[Somewhere over the Atlantic, 7:00 am London time]

"Here's your filet mignon, haricot verts, roasted rosemary potatoes, and a glass of Silver Oak Cabernet." The flight steward for the private Mercur Jetstream placed a china plate on the small table in front of Darien's seat. "Can I get you anything else, Mr. Fawkes?"

"No, this looks great." Darien put on his most engaging smile, very impressed with the service. For the price he'd paid--both literally and figuratively--it had better be top quality. "I was planning to sack out for a couple hours, Joseph, but I'd like to watch Ocean's Twelve while I eat."

"Certainly," Joseph agreed with the proper aplomb of a well-trained British butler. "I'll be in the galley if you need anything. Just ring the bell."

"Thanks!" Darien willed himself to hang on for a moment longer until the man was out of sight, but then he sagged into the luxurious wide leather airplane seat in total exhaustion, the vibrations from the powerful jet trip-hammering through his body. The plane had left Heathrow half an hour before after a surreal morning that Darien never wanted to relive.

He'd gotten to the airport easily enough on the Underground, despite the one seizure, but once there, his resolve had deserted him briefly. In the early hours of the morning, very few planes were taking off and although there were many travelers going about their business, he felt like he had few options and nowhere to turn. How was he supposed to get anywhere without The Agency knowing? Exchanging his ticket on Virgin Atlantic would make his movements far too easy to trace, which nixed most of the other major airlines, as well. If he knew Eberts, the moment Hobbes and Lady Claire had reported his disappearance, the little pencil pusher would have been on the computer tracking his whereabouts.

Too bad for them that he'd ditched the tracker on the electric rail.

Leaving England meant a cash transaction, no questions asked; something very discreet. Which he was not going to get dressed in dirty jeans and a tourist t-shirt. Good thing Heathrow was a full service airport with a wide array of shops that opened at six a.m. He was waiting when the security gate was pulled up on the first men's clothing store he found. A short visit to the Hugo Boss outlet and then Austin Reed just went to prove the old adage that clothes made the man. Dressed in a dark wool suit with a silk tie, he'd looked like a different person exiting the dressing room and the sales girl had only been too happy to lighten his wallet by several hundred quid. After stopping at a luggage booth for a small Italian leather carry-on bag and then the Body Shop for hair products, Darien approached one of the private jet companies operating in the airport and purchased a one way ticket to the Bahamas. His hands shook through the entire transaction, but the man behind the counter didn't bat an eye, taking in the elegant attire and fine leather bag with the eye of a jealous fashion connoisseur. Darien had never felt more like a fraud in his life.

While waiting for the plane to be readied, he'd sipped a double-shot espresso from the familiar coffee company that was taking over the world, his belly in knots that threatened to expel the recently drunk coffee all over the brand new clothes. Not one of the heavily armed Royal Amy guards who circulated the airport looked at him twice. As Darien was getting ready to board, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, shivers breaking out down both arms, but to his relief, the expected seizure didn't materialize. He left British soil at 6:35 a.m.

It was now just after seven. Joseph had only given the tiniest indication of surprise for Darien's meal request. Probably not what most people asked for at this hour, but he knew he was so far beyond his own reserves that running on empty didn't even apply. He could almost feel his body breaking down cell by cell, grinding him into dust, and his head pounded with fatigue.

The meat was consumed in the bat of an eye, the credits for Ocean's Twelve barely begun. The potatoes went next, washed down with the wine, followed by the green beans, usually something Darien would have avoided, but along with his new clothes, he was going to try to eat right. Maybe Claire was wrong. Maybe he just had to change who he was, how he lived his life, and the gland would leave him alone.

Yeah, right.

The food lulled him into a kind of relaxation, filling his belly and warding off the shakes. Darien drifted off to sleep while George Clooney and Brad Pitt plotted their robbery. A loud blast coming from the sound system jerked him out of a restless doze, his heart pounding with fear until he realized the explosion was just the cinematic variety. He was shaking again, and for the first time, actually saw/felt the first glimmers of the coming seizure. Silver fireworks blossomed in both retinas, setting off a frightening chain of events as every one of his nerve cells seemed to shatter and expand in a unison, the gland overloading his system with gushes of Quicksilver. Darien tried gripping the armrests of the chair, his neck hyper-extending until he bit his tongue, invisibility blinking on and off in a frenzied spasm.

He wasn't sure how long he just lay against the back of the seat recovering from the worst seizure so far. The movie played out on the 48 inch plasma screen on the bulkhead, sound and sight interchanged in a sick-making swirl of sensory input that wouldn't have made sense if he wasn't experiencing it in all its bizarre glory. Overwhelmed by the pastiche of color, sound, scent and sensation, he didn't notice a moment of the on-screen action.

Crap.

What the hell had Claire done to him? From the very first day he'd met her, restrained by a straight jacket, and a prisoner in the padded white room that still haunted his dreams, Dr. Claire Keeply Saxe-Coburg, or whatever other name she wanted to call herself, had manipulated him. She'd used him as a guinea pig for the Agency and her own experiments, lying and tricking him into countless blood draws, painful procedures and cruel tortures. She was no better than those idiots running the prisons out in Iraq--and the Fat Man had backed her every step of the way.

He had been a puppet for their nefarious schemes. Well, no longer.

Darien Fawkes was taking back his life and no one could stop him. If he were going to die because of the gland, it would be on his own terms. There was only one person who had ever really understood what had been done to him in the name of science. One other person who could truly comprehend how much his life sucked.

With a trembling hand, Darien picked up the inflight telephone, tapping out the proper codes for the long distance calling card he'd bought at the cell-phone booth in the airport and then the prefix for the Caribbean, followed by a phone number he'd memorized and never given anyone else.

After two rings, a groggy voice answered. "H'llo?"

"Adam?" Darien had the most absurd urge to cry at the sound of his foster son's voice. "I'm on my way."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Nassau International Airport, Bahamas, 8:15 a.m. local time]

Darien shielded his eyes as he stepped out of the plane's cabin and into the bright Caribbean sunshine, wishing for a moment that he hadn't left his sunglasses in the trunk of the blue Lupo back at Paddington station. But only for a moment; the bitter stink of betrayal rose within him again like a cresting wave. He refused to allow it to break just yet, wanting to forget for just a little while exactly why he'd taken this mad risk and flown halfway 'round the world on a whim.

