large and grizzly bloodstains streaked over them. She'd stayed with Eberts until the EMT's had arrived, and had ridden in the ambulance with him to the hospital. She felt exhausted, filthy and in desperate need of a decent meal.

She stood wearily and shook Agent Cornwall's hand. "Thank you, Larry. If there's anything else you need from me, you can leave a message for me at my number."

As she was walking out the door, Agent Cornwall called out. "Hey, Alex?"

"Yes?" She turned and leaned on the doorsill a little.

"Do you know anything about what documents Mr. Siegfreid was trying to steal from the safe deposit box? Or why?"

Alex's expression never wavered. "No idea."

Cornwall nodded. "Thank you, Agent. I'll call you if there's anything else."

Charles Borden maneuvered the wheelchair he'd been restricted to for over a week around the IV pole and towards the bedside of his assistant. "Doctor, is he up to a debriefing?" he asked Claire, who stood, still in bloody scrubs, on the other side of the bed, checking the pulse-oxymeter readings.

"I -" she started, only to be interrupted by Albert's weak but assertive voice.

"I'm fine, sir," he directed the comment to his employer. He was, in point of fact, far from fine. But the anesthesia had worn off well over two hours before, and aside from the nasty case of cotton mouth, he was feeling as well as someone who'd been shot had any right to expect. Of course, the painkillers he'd been pumped full of might have had something to do with the mild euphoria he was experiencing. Even the knowledge he was about to destroy his career didn't worry him as much as it ought to have.

"Shut up, Eberts," the Official growled gently, returning his focus to Claire, who smiled slightly.

"Actually, Albert is doing remarkably well, considering the amount of blood he lost. If it hadn't been for Alex's quick thinking in correctly using Darien's belt as a tourniquet, we might have had to do a transfusion, and that is never a good idea if there's anyway to avoid it. It's a good thing she had her first aid refresher course recently. Leave a tourniquet on too long and Albert might have lost a limb."

She rested her open palm on Eberts' forehead for a brief instant, then smiled down at him. He managed a wobbly, rather uneasy, smile in return. "Albert, I took the liberty of informing your friend, Samatha, of your injury, She was really quite upset. I'd suggest you call her when you're released from the hospital." Eberts tried to ignore the heat in his face and the dread in his belly at the thought of having to explain this situation to Samantha Tierney. If it weren't for the fact that she was currently being held in the minimum security Lompoc Women's Prison, he'd fear for his personal safety at the moment.

With that particular announcement Claire returned her attention to the Official. "As long as you take care not to over-tire him, I don't see any harm in getting the debriefing out of the way," she conceded.

"Thank you, Doctor," Eberts and the Official responded simultaneously.

Eberts and his employer exchanged wry glances, then the Official adjusted his position slightly so he could keep his attention on the younger man's face.

"If he begins to flag, I'll cut this short," Claire added warningly, dragging over the hospital chair so she could sit down.

"You needn't stay, Doctor," Eberts said, reluctant to confess his sins in front of one of the two Agency people who had always been kind to him.

"On the contrary," she said, crossing arms stubbornly under her breasts. "I think medical supervision is called for at the moment."

The Official and Eberts exchanged glances, Charles' expression telling Albert that he wasn't going to go against the doctor's restrictions. Eberts sighed softly. "Where would you like me to begin?" he asked Borden. "It was entirely my fault it got so out of hand," he said firmly. There was no percentage in trying to avoid blame. He'd seen enough debriefings to know that blame was going to be assigned, and it would doubtless be assigned to him. Better to accept that from the beginning and move forward from there.

"We've already heard Siegfreid's version," the Official said patiently. "Start with what happened after he left the Agency on Friday night."

"Yes sir." He settled deeper into his pillows and focused on the water-stained ceiling tiles over his hospital bed.

I alerted Agent Heyes to what I thought was a slight possibility of Morton returning to search for his missing box before I left for the evening with all the most sensitive papers on the premises. While I had found the documents in question, their contents unsettled me, and I was reluctant to return them without being sure I wasn't becoming an accessory after the fact in what appeared to be an embezzlement scheme of extraordinary proportions. So instead, I placed the key items in the courier's case that held the Agency's more sensitive files and took them home with me, determined to put them in our new bank's safe deposit vault on my way into the office Saturday morning.

Naturally, I didn't sleep very well that night, mostly out of concern for our own papers where they resided behind the back of the bedroom closet's false wall I'd had built some time ago to provide a secure place for Miss Monroe and her son, should it ever be needed.

The next morning, after my usual chores were complete, I returned to the McKinley building, stopping at the bank on the way in to relieve myself of the courier's case. I always enjoy working on Saturday; the office is so peaceful, and I can get so much more done when I'm not interrupted... And I like being able to dress informally. Not an admission I'd normally make, but I am a creature who enjoys my comforts where I find them, however trivial they might seem to others, and I haven't the luxury of being able to come to work during regular business hours dressed as casually as Darien and Robert do.