The steward, Joseph, caught Darien's attention with a quick, "Mr. Fawkes," before he managed to go more than two steps down the stairs.

"Yes?" Darien did his damnedest to continue playing the part of carefree playboy with a better left unasked source of income, willing himself to hold back the exhaustion and depression lying in wait just behind the thin façade.

Joseph held out the small carry-on Darien had purchased at Heathrow and filled with the most basic necessities of travel. He took the bag with a gracious nod. "Thank you."

"No need, Mr. Fawkes, it was a pleasure to serve you." Joseph held out a fancy business card, which Darien took and tucked into his pocket. "Please feel free to call upon us anytime."

The implication was clear, and Darien could only wonder how, considering the sheer hell he'd been going through with the new gland issues, he'd managed to pull off the con so well.

"Holy shi... did you hit the jackpot or something?" A deep voice inquired incredulously.

Darien kept from jumping out of his skin by only the slimmest of margins. With forced casualness, he turned about to view the speaker, only to blow the calm, cool composed look when complete confusion swept over him.

The man--young man, admittedly, but a man nonetheless, grinned up at him from the hot asphalt. He looked like a poster boy for Island Times; tanned to a deep bronze, blue eyes shockingly bright against the skin, surfer's t-shirt snug over a well-developed musculature--no 98 pound weaklings here--jams that fell past his knees and Vans on his feet. The blond hair had gone from carefully moussed perfection to a shaggy mop tipped with black.

Never mind a double take; Darien managed at least a triple before he squeaked out, "Adam?" as his feet finally met tarmac. He hadn't even realized he'd walked down the rest of the stairs.

A brilliant and wonderfully familiar smile lit up Adam's face. "Alex," he corrected, then, "Dude, you look like crap."

"Well, you have the couple a'days I had and see how you deal," Darien snarked back as he closed the distance between them. He hesitated for an instant, waiting for the go-ahead, then drew Adam into a rough hug when he got it.

"Damn, I've missed you." Darien pulled back, hands on his foster son's shoulders, noting the kid nearly matched him in the height department. "What on earth did you do to your hair?"

Adam laughed and ducked his head. "Effects, man. For the band."

Darien shook his head, his smile threatening to crack his face in two. This... this had been the right choice, no matter what else might happen, coming here had been the most right thing he could have ever done.

The winter sun, weak and pitiful in London, filtered its way through the layers of clothes Darien currently wore, making him realize he was more than a touch overdressed for the current clime. While comfortable now, the pleasantly drowsy heat baking away some of the ever present aches and pains, he knew it wouldn't be long before it became downright uncomfortable. Moving this reunion to a more conducive locale, one perhaps with air conditioning, would probably be a good idea.

"So, you come pick me up alone? You got your license already?" Darien asked as a way to get the ball rolling.

"Nah, only got my permit. Alex drove," Adam replied, leading the way presumably to said vehicle.

Darien's sudden confusion must have shown in his response. "Al... Oh, Monroe."

Adam snickered.

"You two having the same name might not have been the best plan," Darien pointed out as they entered the tiny terminal where he got his passport stamped and the contents of his bag checked in a perfunctory manner before both were returned to him.

Outside, jacket shed and draped through the loops of his carry-on, he spotted Alex Monroe and Mike Zembach leaning against a convertible, both looking incredibly relaxed and happy. Darien could only be thankful his advice had gotten past the indomitable will of the super-agent. She'd never been so miserable as those few days she'd stuck to her guns in breaking off her relationship with the older ex-agent. Both smiled when they spotted him and Mike stepped forward to give Darien a robust handshake.

"How was your flight?" Mike asked, the question genuine, instead of small talk to fill a few moments.

"Wonderful," Darien answered in all honesty.

"Where are Claire and Bobby?" Alex inquired with a dangerous casualness that Darien knew boded ill for him unless he played this just right. Luckily, he'd had several hours to plan.

"Still in the UK. Had some loose ends to tie up that didn't need me," he explained with a shrug. "Since there's nothing happening back home, I figured a side trip wouldn't cause too much trouble."

Alex eyed him speculatively; obviously, she hadn't fully bought the story. "So, they know you're here?"

Darien forced a laugh that sounded amused. "You really think I could just run away without Hobbes noticing?"

Alex's eyes narrowed for an instant, but only an instant. "True. You'd think the two of you were married the way he goes on sometimes."

That got laughs all around.

Darien couldn't help but think that gone way better than he'd hoped, and suspected she'd be checking in with the 'Fish as soon as soon as possible. Not that there was anything he could do about it, other than enjoy what little time he had. He had made it here, and that was all that really mattered.

Alex handed Darien the keys to the car. "Have fun."

"Where're you two off to?" Darien asked as he tossed the bag into the back seat.

Mike smiled slyly. "Oh, this little place I know. My girl needs some tender loving care."

That she did; her face still sported the bruises under the tan and artfully applied make-up. "Good. Getting away from it all cures all manner of ills." Darien glanced at Alex. "You guys... talk yet?"

Alex wanted to glower, Darien could practically feel it, but couldn't quite manage to drum up enough anger to be successful. "Not yet," she finally said around a sigh, "but we will."

Darien silently cheered, knowing that with Mike on her side all would be right with the world. Her world, anyway.

It was a start.

Mike pulled their luggage from the trunk and set it on the non-existent curb in front of the terminal, then held out a hand to Alex who joined him, her tiny body fitting next to Mike's as if it belonged there. Which, Darien supposed, it did, and maybe this trip away from the Agency would be the time she'd figure that out.

Darien sighed, wondering what the hell he maundered on about. He had more than enough crap to deal with at the moment without taking on Alex's burdens as well. This... this might be his last stand, so to speak. The gland, which once upon a time had been killing him by slow-drawn inches, now waged an all-out war and the next attack could very well be the last. And, strangely, that didn't terrify him as much as he thought it would. He'd lived with the pain and the fear for too long and none of the choices remaining were ones he wanted to make. He'd had so little control over his life for such a long time that he'd grasp onto what he could tightly and hold onto it with whatever strength he had left.

Hope... hope had failed him.

"Darien, you okay?"

The sudden concern in Alex's voice drew him up out of the pit of the despair he'd been slipping down into. He forced a smile upon his face, white teeth flashing in the bright sunshine of the island paradise that could allow no other emotion. "Fine," he assured her, lying smoothly and believably. He waved his hands in a shooing motion. "Get outta here."

Mike glanced at Alex, who still watched Darien intently. "Alex?" he questioned, clearly unsure what was happening.

She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but Darien shook his head the tiniest amount and she swallowed whatever words had been about to fall from her lips. "All right, let's go." Maybe she believed him, or maybe she realized that nothing she said or did would change the situation. Either way, it got her out of the way, which was all Darien wanted.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Adam quipped with a lecherous smile on his face that caused Darien to burst out in laughter. Alex only managed a chuckle, while Mike gave a knowing wink to the young man. Clearly, the visit to the Steinman's had been an interesting one for the couple.

"Thought you had a girlfriend?" Darien pointed out as Alex and Mike made their way inside, the roar of engines starting up somewhere on the far side of the building. "Doubt she'd like you hitting on older women."

Adam suddenly blushed a bright crimson under his tan. "True. But you gotta admit that Alex is still one hot chick."

Darien could only nod in agreement. "One hot and very taken chick."

"A guy can still look can't he?"

Darien snorted. Adam had most certainly become a fully fledged teenaged male. And to think he'd almost been incinerated by the very same "hot chick" at the tender age of 12. Adam's ability to forgive and forget amazed Darien to no end. Shame he couldn't say the same about himself.

He shoved those thoughts violently away. Whatever'd happened, had happened. It was over and done with and nothing he said, did, or thought could change it. Claire, by accident or design--though he was beginning to think design was far more likely, her faint protestations aside--had guaranteed Darien would remain with the Agency until the day he died. That it would be a short expanse of time had always been part of the equation. He was nothing but the test model. The first draft to prove the viability of the technology before the final tweaking, adjustments, and installation into real agents. And he had reached the end of his usefulness. A broken toy that was no longer worth the effort and expense to repair.

"You missing Ivy?"

Adam must have interpreted the dour expression certain to have taken over Darien's face as lovelorn, given the topic of conversation. He shrugged. "Always, but I think I'll survive." Though who knows for how long, he didn't say aloud. No reason to worry the kid with the reality of the situation. Darien jiggled the keys. "Where to?"

Adam grinned and hopped into the car sliding across the bench seat into the passenger's position. "Home, unless you need to make a pit stop for fuel."

Darien shook his head and climbed in the car far more sedately, actually opening the door and everything. He had to adjust the seat back a good foot thanks to Alex having been the previous driver. The mere thought of food caused his stomach to roil in unhappiness. Though starved when he'd first boarded the plane, hunger had yet to return even though hours had gone past. Another wrench thrown into the system perhaps? Those nifty seizures causing things to swing even further away from the norm? Not that there was any 'normal' for him these days.

"Nah, I'm good." He started the car, the low rumble of sound revealing the power hidden behind the facade of older model car. He slid the gear into drive and rolled sedately forward. Adam played navigator until they were on the lone major road from which all others led; like a river fed by numerous tributaries.

"How'd your New Year's Eve concert go last night?" Darien asked, still feeling oddly upset he'd been unable to share that with Adam.

"Awesome," Adam enthused, turning in his seat to face Darien. "Not a missed note and two... count 'em two encores. We've got three more concerts booked already."

Darien glanced at the beaming boy, finding it hard not to get caught up in the joy radiating from him. "Bar mitzvahs?"

Adam snorted. "No way, man. A Valentine's Day Dance at the Youth Center, and then some Spring Break parties. We're not headliners, but any exposure is good for the group."

Darien swallowed hard. Exposure was right. "Adam, you need to be careful." He kept his voice steady and soft, not wanting to frighten the boy more than absolutely necessary. "Those events get filmed and there are still people looking for you."

Adam ducked his head. "I know."

Darien eyed him, trying to get across how serious this was with just a look.

"Really, I know. If those guys recognize me in full costume, I'll eat my shirt. Alex sure as hell didn't." Adam had this sly grin on his face, but Darien didn't doubt the words coming from him were anything but the truth.

"Good enough." Darien didn't feel he had the right to lecture him, and it sounded like the kid was being as careful as a teenager certain of his immortality could be. "So, you make it past second base yet?"

Adam actually gaped. "Darien," he laughed once he found his voice, "I don't kiss and tell."

"A gentleman." Darien shook his head in mock disappointment. "Thought I instilled far less lofty values in you."

"Well, you tried, but I guess my far superior nature won out," Adam countered, still as much of a smartass as ever.

"All that hard work gone to waste," Darien sighed ruefully. "Guess I'll just have to take advantage of this visit and do some damage control."

Adam rolled his eyes. "You can but try, my man, but I know you better than you think. You're one of the good guys," he grinned devilishly, "no matter how hard you try to be bad."

"Don't be so sure about that," Darien responded, voice tight. He had no trouble remembering exactly how bad he could be while under the influence of Quicksilver Madness. Which is why he would never go back to it again. Not even to save what was left of his piss-poor life. "I'm a thief, remember?"

"Was, you mean," Adam corrected, then shivered from head to toe, as if shedding water... or Quicksilver. "Or maybe again? How did you manage to score that sweet ride? Even Alex had to fly commercial to get here."

Darien grinned, more than prepared to spin a tale full of half-truths to drag the topic away from far darker and more dangerous subjects. "Ah, now that story begins a couple years ago...."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[January 1, 5:50 pm Bahamian time]

Darien leaned back into the deck chair, stretched bare feet out in front of him and took another swig from the ice-cold bottle Adam had tossed him. That, and the shade inside the Steinman's large garage, were welcome after the drive under the Bahamian sun.