At any rate, given the mess that was still littering your new office, I knew I would be putting in several hours worth of clean-up to have it habitable by Monday morning. I hesitated, then decided to return the Bekins box I had found the night before to Mr. Siegfreid, both to reduce the clutter, as well as to forestall another encroachment by him. I had to hope he wouldn't notice the documents I'd replaced with Xerox copies, since the originals were now in the bank across the street. I'd made sure to rearrange the box's contents to reduce the likelihood it would be immediately discovered, but until I could get your opinion, Sir, on what I'd found, I was on my own with this situation.

I gathered up the Taylor & Tyson box and took the elevator upstairs to the fifth floor, hoping Morton wouldn't be there yet and I could foist the box off on some other member of his office staff. Unfortunately, he was there. Indeed, he didn't appear to have left the previous evening. He was rumpled, tired-looking and appeared to have drunk way more coffee than was good for him.

"Al!" His greeting was fraught with relief, and I tried to ignore the flicker of guilt I felt for having snooped through his files. "You found it! Thank god." He took the box from me eagerly, then frowned as he saw the disarray of its contents. The look he shot me, narrowed eyes and darkening scowl, told me I needed to present an explanation, and fast.

"Morton, yes, we found it this morning," I temporized. "Unfortunately, Agent Alice knocked it over while helping me rearrange things, and it spilled. I thought it better to not try and reorganize it, since the files are confidential, so I'm afraid things are rather a mess."

The glower lightened a tad as he placed the box on the vacant receptionist's desk and did a cursory examination. "You're sure everything's here?" he inquired, a hint of suspicion still in his voice.

"Well, as sure as I can be, given that I don't know what it contained to start with," I pointed out a bit primly. "If I come across any stray papers in my offices I'll certainly return them to you, but Agent Alice and I did a fairly thorough search to recover everything. I'm reasonably sure it's all there."

"I'm sorry, Al, it's just been an exhausting week, you know?" Morton said a bit sheepishly. "And losing these files, well, lets just say my fanny would have been in a sling with my bosses. I'm sure you know that feeling, right?" he even smiled a little at this, shoving his glasses further up his nose.

"Believe me, I'm all too familiar with the feeling," I admitted ruefully. "Well, I'll leave you to it, since I have an office to finish putting together," I added.

"Thanks again, Al, I really appreciate you keeping an eye out for this thing." He patted the box proprietarily. "Good luck finishing your own move-in," he finished as I headed for the door of Taylor & Tyson Accounting.

The rest of the day was uneventful. I completed organizing your office and made some slight progress on my own before leaving around 2 p.m. Sunday was occupied with my normal day-off routine. I... I had no idea Morton had me under surveillance. It seems I have a great deal more to learn about counter espionage. It's small comfort I suppose to know that even I, a by-the-book agent if ever there was one, can be as easily caught up in the chase and fall victim to the so-called 'Hero Syndrome' as Robert can.

In fact, I had no idea anything was amiss until I entered the Agency this morning at a quarter after eight. Agent Heyes approached me shortly after I'd arrived at work to tell me he wasn't sure, but suspected Mr. Siegfreid had entered the Agency offices at some point Sunday. I made a cursory examination of the Official's office and found nothing obviously disturbed. I was almost ready to chalk it up to Agent Heyes' fondness for film noir and junk food when I spotted the disarrangement of my desk. It was subtle, and it might have gone unnoticed by most people, but my staple remover was not in its accustomed spot, hung over the rim of the Theatersports mug I use as a pencil holder. It laid on my desktop. I considered that as I picked it up and returned it to its proper place.

I was not given long to wonder, however. Less than 20 minutes later, Morton appeared, rapping sharply on my office door. His face was... blank. Only it wasn't. He was clearly furious. At me. And frightened as well, if the dilation of his pupils was due to more than just the magnification of his eyeglasses. "I've been waiting for you to show up this morning," he began. "We have a few things to discuss about Friday night, don't we?"

"We do?" I responded, cursing the ease with which I can be flustered. I'm sure my voice squeaked.

"You have something that belongs to me," he ignored my discomfort. "I think maybe we can make a trade."

"A trade?" I stammered.

He nodded as he stepped into my office and shut the door, then moved across to close the one into your office as well. "A trade," he repeated, sitting down in my desk chair and crossing his legs with forced calm, extending them out in front of himself as he leaned back.

"What do you want, Morton?" I asked, voice cracking as if I'd reentered puberty.

"I want my papers back, Al. All of them. Even the ones you so kindly copied for me. I want you to keep your mouth shut about whatever you may have decided I've done. I want... I want you to never have existed." He straightened up in my chair and the blank look on his features evaporated into rage. Not even Agent Hobbes has ever looked at me with such hatred. "Do you have any idea what you've done? How much planning and work you've just screwed up?" He waited, apparently actually expecting a response.

Because when I simply stared back at him, he slammed open palms onto my desktop with frightening force. "Answer me, damn you!" he snarled at me. I jumped.

"I-I-I don't know what you're talking about, but I think you'd better leave," I managed, my voice shaking nearly as much as my hands were.

He leaned forward, resting his weight on his hands as he stood, and smiled. I've never been so terrified in my life. "I do believe you're right, Al, my friend, and I think you'll be coming with me. That is if you want to see that turtle of yours again -- alive."

"Alonzo!" It was no more than a whisper, but I know he heard me. I was nauseous with the sudden surge of anxiety. I... well, it had taken almost two years for me to decide to adopt a new pet after my last turtle, Alonzo the first, had been... killed when my car had been destroyed in an explosion that had narrowly missed demolishing Miss Monroe's [the water cooler was in Alex's office, not the Official's. From the ep The Choice.] office - and everyone in it. And now I was going to lose a second pet. Because there was simply no way I would allow my affection for an animal to come before my honor, or my duty as an agent of the US Government.

"Oh, and your cleaning lady," he added almost as an afterthought. "Mrs. Sanchez is quite the Chatty Cathy, isn't she?" he asked coldly. "It'd be a shame if I had to do something drastic, wouldn't it?"

I choked, gagging on the bile that rose in my throat. I'd hired Mrs. Sanchez as a cleaning lady perhaps 18 months before, when it had become obvious that I was spending far too much time at work to make sure my home was kept up as I prefer. Having inherited it, I felt strongly that I was beholden to maintain it as well as my late great aunt had. I admit to being a trifle, uhm, particular about housekeeping, so the first several times Dorinda came to clean, I had spent hours pre-cleaning the house before she arrived. When she caught me at it the fourth week, she scolded me into allowing her to do her job. Chastened, I had given in, and had discovered I had a willing ally in my quest for order and tidiness. She had even, in her verbal way, become a surrogate aunt of sorts. We might not be fluent in the same languages, but we'd found common ground, and friendship.

Naturally, this put an entirely different light on things, and I was forced to reconsider my first impulse: defiance. Dorinda Sanchez at risk because of my actions? It was simply unacceptable. I swallowed hard several times before I found my voice again. "What is it you want?"

"I thought I'd made that pretty clear, Al. I want my papers! Now where are they?" Siegfreid demanded.

"In a safe deposit box in the Union Bank across the street," I whispered.

He checked his wristwatch and silently snarled at it. "They don't open 'til 10 am, Al. That means I trust you to be on your best behavior." He dropped his wrist and smirked nastily. "That means I trust you. Trust you to stay put and keep your mouth shut for an hour. Trust you not to try to go home and pull the covers up over your head."

"No," I whispered.

He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and removed a small digital camera. "Since you're a government employee and all, I figured you've had some counter-terrorism training, so I took the liberty of making sure you know just how seriously I take your snooping in my business." He handed me the camera, turning it impatiently in my hands to reveal the little digital display screen.

What it showed was a picture of Mrs. Sanchez seated in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, bound hand and foot, and gagged with duct tape. In her lap... was a shallow cardboard box holding my new turtle, Alonzo the second. To make the situation even worse, a stack of what appeared to be three bricks of plastic explosive taped together with a detonator stuck into them sat between her feet where they were tied to the legs of the chair. "Oh dear," I murmured. My hands began to tremble. "You can't be serious!" I looked up from the camera at him in total disbelief.

"Oh, you're wrong about that, Al. I've never been more serious in my life." He took the camera away from me and returned it to his coat pocket. "Now. We're gonna take a little breather until the bank opens. Then I'll drag your meddling butt down there and you will get me my papers. As soon as you do that, you get this," he informed me, pulling a radio-controlled detonator from his pants pocket. But if you so much as speak to anyone but me between now and the second I have my stuff in my hot little hands, your house, the cleaning lady, the stupid turtle, and everything in a 100 yard radius is gonna be vaporized. Oh, and just in case you still think I'm not serious?" he paused for emphasis, "my partner in crime will be waiting in your quaint little neighborhood with another one of these to push the button if anyone, including you, shows up uninvited at your front door." He smirked, his expression sending a chill down my back.

I was torn between wondering if he actually thought I believed he'd let me go after retrieving his papers and the faint hope he actually was as inexperienced as he seemed when it came matters of criminal enterprise. "I want your guarantee you won't hurt Mrs. Sanchez," I said grimly, determined that I must extract at least that much of an assurance from him. Even if he did what I suspected he would, and killed me once he had what he wanted, if I could find a way to prevent anyone else from being injured, I would consider it a fair trade.

"You do what I want, get me those papers? You can consider the old broad an early Christmas gift." He straightened his tie, his suit coat bunching up to reveal the bulk of a handgun under his left arm.