About fifteen feet away, in the end of the garage that passed for a rehearsal stage, Adam picked out a melodic riff on his black electric guitar. The group's bass player, a short black kid whose name Darien hadn't caught, joined him with a hard, echoing bass line.

"Yeah," Adam said, grinning, as they crashed to a finish. "Like that. And then Hayley can come back in, and then we loop back to the chorus."

"Can we run that one all the way through?" The petite, honey-skinned girl who had been introduced to Darien as Adam's girlfriend, Hayley, was practically dancing from excitement. The other two band members, a raw-boned guy on percussion, Seth, he thought, and a plump blonde girl playing keyboard with black-nailed hands, added their voices to the request.

Adam turned and caught Darien's gaze. "How you holding up, D?"

Darien held up his bottle and pointed to the bowl of chips Deb had pressed on him before Adam dragged him out to hear the practice. "Food, drink, and great live music. I'm fine, Alex." He grinned at his use of the name, and because for once in the past weeks, the declaration actually felt like it might be true. "Better than fine," he clarified. "Fantastic."

"All right." Adam turned and motioned to the group; Hayley lifted the red plastic shell of an electric violin and tucked it beneath her chin. The bow slid across the strings, a wavering, rising cry that led into the quiet thunder of percussion and hard, punk melody of the guitar. The amplified chords hummed through the floor, through the air, right into Darien's bones.

Not completely his style of music, but the minor melody called out in a voice he recognized. From anyone else, the lyrics--what he could make out, when Hayley dropped her violin to sing in a high, clear voice--might have sounded like overblown teenage angst. From Adam, as he stared into Hayley's dark eyes and added his newly deepened voice to hers, it had real depth. Defiance. Life.

Darien gulped down another swallow of root beer, briefly wishing he'd taken Deb Steinman up on her offer of some kind of cocktail when he'd first set foot in the house, his hand seized and vigorously pumped by Charlie in greeting. Charlie was as sun-brown as Adam, and the softness of his middle-aged paunch had disappeared. He was still a taller, stockier version of Bobby, but now more of the family resemblance came through. And Deb, too, looked vastly better than the last time he'd seen them in the San Diego airport nearly two years before. She was carefully made up and cheerful in a light sun dress. She'd lost some of the plump suburban housewife look, and contentment had replaced the pinched dissatisfaction that had marred her pleasant features when he'd first met her.

They had both welcomed Darien with open arms, literally. He caught himself wondering if the island really was some kind of heal-all for the stress of life; the Steinmans sure seemed to have left all their worries behind in New Jersey.

Deb had bustled about, pointing out the dining room, the bar, and the view of the ocean from the family room. If Adam hadn't intervened with an apology about not being able to cancel the audition for a new keyboard player, and to ask if Darien would like to sit in, Deb might have taken up a couple of hours displaying her new domain. But Adam's kiss on her cheek made her order Charlie to dig out shorts for Darien, and then she shooed the "boys" off to their amusements, while she saw to dinner.

Adam treated both his foster parents with an affection that made Darien's heart ache. The kid was actually happy. The emails had made it seem that way, and Darien had hoped it was true. Adam deserved some happiness after the thrashing life had handed him, but this... The sunshine and warmth of the weather seemed to echo the hominess of the whole little made-up family.

Darien closed his eyes and just listened. This little--what had Adam called the style? Some kind of punk--band wasn't bad, either. Not all the members were as outspoken as Adam, and their drummer was downright shy, but they had all seemed pleased to meet Darien, and had no trouble working together with a stranger watching. The music combined to form a living thing, all the parts in their place, instruments and voices blending and climbing over each other.

Family, and friends, a beautiful girlfriend, and a spot playing at a Valentine's Day Dance.

So much for being a lab rat, Darien thought in satisfaction. He'd worked hard to make sure Adam wouldn't end up like him, blocked into a dead end with nowhere to go, and it had worked beyond what he could have expected.

He opened his eyes just in time to catch Adam's sweep forward into the crashing final chord. The kid straightened up and beamed. He turned and held out his free hand to each band member in turn, trading a series of low-fives--with Hayley, it turned into more of a hand-clasp. "Guys, that was awesome! Jake, you even remembered to come in ahead. We are seriously going to rule our next gig."

Damn, but the kid was happy.

Darien plunked his bottle down and applauded. "That was great, my man! You've really got something going here."

Adam and Hayley glanced at each other, then both swept very low, un-punky bows in Darien's direction. "We'll just be a few more minutes, D." Adam jerked a thumb at the equipment they had set up.

"Hey, don't hurry on my account." Darien dug into the bowl of chips. "I'm enjoying myself, here."

It wasn't a lie; he was enjoying this moment. Full of fluids and salty snacks--none of which had produced an allergic reaction--no longer as cold as he'd been in England, and in the company of people who had no idea what had been going on with him, he could relax. Not forget, not quite. But let go, pretend the Agency didn't exist, that there was no one trying to track him down, and that he had as many years left as Adam.

A feminine voice cleared her throat next to him. The rest of the group was still packing things away, laughing and joking around. Hayley had her violin case in one hand, and had come to stand near Darien. "Yeah?"

Dark, almond-shaped eyes appraised him, and her voice had a definite lilt. "Mister Fawkes, are you sure you can't stay a while? It would mean a lot to Alex. He talks about you all the time, and I know he'd love you to be there for our next show." She was clearly waiting for an actual answer.

Darien sat up straighter. "I would if I could, Hayley. You can just call me Darien, by the way. But plane tickets are tough to change on demand, and even tougher to get this late in the season."

"Oh, bull." Adam wandered over, while the other kids waved to Hayley and headed out of the garage. "You're talented at stuff like that, D." He wiggled his eyebrows, and Darien swore to himself that he'd stop telling the kid scam stories.

Darien addressed Hayley in all seriousness. "I'll see what I can do. But no promises. I don't get that much vacation time."

She smiled at him, a gorgeous, open grin, then turned to Adam--Alex, in her world--and took his hand to walk back out into the achingly beautiful sunshine.