Fear shivered along my nerves as he inadvertently confirmed my worst case scenario. While there was nothing to be gained by murdering my poor housekeeper, the same could not be said of killing me. I was the only one who knew what he had done, the only one who could blow the whistle on him before he could complete his plan and embezzle an exorbitant amount of money from McGreggor BioZyme. "The filing deadline for the schedule 1120 was four weeks ago. Haven't you received the refund check from the IRS, yet?" I asked in an effort to ascertain whether he had already gained access to the funds his bit of tax fraud would have netted him. If he had, then perhaps there was a chance, albeit a slim one, that my life might not be forfeit, provided all he wanted was to obliterate the paper trail, regain the documents that would allow him to withdraw the money from the fraudulently set up McGreggor account, and flee. The only way I would be able to make a judgement call on my odds for survival was to try and push him, to try and see what his limits were.

"Of course it's come. That e-file is amazing, isn't it?" he quirked a supercilious eyebrow at me. "The problem is, Albert, without the documents you have in your safe deposit box, I can't clean out the shell account. As if you didn't know that."

So, as long as I had control of the documents, my life was at very little risk. But it still didn't tell me how he would behave if thwarted. "I want to go home," I said with as much firmness as I could muster. Steeling myself to defiance, I glared back at him.

To my dismay, he burst into laughter. "Home? The pwoor baby wants to go ho-o-me?" He snickered mockingly. "Sorry, but the only place you're going is to the bank in an hour or so." The smile and the laughter evaporated as quickly as they had appeared. "Just don't forget that my little helper has the duplicate to my detonator. You or anyone else so much as opens the mail box on the front lawn, and 'poof'." He flicked both hands upwards, fingers splaying outward like a shrapnel burst. I swallowed. "No more Mrs. Sanchez. Which would be a shame, wouldn't it?" He winked at me, and I gulped again. "I'll leave you to your Monday morning routine, Al, old buddy. But I'll be expecting you at the bank within 15 minutes after it opens. I don't see you there, well... you know what'll happen."

With that, he left, leaving me to pace my office furiously, loosening my tie and mangling the careful knot. I had less than an hour to come up with some sort of plan that wouldn't end up with my cleaning lady getting blown up along with everything I owned.

I paced my office, mind spinning uselessly in place, unable to focus well enough to devise some course of action. I seemed unable to do more than walk, then sit, then jump to my feet again restlessly. I was perspiring heavily in spite of the cool weather and I was finding it difficult to breathe. I tried to concentrate on something -- anything while waiting for time to drag interminably on, settling for turning on my computer. I was beginning to despair of remaining sane until 10:00 am, my anxiety was so great.

When Robert rapped loudly on my door at 9:10, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Some of my state of mind must have been apparent, because he eyed me for a moment, scowling, before he spoke. "Hey, Eberts, the Fat Man have anything on the books for me'n Fawkes?" he inquired with his usual disdain. "Besides moving boxes around, that is?"

"No," I said shortly, pretending to focus on my computer screen as I typed randomly with no idea at all what keys I was hitting.

"No?" Agent Hobbes repeated, obviously disconcerted by the brevity of my answer.

"No, Robert," I managed, doing my best to force some sort of firmness into my voice. "The Official will be returning to work tomorrow. Until then, his orders are that all Agency personnel are to finish the move-in under my supervision. If you and Darien handle your own office, I'm sure that will keep you busy for at least part of the day. Then you can assist the effort to setup the other agents' offices, should they need it. Or the accounting department," I added without looking at him.

There was silence from the doorway, but I knew he hadn't left. The weight of his gaze was like a wool blanket, and my breathing coarsened yet again.

"You OK, there, Eberts?" he asked after a moment in which I spent praying to any and every deity that he would just leave.

It was the genuine concern in his voice that made me look up. Perhaps I have simply become so accustomed to his antagonism that that is all I expect to hear, so when his tone penetrated, I was caught off guard. I blinked at him, surprised. "Fine, Robert," I told him, my voice sounding hollow.

It didn't reassure him, either, by the look on his face. But he nodded sharply. "As long as you're sure," he said, voice uncertain.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and after another second's hesitation, he finally left, closing the door quietly after himself.

The interlude was peculiar enough that it served to distract me for a moment longer, then I returned my attention to my computer screen. The gibberish I had just typed stared back at me, and it occurred to me that I was not going to come out of this alive, in all probability. I owed my co-workers an explanation, at the very least. I cleared the document, and began writing with deliberate haste. I had a great deal to explain, and not much time to do it in.

Confessing one's sins is not a pleasant process, and I struggled with how to explain my actions. Not excuse them, since there was no excuse for aiding and abetting, but to try and make my dilemma clear should I not be able to speak for myself when this... was all over. The chill of the off-shore November breeze had found its way through the gaps between old double-hung glass windows somehow, but even that had no effect on my nervous perspiration. It took a lot of muttered arguments with myself as to how to phrase what I wanted to say, complete with more pacing to try and force some organization into my thoughts, but by 9:55 I was finished. I saved the document, leaving it on the computer desktop, and closed my laptop. I fumbled my tie back closer to its proper place and struggled into my suit jacket. Siegfreid's orders to me had been to meet him at the safe deposit counter at 10:00 sharp. I would just make it. I bolted for the elevator, and headed for the bank, crossing the street in spite of the busy morning in front of the McKinley Building, making a beeline for the big brass-trimmed glass front doors. They were just being unlocked as I approached, and the young woman inside smiled at me as she finished unsecuring the doors, pushing one open for me.

I managed something I hoped could be interpreted as a smile in return and slipped inside, two or three other early birds on my heels. I was the only one seeking access to the safe deposit boxes, so I reached the counter, nodding at the security guard who lingered nearby. In the interests of keeping as much space between myself and potential civilian bystanders as possible, I circled the old-fashioned marble and wood counter to stand as far from the guard as possible. It was a strategic choice for its view of the bank's entrance as well, and I pretended to fill out an access card while I waited for Siegfreid to arrive.

I didn't have long to wait. He burst through the doors less than two minutes later, heavy briefcase in hand. He spotted me immediately and made his way directly across the bank to the safe deposit counter, ignoring the guard's attempt at pleasantries.

He took up a position beside me, using his briefcase to hide the gun in his hand, mimicking my efforts with a safe deposit access card while he glanced coldly at me. I fumbled a pen out of the holder and haltingly began filling out the paperwork I would need to enter the vault and betray my beliefs, my security clearance, everything I held sacred. My hands were shaking so hard that I dropped my pen. I took another, trying to ignore Siegfreid's impatience.

It was the familiar flicker of Darien Quicksilvering that penetrated my distraction. I wasn't even sure I'd seen it, until one of the branches of a plastic-looking tree in the corner swayed inexplicably. My pulse skyrocketed, and I fumbled my second pen to the floor and bent to retrieve them both.

I straightened, trying desperately to ignore the menace implicit in Morton's subtle repositioning of the briefcase to better display his weapon to me. But my equilibrium was further threatened when he thumbed off the safety. It wasn't done with anything approaching Agent Hobbes' competence, but the weapon was now far more than a simple threat. Siegfreid's eyes darted around the vicinity like a caricature of some Hollywood villain, assessing threats, real and imagined, I assumed. It would have been amusing if I hadn't been so frightened. And fear gained another handhold on my heart when I saw Miss Monroe approaching my position from the direction of the bank manager's desk, casually rooting about in her purse as if looking for a lipstick or her cell phone, or some other feminine accessory.

I looked away deliberately, praying I hadn't drawn Morton's attention to her, when Robert materialized practically in front of the counter at which I stood. He was approaching the guard, who was less than pleased at the hyperactive chatter he was being regaled with, and rather unpleasantly halted Agent Hobbes' progress. The blood was pounding too hard in my ears to overhear their exchange, but unless I had truly learned nothing from all the efforts Robert has made in the last two years to impart some small degree of field skills, he had told the guard that there was trouble. I have enough familiarity with Agent Hobbes' demeanor by now to recognize him in full professional mode. He was every inch the Agent, eyes focused and clear in spite of the witless hyperbole he spouted. Unfortunately, Siegfreid's attention was also drawn by the chatty conversation going on nearby, and he smirked slightly at Robert's apparent lack of intelligence, watching the deliberately comedic interplay he had engaged the guard in.

"Thank you, officer," Hobbes said pleasantly, nodding and smiling. "And the manager's desk is?"

"Third one from the left," the guard said, voice a bit rough.

"Left," Robert repeated as he shuffled off in the opposite direction from what he'd been told.

"No, sir, your other left," the guard said, taking a step after him. Which must have been what Agent Hobbes was waiting for. With lightning reflexes, he seized the man's shoulder and forced him roughly to the ground on his side of the counter I stood at, using its mass to shield the civilian. In the same movement, he'd drawn his gun and aimed it at Siegfreid, with the shouted command: "Freeze, jackass, Federal Agents!"

It was at that point that my comprehension of events becomes a bit unclear, I'm afraid. Things happened so fast, I'm not sure what order they occurred in. But as Robert ordered Morton to freeze, I became aware of Miss Monroe approaching with rapid grace from the safe deposit security rooms directly behind myself and Siegfreid, gun drawn. Siegfreid turned his weapon from Hobbes to Monroe as she came straight for us. Her approach was accompanied by the icy chill of Darien Fawkes' sudden presence, the cold dissipating along with the Quicksilver that flaked off of him in a rain of glitter. It was a most dramatic entrance as Darien hurled himself to the floor practically at my feet.

Astoundingly, Morton barely batted an eye, his gun swinging around and down to point at Agent Fawkes. He fired a single shot, which ricocheted off the floor, kicking up stone chips that narrowly missed Darien and had the gun back on Miss Monroe in the same heartbeat.

This had gone far enough. Now my coworkers were also at risk, a situation I could not allow. If they were here, chances were, they had, or soon would, discover my note, which meant that Mrs. Sanchez and Alonzo the Second would be safe. Siegfreid had to be stopped, at any cost.

I caught his gun hand with both of mine, hanging on for dear life as I tried to wrench it away from Miss Monroe. Panic, fear and desperation made it an even match between Morton and myself, and he seized his briefcase in his other hand and swung it hard at my head and shoulders.