Darien stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back and neck. When Adam strolled back into the garage, he looked perplexed. "So--what was that about?" He sounded genuinely confused.

Darien slumped back into the chair and smirked at him. "That was your girl looking out for you."

Adam's mouth made a silent oh. "That's good, right?"

"Very good," Darien assured him. "Gorgeous, caring, and an awesome singer--where'd you find this girl?"

Adam shrugged. He pulled a folding chair over to where Darien had settled back down, and straddled it. "We hung out at the same places."

Something occurred to Darien, and he thought for a few seconds before asking, "How much does she know?"

"Nothing classified. I'm not stupid, I watch Alias." Adam scrubbed a hand through his spiky hair, making it stick up even more. "She knows that my parents are dead, and that I'm from the States. Nothing else, except what I put in some of the songs."

Darien held out the bowl of chips. "Think I could see the lyrics sometime?"

Adam hesitated, hand outstretched, frowning. "You honestly think someone could listen to my songs and guess who I am? I don't put anything classified in those, either. Again -"

"- not stupid," Darien finished for him. He shook the bowl of chips in Adam's direction. "I know you're not. I just wanted to see what you wrote, that's all. I doubt Chrysalis kids listen to goth metal."

"Goth punk," Adam corrected, and took a double handful of chips. Instead of eating them, he turned them over in his hands. "Darien -" he started, then stopped.

"Yeah?" Darien stuffed his own mouth with salty goodness. Whatever Adam was about to say, he wanted a little bit of time to think up an answer.

Adam looked at him. "So. Why are you really here?"

Ah, crap. Darien made himself finish chewing, not wanting to choke on the crumbs. "I'm here to see you, 'cause it's been way too long."

"Uh-huh." Adam's chips were beginning to crumble. "This time last week, it was all about how you were sorry you couldn't make it for New Year's, because you had 'work' stuff going on, and because there weren't any tickets left anyway."

"Things change." Darien scooped up another handful.

Adam sighed, loudly. "Sure they do. Which is why you flew in from England on that fancy little jet. Alex was sure surprised when I told her you were coming this morning, and oh yeah--you look like crap."

Darien swallowed, wishing he hadn't finished his drink so quickly. The kid hadn't just gotten taller and heavier. Adam had always been bright, and Darien knew that his sharp duds and momentary happiness probably didn't make for the best disguise, but this confrontation was a little unexpected. "Um, well, I did have work. It got resolved, and I decided I needed a break. It was a bad case." True, as far as that went. "I needed to see someone I really cared about. Screw the Agency and their stingy financial planning."

"You're playing hooky from the Agency?" Adam's eyes had gotten wide, but he was clearly fighting a smile.

Darien grinned back, ready to turn the whole thing into a joke. But the words fell apart in his mouth, and what came out was a truth that he had barely articulated to himself yet. "Nah. I'm quitting."

"What?" Adam's hand froze on the way to his mouth.

"I'm quitting," Darien said again, tasting the words on his tongue. "You know. Hanging up my superhero cape, turning in my badge, whatever."

Adam stopped moving, maybe stopped breathing for a moment. The grin had slipped away. "How come?" he asked. "You... you love doing your spy stuff. You catch the bad guys, and do all kinds of crazy stuff. Make the world a better place. Save people."

"I'm tired." Darien forced himself to meet Adam's eyes. "For every good thing we do, it seems like we miss something else. I'm just... done."

"Aren't you gonna miss it?"

"Nah." Darien dusted his hands off on his shorts. "I think I stopped enjoying it a while ago."

Adam couldn't seem to think of anything to say. Finally, he pulled himself together enough to ask, "So does that mean you'll visit more often?"

Darien grinned, reached out and shoved him playfully, and Adam cracked a small smile in return. "We'll see. A broke guy doesn't fly. Hey, why don't you tell me more about when you met Hayley?"

Before the story could begin, Charlie poked his balding head into the garage. "Darien, Alex, dinner is served," he announced. "And you'd better hurry, 'cause Deb is awfully proud of this meal, and she doesn't want it getting cold." He rolled his eyes.

Adam jumped up. Darien followed, and slung an arm around Adam's shoulders. "Can you out-hollow-leg me, now? Whaddaya say we make this a contest?"

Adam snorted, and for that moment, all was well with the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[January 1, 2:33 p.m., London time]

Hobbes couldn't stifle his yawns, and didn't bother trying. A glance at his watch told him he'd been up for well over 36 hours at this point, and considering the stress of the day before, it was amazing he hadn't fallen asleep where he sat.

Nigel Adamson hadn't grown on Hobbes. The Brit's chilly demeanor had become steadily more frigid as he'd conducted his inquisition, and Bobby was growing heartily tired of the snidely accusatory questions. The guy was practically implying he'd stood by while Claire gallivanted around the British countryside on some kind of sightseeing excursion or something.

"Am I boring you, Agent Hobbes?" Adamson snapped, breaking in on Bobby's irritable musings.

"As a matter of fact," he muttered to himself, then forced a patently false smile. "What gave you that idea? I'm hangin' on every word." The smile faded and he glared up at his tormentor. "Look, Jack, I've been up for 36 hours straight, chasing after a homicidal maniac you people don't even believe exists, and now my partner's AWOL! I'm not havin' a real good day, so far. Now. For the last time, De Fohn snatched Claire off a train platform in front of witnesses. Why not try actually following up on our story and find out if we're lying? Huh?"

Adamson glared back, face was thunderous. "I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Agent Hobbes. We extended your Agency every courtesy in releasing Dr. Saxe-Coburg into your custody. If you recall, it was she who broke the law, assaulting Dr. Lafayette in his own lab--in a government research facility!"

Hobbes gritted his teeth, his temper fraying still further. "You haven't listened to a damned thing I've said, or Claire either! De Fohn is masquerading as Lafayette so he can rip you off, and you're practically handing him what he wants on a silver platter!"

"Do you have any idea how preposterous your story is?" the bureaucrat scoffed with a snort. "You honestly expect me to believe that your criminal mastermind is using some kind of... of... 'Mission: Impossible' get-up to infiltrate one of the most secure facilities in Britain? Do I look that stupid?"