I twisted my head to one side to avoid being rendered unconscious, grunting with the pain of the case's impact on my shoulder. He swung it again and again trying to force me to release him, but I remembered just enough of the basics involved in Agent Hobbes' lessons in disarming a suspect so long ago that I was able, at least, to maintain my grip. Vaguely through the pounding in my ears, I could hear my colleagues' shouted imprecations warnings to get out of the way, but if I did, surely one of them would be shot instead.

I mustered every last ounce of strength and managed to force Morton's hand down, inexorably reducing his range of motion, until I had brought the weapon to the point it was aimed at the floor. Or so I had thought until the gunfire report echoed loudly through the stone bank and pain such as I have never felt before overwhelmed me. I was looking straight at Robert when it happened, and I don't think I will ever forget the look on his face. Anger. But not directed at myself. Perhaps at first. Anger and something else. Beyond that, I'm afraid I have no recollection of events.

Albert Eberts sighed as he concluded his recitation of things as he'd witnessed them. "You'll have my resignation on your desk as soon as I'm released," he informed the Official flatly, refusing to look away from the reassuringly featureless expanse of ceiling tiles he'd been staring at for the last half an hour.

However, the Official's snort made Albert sneak a glance at his employer. There was an expression on the porcine face he'd never seen there before. "I don't think so," the Official replied with audible amusement. "What would I tell Hobbes, Fawkes and Monroe? They've already scheduled your acting lessons at the local drama club, FBI self-defense refresher course, and as a special bonus, you are to report to Hobbes and Fawkes for their Friday night poker games from now until Bobby gives you passing marks in the art of the bluff."

"Wha-what?" Eberts stuttered, nearly certain that the drugs were confusing his hearing.

"Consider it an order," the Official announced, the barest hint of a smile lightening his usual glower from bulldog to bullfrog.

"But, but, sir," Eberts began. "I compromised the security of the Agency, I am guilty of aiding and abetting, accessory after the fact, and probably dozens of other crimes. I can't continue in my current position! My security clearance is sure to be revoked!"

This time there was no mistaking the Official's snort for anything but laughter. He was joined by the musical giggle from Claire 'Keeply.'

"Albert, calm yourself," Claire said gently, stroking a wisp of hair out of his eyes. "The number of crimes is exceeded only by the extenuating circumstances. You were under extreme duress. The law will not hold you responsible for any of what happened."

Eberts sighed again. It was not one of relief. "But I will. I failed the training Robert has tried to give me. I betrayed the Official's trust. I don't see how I can possibly...."

"Possibly desert me?" The Official snapped without any real rancor. "Believe it or not, Eberts, the Agency would probably close down a month after you left. I can't allow that to happen. Therefore, I'm afraid I'll have to refuse your resignation. No, you're just going to have to find some other way to atone for whatever sins you think you've committed," Borden harrumphed. "But maybe, before you go shopping for that sackcloth and ashes you're so keen on, you might want to know what happened after you were shot." He paused expectantly as if waiting for approval to continue.

Eberts turned his head to look at Claire, whose smile was fond.

"You're rather the man of the hour, Albert," she informed him. "Bobby, Darien and Alex made short work of apprehending Mr. Siegfreid. He is now comfortably -- but not too comfortably -- ensconced in the county jail until he can be arraigned on charges of tax fraud, embezzlement, blackmail, several counts of aggravated assault, attempted murder, and several other things, I'm sure."

"You found the Schedule 1120s," Eberts said, dazed, knowing he sounded far from brilliant. He hoped the others would chalk it up to the medications.

Claire nodded, smiling. "And the IRS, FBI and every lawyer McGreggor BioZymes has on retainer will doubtless wish to discuss them with you. However, they will have to wait until you are out of the hospital and have recuperated. I won't allow them to tire you by descending on you here."

Albert was surprised by the protectiveness in her tone of voice. "Why would McGreggor's lawyers need to speak with me?" he asked, confused.

"You mean besides to try and steal you away from the Agency?" the Official interjected with a chuckle. "Maybe to find out how you managed to stumble onto something they've suspected for the better part of a year, but haven't been able to track down."

"Not to mention present you with the check they made out to the Agency as a reward. Did you have any idea how much money was involved in Siegfreid's little scheme?" Claire asked curiously.

Albert shook his head 'no' and immediately regretted the ill-considered movement. His head swam and his vision tunneled.

"In excess of $50,000,000, as near as they can tell at first blush. Ten percent of that was deposited in the Agency's account while you were still recovering from surgery," the Official said smugly. "I'd say that squares your account with the Agency, Eberts."

Eberts gawked at them, wide-eyed. "Fifty million?" he whispered, dumbfounded.

"Fifty million and change, actually," the Official amended. "The change will be appearing on your next paycheck as a bonus." At Eberts' flabbergasted look, he continued. "Don't spend it all in one place, eh?" he suggested.

Whatever Albert might have been inclined to say next was interrupted as someone rapped out 'shave & a hair cut' on the outside of his room's door which then opened to reveal two heads, Fawkes' and Hobbes', poking into the room tentatively.

"You up for a few friends?" Hobbes asked hesitantly. "We've got someone here who'd probably like to see you."

"Oh, do stop lurking, Bobby," Claire chastened. "As long as you two promise to keep it short, come in."

The door opened wider as the pair stepped in, followed closely by Monroe. "Three, actually," Alex said with a smile in Eberts' direction. Hobbes was carrying a closed cardboard box carefully in both hands.

"What do you have there, Bobby?" Claire asked, gesturing at the box the agent carried.

He didn't answer directly, instead, setting it gently on Eberts' abdomen and opening it. He reached inside with both hands and carefully lifted out-

"Alonzo!" Albert exclaimed.

One of my favorite cultural icons, Homer Simpson, once said; 'Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large numbers.' Maybe that applied more to the current political climate than the Agency, but we'd been stupid, even if there weren't exactly a large number of us. And it almost cost us a decent guy's life. Not the sort of power I ever wanna have, let me tell you. And it could all have been avoided, if we'd just taken a page out of one of those self-help guru's books. I think it was Leo Buscaglia who said; 'Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.' Or at least keep a good guy from nearly getting his taken away from him.

Heedless of the IV lines and sundry monitoring equipment, he reached up to take the fist-sized turtle, safely withdrawn into his smooth, domed shell, placing him on his chest. "Alonzo," Albert cooed softly. "It's safe to come out now," he told his traumatized pet as Claire scolded Hobbes.

"Bobby, you know perfectly well the hospital doesn't permit animals!" she informed him needlessly. "Turtles are notorious disease vectors!"

"Well, it oughta," Hobbes replied firmly. "There's a bunch'a studies that prove animals can speed up recovery in all sorts of post op patients, not to mention improve emotional wellbeing in mental patients, seniors, kids, you name it. Heck, in some cities, pretty much every major teaching hospital works with the local SPCA's Animal Assisted Therapy program." He folded his arms across his chest with a hint of belligerence as Darien, Alex, Claire and the Official all stared at Robert in bemusement.

"Since when are you an animal expert?" Darien asked his partner skeptically.

"Since I hadda watch Pavlov a while back," Hobbes replied.

"YOU watched Pavlov?" Darien snorted ironically. "You? I don't think so. Man, talk about revisionist history."

"Yeah, well, whatever," Hobbes backpedaled a bit. "But the animal therapy thing is cutting edge, Claire," he added, turning his attention to the Keeper, who made a slight face.

"Yes, you're correct, there are a number of programs, but the certainly don't include reptiles...." she began, only to be interrupted by the Official's noisy throat clearing.

"I'm sure all this is... fascinating... to someone, but I don't see its relevance. The turtle stays, Doctor -- at least for a minute or two." He reached up from his wheelchair and tapped the top of the turtle's shell gently. "Alonzo, come out and say hello to your daddy," he addressed the reptile, to the amazement of everyone else in the room. Amidst the silence of dropped jaws, Alonzo cautiously began to come out of his shell, slow, ponderous movements that eventually revealed his softer appendages. "See? Isn't that better?" the Official asked the turtle.

"Sir," Eberts began, then faltered, torn between amazement that the Official would reveal his softer side so publicly, and amusement at the reactions of the rest of the room's inhabitants. He glanced at the small group of the Agents who stood gaping at the little tableaux. The look on Robert Hobbes' face was priceless. Indeed, all three agents looked a bit stunned, to say the least. Gently, he lifted the turtle up and returned him to his box. It was his turn to clear his throat. "Thank you. All of you," he told them. "Why - how did you find out what was going on?" he asked them, looking from one to the other of them.

"You mean besides the note you left on your computer?" Darien smiled back. "Your friend Siggy sang like a bird once he found out what kinda time he was lookin' at if he didn't cooperate. He ratted out his partner and told us about your housekeeper -"

"Mrs. Sanchez!" Albert exclaimed, mortified. "Is she-?"

"She's fine, Ebes. Her daughter took her home after the EMTs checked her out. She told us to tell you she'll see you next week. Oh, and she's bringing some of her famous tamales for you." Darien squinted at him impishly. ""If I was you, I'd marry the woman. She cooks."

Eberts blushed. "No. I'm serious. How did you know where I was?"

"You can thank Hobbesy and his hinky-meter for that," Darien supplied, shooting a smirk in Hobbes' general direction. "He, uh, well, he thought F&G had backed out of the deal with the Agency and our paychecks were going to bounce. So, he, uh, talked us into keeping an eye on you. When you went into the bank, we went after you."

"But, but, that's ridiculous," Albert said, bewildered. "The Agency owns the deed on the McKinley Building. It's a large building, and we can't possibly use all that space. With the income we can bring in as landlords, the mortgage should be nearly covered, and we build equity," Albert informed them, still befuddled at the conclusions Hobbes had leapt to. "The budget is closer to being balanced than it has ever been while I've worked for the Agency," he concluded.