The question would have made Hobbes roar with laughter if he hadn't been so angry. "Yeah, actually, you do," he snarled. "For the last time, bub, the Phone is bad news, with a capital 'B.' He and his goons wiped out a dozen people getting his stolen technology out of one of OUR most secure labs! You honestly think he'd think twice about doing the same thing to you?" Fury brought him to his feet, setting him pacing past Adamson, arms flailing a bit in an effort to drive home his point. "Let me go through it one more time so the kids in slow class can keep up. One:" he ticked off the count on his fingers. "Arnaud De Fohn is a known terrorist. Check Interpol, for Pete's sake. He's got a history of infiltrating secure facilities in countries all around the world and stealing technology right out from under the noses of the rocket scientists who're supposed to be keeping an eye out for corporate espionage. Two: his goons murdered every scientist in the place when he stole the technology he wanted from my Agency! Three: he's got a whatchamacallit--a mansion--near a little burg called Biggleswade with a secret research facility in the basement under the damned barn. Four: he snatched Claire off a train platform and dragged her out there so he could pick her brains -"

"About what, exactly?" Adamson interrupted, eyes narrowed. "Agent Hobbes, this is preposterous. Your imaginary mastermind is -"

It was the MI5 assistant director's turn to be interrupted, this time by an agitated subordinate who burst into the office, face pale. "Excuse me, sir, but I thought you'd better hear this right away," he stammered.

"I thought I'd made myself clear, Warren. I'm not to be disturbed!"

"We've just received word that the Oxford StemTech campus is on fire," the hapless Warren defended his actions.

"Arnaud," Hobbes muttered grimly. "Whatever he wants from StemTech, he's got, now."

Adamson whirled, casting lethal glares at Bobby and Warren in turn. "What do you mean, the lab's on fire?"

"All three fire brigades in the area are responding, sir. I thought you'd want to know--"

Adamson missed the last words as he raced out the door of his office, calling for a full briefing.

Bobby followed, stepping out of the mahogany cocoon of the office and into a swarming hive of activity. Agents flitted around the war room, consulting computers, staring at a wall-sized video display, and shouting on phones; it was straight out of a vintage Bond flick. All that was needed was for the gloating visage of Dr. No to be superimposed over the rapidly cycling suborbital shots of Great Britain to complete the picture.

"Give me a view of the Oxford area," Adamson shouted over the din of voices, and someone in the crowd sent off the correct commands to the appropriate urban surveillance cameras. Within seconds, the image on screen shifted through a kaleidoscope of shots, landing on one that revealed the spires of the university, and in the northwestern corner of the frame, a plume of smoke that reached skyward to spread in a trailing pall over the countryside.

Adamson's face went gray. "Report!" he demanded.

A sandy-haired agent with a deeply care-worn face that belied his youth approached with a handful of printouts, scanning them quickly as he stopped in front of his boss. "The brigade responded to an automatic alarm 20 minutes ago, and the first engines on scene called a second alarm when they arrived. It looks like the whole north corner is fully involved, sir," he snapped off a brisk no-nonsense account. "The third alarm just went out."

"Bloody hell," Adamson snarled, snatching the printouts and casting a quick glance over them, as if the information would be different. When the papers merely confirmed it, the MI5 assistant director met his agent's eyes grimly. "Take our 'guests' and get out there, Sam. I want a man on scene to evaluate the damage," he commanded, then turned to another agent. "Dory, bring Dr. Saxe-Coburg in here immediately."

Obediently, she jogged off to do his bidding.

The blond man glanced at Hobbes with curiosity, but nodded briskly. "We're on it, sir."

He turned to Bobby, thrusting out a hand in introduction. "Samuel Westford," he offered.

Hobbes returned the firm grip, relieved that his sojourn in the care of Adamson looked to have ended. "Bobby Hobbes," he replied. "What say we find Claire--Dr. Saxe-Coburg--and get out there?"

"I've got a helo standing by," Westford agreed, gesturing for Bobby to precede him out of the war room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hobbes moved the headset mike closer to his mouth so it could pick up his voice. "You doin' OK, Claire?" he asked over the thunder of helicopter rotors.

She nodded, a wan smile replacing her queasy expression. "I'm not the best flyer," she admitted into her own microphone. Between the lack of sleep, the hours of interrogation by Adamson's team, and now a stomach-churning ride in a Royal Marine Lynx Mk7, its side doors wide open to allow the damp, freezing air of New Year's day to stream through the helicopter, she felt distinctly ill. She was cold and weary beyond belief. Every muscle trembled with it, and her eyes felt like they'd been sandpapered. Clamping her teeth shut on the chattering that threatened, she concentrated on the view out the front windshield rather than the one out the doors. Featureless iron-gray sky was far less nausea-inducing than the dizzily spinning countryside below.

Ahead, the view began to dip, the smoke from StemTech obscuring the towers and crenellations of Oxford to the southeast. They were nearly there, thank God.

The helicopter dropped toward earth like a stone, spinning in a half-circle so that its passengers could take in the destruction below. The blandly featureless glass block that housed StemTech's facilities was anything but that, now. Glass had exploded from steel frames to lie across the parking lot like sooty glitter on once-white snow, and flames and smoke poured from the interior in solar flare streamers.

The MI5 agent--Sam Westford, if she recalled correctly--was out of the helicopter even before it had come to rest on the icy asphalt. He reached back in for her hand, and she allowed him to help her out of the contraption, relieved beyond all measure when snow crunched underfoot again.

Hobbes scrambled out after her, attention focused on the milling fire fighters a few hundred feet away. "Man, what a mess," he observed, though she could barely make out his words over the din. She totally agreed with the sentiment, however. Everything that had occurred as a result of her ill-fated visit home was a mess. Darien's future health, Arnaud's apparently successful raid of StemTech's research... She sighed heavily.

They followed Westford across the parking lot towards the light-barred red SUV that had 'Chief Fire Officer' emblazoned on the side, waiting impatiently for a smoke-blackened fire fighter to conclude his report before interrupting the Area Manager's concentration. "Chief," Sam made their presence known, ignoring the irritation on the older man's face when he turned to face them.

"The press isn't welcome," the grizzled veteran snarled, eyeing them suspiciously.

"We're not the press," Westford corrected, flipping open his ID to back his words. "Do you know the cause of the fire, yet?"

The Fire Master eyed the MI5 ID for a moment before looking up to meet Sam's gaze. "You're certainly Johnny-on-the-spot, 'Agent' Westford," he commented with unmistakable irony. "I take it StemTech was one of your 'special' projects?"

Sam nodded shortly. "Arson?" he suggested.

"Oh, unmistakably," the Fire Master agreed sarcastically. "Nothing like a few well-placed blasting caps and a dozen litres of fuel oil to make for a pretty 'bang.' Add to that a woefully out of date fire suppression system, and you have... this." He waved a gloved hand at the half-destroyed research facility. "We're holding the line, but the whole northern corner is a total loss."

"Any casualties?" Bobby spoke up, bearing hinting at the pugnacious little agent he was.

"A pair of security guards with some minor smoke inhalation, and a half-dozen lab workers, one of whom's just gone off to hospital with second and third degree burns over half her body."

"No fatalities?" Hobbes probed.

"Not so far," the Fire Master replied. "Why, were you hoping for some?"

"Hardly," Westford spoke up. "Agent Hobbes, here, has encountered this particular... arsonist previously. In his case, over a dozen people were killed, quite deliberately."

"Thank God it's a holiday," Claire said. "It may have prevented an even greater tragedy."

"If De Fohn is ready to torch this place, then he's got what he came for. The question is, where's he going next?" Bobby redirected the conversation to the key issue at hand.

"Good question," Westford nodded. "I take it you've an opinion on that?"

"He'll likely be erasing his tracks," Claire spoke up in her turn. "I strongly suggest we 'drop in' on him in Biggleswade. If we're extraordinarily lucky, perhaps we'll catch him before he can clear out his lab there."

"Smart thinking, Keepy," Hobbes agreed with a nod.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, with dusk darkening the air, they descended on the Red Poplars, their helicopter settling on the snowy, frostbitten lawn with all the unwieldy awkwardness of a landing goose.

Out here in the countryside, there was little in the way of ambient light to illuminate the shadows cast by the bank of woodland between the main road and the manor, and there were no lights to be seen in any of the massive casement windows of the stately home itself.

"We made a loud enough entrance," Hobbes remarked while the rotors slowed and stopped overhead, absently patting the spot his waist holster usually occupied. He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets when its absence reminded him he was in foreign territory. "If any of his goons were still here, you'd think they'd come running."

"It appears deserted," Westford agreed, peering around the twilit grounds unhappily. "And if it's not, we have a potential ambush in the making." He turned back to the Lynx's open door, calling out for the Royal Marine captain who'd accompanied them thus far. "Collins, I think we could use your expertise."

The fatigue-clad Royal Marine climbed out of the helicopter with practiced ease, beckoning his four men to follow. The truncated air unit usually consisted of a flight crew and seven commandos, but to serve as a passenger vehicle for MI5, that contingent had been reduced by a few men.

The darkness was giving Hobbes the heebie-jeebies, and more than the cold dampness prickled his skin. His instincts said that Arnaud was long gone, but he owed it to Fawkes to make damned sure he confirmed that. And it might well be that there was information that could help Claire still floating around the place. "Maybe have them check out the house while we take a look at the barn?" he suggested. He didn't want the only men with guns accidentally shooting Arnaud somewhere fatal before Claire could grill him on how to fix things in Fawkes' head.

The Marine captain nodded without hesitation, training and logic decreeing that the manor would be the most likely place to encounter armed resistance. He waved his small handful of men to the fore, and like a well-oiled machine, they spread out to cover the mansion.

Claire led the way down-slope towards the large stone barn that sat in a shallow swale a good 100 yards from the house. Inside, the scent and sound of horses greeted them. Nickers in the darkness were strangely comforting, and Hobbes knew with near certainty that they were alone. He groped along the wall inside the doorway for the light switch and flipped it on, a trio of low-watt ceiling fixtures glowing to life.

Heads thrust curiously over stall doors, half a dozen dark-eyed animals peered at them, nostrils flaring as they scented strangers. Hobbes scratched the forehead of the nearest one when the horse bumped him with its nose in search of treats. "You remember how he activated the trapdoor?" he asked Claire, who stood in the middle of the aisle between the rows of stalls, turning in a slow circle.

"If I recall, the control panel was right... here, " she answered, sidling over next to a spectacular black Arabian's stall. Running her hand around the back side of one of the support posts, she smiled triumphantly.

"You found it?" Bobby asked, then wished he hadn't, the question sounding stupid in his ears. He headed towards her, Sam on his heels, stopping beside her.

"Any suggestions about the combination?" she inquired of Bobby over her shoulder.

Bobby considered this in all seriousness. Realistically, the combo could be anything, and he didn't have a clue what kind of mnemonic Arnaud typically used. It all depended on how secure he felt...

"His birthday?" Sam suggested.

"Unlikely," Claire replied, but gamely keyed it in. The device beeped twice, its ready light flashing red. "Apparently not."

"Claire, do you remember hearing how many numbers he used?" Bobby asked, grasping at straws.

She straightened, considering. "I think it was four digits," she mused.

Without a second thought, Hobbes spoke. "Ninety-three hundred."

Claire's eyebrows rose. "Do you really think so? He'd know we'd try that combination," she pointed out, hesitating. "If this is an even reasonably new security system, it will lock us out for 24 hours after the third wrong guess."

"Try it, Claire," Hobbes insisted. He couldn't say why, but he was dead certain that his hunch would pay off.

Claire shook her head infinitesimally but did as he'd requested. A split second later, the indicator light went from amber to green, and underfoot, the floor split, dropped down four inches, and slid away under the rest of the barn floor.

The three agents exchanged stares, then examined the steeply sloped stairs revealed by the open trapdoor. "I'm thinkin' that was too easy," Bobby muttered to himself, setting one foot on the first step.