"So much for the vaunted Hobbes paranoia," Alex said ironically, poking Hobbes in the ribs. He glowered at her.

"Watch it, Monroe. Maybe the reasons were wrong, but the instincts were good. There was trouble. We were there when it went down, and we cleaned it up. What more do ya want?" Robert wanted to know.

"When he's right, he's right, Monroe," Fawkes laughed. "He may be a nut case, but he's our nut case. Be nice." He winked at Eberts conspiratorially.

Eberts looked from one to the other of them, strangely moved that his back had been covered, even if he hadn't known it at the time. "Thank you. I... I don't know what to say."

Hobbes shrugged, embarrassed, Alex looked fierce, and Darien grinned.

"You're welcome, Ebes," Fawkes replied cheerfully, then stepped a bit closer. "But you ever pull a bone-headed move like that again, and we're gonna have to hurt you!" he admonished, shaking a forefinger at Eberts. "What's the use in working for a top secret government agency with a top secret invisible man - who, by the way, could've gotten Mrs. Sanchez and Alonzo out of the house if you'd just said something - if you don't take advantage of it?" he asked rhetorically.

Eberts could feel the blush of embarrassment heat his clammy features and he looked away, mumbling, "I -" he started, then stopped. Considered, then tried again. "It was my problem. My actions that precipitated this turn of events," he said earnestly. "I didn't want to put anyone else at risk."

"Hey," Hobbes responded with a hint of self-importance. "You forget something there, pal? We're," he executed a hand wave that included himself, Fawkes and Monroe, "the professionals around here. Risk is our middle name."

Darien smirked, glancing at his smaller partner. "Hobbesy, do you ever listen to yourself? Geeze, you sound like some James Bond parody." He assumed Hobbes' posture and intonation: "Risk is our middle name," he mimicked, laughing when Robert smacked him hard on the arm.

"Shut it, Fawkes. You're messin' up my point." Hobbes glowered at his partner, clearly trying to avoid noticing the fit of giggles that both Claire and Alex were indulging in.

"Point? You had one of those, did you?" Darien teased mercilessly.

"Yeah, hotshot, I have one'a those," Hobbes snapped peevishly at his taller partner then turned to Eberts again. "The point is, there, Eberts, that you don't work a situation like this one alone. Ever. Even Fawkes knows better, most of the time, and you know what a slow study he was, always runnin' off on his own, gettin' into trouble. You, I'm figuring you for bein' smarter than our thiefy friend here, at least when it comes to mastering the obvious. We're a team. We back each other up. Period. So no more cowboy routine, right?" he glowered down at Albert, and for a moment, Eberts thought he was being mocked. Except Hobbes was dead serious. Grim actually. "We're your partners when stuff like this goes down. Got it?"

Eberts stared back at him, then glanced at the other two agents, who had gone as serious as Hobbes had. He gulped.

"Look. Ebes." Darien began as if explaining things to a child. "When we're on a case and we need information, who do we come to? When we need facts, figures, statistics, weird bits of intel, who is it we're always roping in to our little operations? You, pal. That's who. So next time you need some knees broken, who ya gonna call?"

"Ghostbusters?" Claire asked snidely, and Eberts snickered helplessly.

Darien threw her an annoyed look before returning his attention to Albert. "Us, you little bean counter, that's who. Not only do we not want to have to break in some new guy, but losin' you would seriously cramp our style. Besides...you're our friend."

"I am?" Eberts asked, bemused.

"Yes, you are," Alex assured him dryly, none of her usual sarcasm in evidence. "So let us return the favor. Let us be yours. Because if you ever pull this 'Lone Wolf' schtick on us again, Fawkes is right. We will hurt you." With that, she turned on one spike heel and strode out of the room.

Hobbes and Fawkes both crossed their arms over their chests, contriving to look tough. "You don't wanna make us hurt you, do you?" Hobbes asked, a glint of humor in his warm eyes.

"Uhm, no," Albert managed, still floored by the little drama that had just unfolded. It was disconcerting to realize he wasn't as invisible as he'd always thought, and it was an idea that was going to take some getting used to.

"Good. Now get some rest. The whole Agency's gonna go to hell if you don't get back to work pretty soon." With that comment from Darien, Hobbes picked up Alonzo's box and together the two agents walked out after Monroe, trading banter on which of them was going to mind the turtle.

"Whaddaya say, Alonzo? Wanna share a Caesar salad? Darien asked, peering into the turtle's box inquiringly as he followed Hobbes out the door.

"Oh, dear!" Albert whimpered. "Darien! No dressing!" he called after them, hoping the invisible thief had heard him. Salad dressing emphatically disagreed with Alonzo's digestion, and the results wouldn't be pretty.

"Extra anchovies?" he heard Darien ask Alonzo rhetorically out in the hall and he plucked up his spare pillow and covered his eyes with it, sighing gustily, hearing both Claire and the Official chuckle.

End