Whether it was pressure sensitive or there was a body heat sensor somewhere on the stairs, the lights came on in a wash of cool fluorescence. "Looks as if we're expected," Sam commented, reaching for his weapon before stepping down into the gleaming well, brushing past Hobbes.

Bobby missed his Colt badly at that moment, his hand empty without its weight. "Be careful, Westy. You don't know Arnaud."

Ahead, Sam descended cautiously, heeding the advice. Bobby and Claire followed, equally cautious. "You see something?" Bobby asked, Sam halting on the bottom step.

"I think you're right, Agent Hobbes. Whoever this Arnaud is, he's expecting you." The gun was lowered, returned to its holster, and the MI5 agent stepped to one side, allowing them to join him.

"What do you mean, he's expecting us?" Claire inquired as she reached the bottom before turning to face into the subterranean lab.

Hobbes pointed at the opposite wall where a large LCD display glowed blue. From all around them, Arnaud De Fohn's Swiss-accented words reverberated in the enclosed space.

"Welcome, Doctor," the voice greeted them, and a split second behind, the screen filled with the supercilious smile Bobby knew only too well, though it was concealed beneath the false exterior of Maurice Lafayette's face. Last time he'd seen Arnaud, the man had been using his own skin, at least. It creeped him out to see once again just how convincing a disguise the cloned skin was.

"Oh, bum," Claire sighed.

The recording went on, blissfully unconcerned with their various reactions. Arnaud was in full gloat mode, obviously, and Bobby found himself wishing for a mute button. Film and sound still a split second mismatched, Arnaud settled into one of the lab's chairs like a TV talk show host, leaning back comfortably. A heartbeat later, he continued speaking, lips and voice unsynched.

"You've made my life rather complicated, Doctor 'Keeply'," the mad scientist observed with disturbing cheerfulness. "It's difficult to remain focused on my current projects when you're here, busy distracting me with tales of woe regarding Fawkes' future, or lack thereof."

Bobby growled softly at this and Claire shushed him.

"Presuming that I actually care one way or the other whether your precious Fawkes lives or dies, I'd like to caution you against reneging on our arrangement. You can rest assured that I will get what we agreed to, since you now have the missing piece of your puzzle."

Agreed to? Claire had made some kind of deal with De Fohn? Ice filled Bobby's guts and he stared at the woman he thought he knew, aghast. Darien's instinctive reaction of distrust had been merited. And that hurt. Shockingly so. Claire had gotten under his skin too far. He'd lost objectivity. And in the process, it seemed he'd helped her betray his partner...

"You bastard," Claire cursed softly. "I will hunt you down and kill you, if I have to."

Westford blinked at the vitriol in her voice, and Bobby swallowed the burst of panic that had threatened to overwhelm him the instant before.

Oblivious to the impact of his pre-recorded words, Arnaud went on blithely. "Fortunately, your request for my aid comes at an opportune moment, Doctor. It seems I've concluded my work here in Britain, and I find myself wishing for warmer climes. Feel free to search my lab, here. I've removed anything of interest, though, so I wouldn't bother if I were you. However, suit yourself," he waved a hand airily. "Perhaps we will meet again, one day, back at the ranch," he smirked as the screen went dark.

"He's going back to San Diego!" Bobby snarled. "Claire, what did he mean when he said he'd hold you to your side of the agreement?"

Claire turned to face him, eyes stormy. "To make him show me where the genes he removed were located, I had to agree to share the results of any tissue samples I took from the gland with him."

Her admission reassured him, at least slightly, that she hadn't betrayed Darien, after all. At least not yet.

"Excuse me for interrupting," Sam started. "But would one of you mind explaining exactly who that was?"

"That was Arnaud De Fohn, masquerading as your Dr. Lafayette," Hobbes snapped.

"What was he talking about? What genes? What gland?" The MI5 agent's voice was grim.

"That's need to know. It's what he stole from our Agency, almost five years ago. Information. Just like what he just stole from you. And then he destroyed what was left so we couldn't recreate what we'd done except from scratch. Again, just like what happened at StemTech today." It was Claire who answered, this time, her voice equally cold.

Any further discussion was aborted when a steady beeping sounded all around them, and the big LCD screen once again glowed, this time with red numbers, counting down to...

Hobbes knew better than to linger. "He's rigged the place to blow!" he shouted, catching his companions by the arms and hauling them up the stairs as fast as they could run.

They barely reached the top of the stairs before the blast concussion erupted from beneath their feet, knocking them forward to sprawl in the straw, battered and bruised. Sparks and flames began licking at the abundant tinder, and without pausing long enough to make sure Claire was alright, Hobbes rose and dragged her and Sam to their feet, forcing them back out down the main barn corridor.

The soft, reassuring sounds of the horses had altered instantly, and now there were trumpeting neighs of fear and the thud of hooves against wood walls.

"Open the stalls," Bobby shouted, stooping to avoid the rapidly thickening layer of smoke that filled the barn from the ceiling down. "Get the poor critters out of here before they fry!"

Together, the three agents stumbled their way out of the barn, pausing only long enough to open the stall doors and free the terrified animals. The last of the great beasts thundered out into the night, and the trio followed, choking on the smoke billowing forth from every opening in the old stone building.

From the direction of the house, the Marine captain and his men raced towards them, weapons drawn and at the ready.

"What the hell happened?" Captain Collins demanded.

"Arnaud. Rigged the lab to blow," Hobbes coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smearing the ample soot around on his face. "What about you boys? Find anyone in the house?"

"Not a soul," Collins shook his head, voice betraying a mood as dark as the shadows cast by the flames now rising out the barn's windows. "Place is cleared out." He turned to one of his men, every bit the take-charge commander. "Elliot, call the brigade and get them out here before the whole property goes up. And make sure someone from the RSPCA comes out to take charge of rounding up the animals. They'll be halfway to Letchworth by morning." He stepped back to allow the three scorched and smoky agents to precede him back towards the house while his men loped ahead to do his bidding. "Hellova way to end the day," he muttered to himself.

Bobby couldn't have put it better if he'd tried.