Author's Note:

Some of you may have seen this story previously. It was 'aired' as a part of this year's Virtual Season. I believe the actual airdate was sometime in October 2003. Due to space limitations in the Virtual Season guidelines, this story was restricted to 20 pages. I suppose you can call this version the director's cut as it has been rewritten in places and expanded. Whether you're reading for the first time, or rereading with the changes, I hope you'll enjoy the story. To those interested in the Virtual Season - http://www.dmvs3.tvheaven.com/index.html

Special thanks to those who helped me with this in various ways.

The Decoy

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by Writer JC

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Part One: The Setup

"Ow! Not so tight, Jess!" Steve flinched away from his friend and business partner. "Are you this rough when your patients are really hurt?" He was seated on an examination table in the secure wing of Community General Hospital, while Jesse attached tape and bandages to various portions of his bare upper body.

"I'm trying to make this authentic." Jesse barely shot him a glance, but reached out a hand, grasped Steve's shoulder and pulled him back to where he needed him to be so that he could continue to place the bandages. "Quit being such a baby," he chided as he worked.

"I am not being a baby!" Steve huffed, and looked across at his father for back up.

Mark offered a small, distracted grin of amusement. "It's important that he makes it look as if you've really been wounded, Steve."

"Yeah, I know," Steve grumbled, scratching at the bandage over his left temple. He hadn't realized how uncomfortable the things were when there was no pain present to distract a person. "But he could at least --"

"Leave that alone," Jesse cut him off. "You're ruining my work."

Steve sighed, but moved his hand away from his temple to scratch at the hair on his chin. "How long before you're done?"

"Now," Jesse replied, finishing off with flair. He patted the bandages slightly. "Don't get them wet. I'm sure you'll remember all of the other things you're not supposed to do. Or should I write out a list?"

"Can you write it in Russian?" Steve asked sarcastically.

"Nyet," Jesse shot back as he moved toward a shelf in the corner of the room. "But I do happen to have a handy little preprinted document. Just for you."

"You've got to be kidding me." Steve looked at the Cyrillic characters and rolled his eyes. "Fine." He turned toward his father. "I've got wound care instructions that I can't read, bandages that I don't need. A beard that's itching like the dickens. So, what's next?"

Mark approached and handed him several prescription bottles. "These are your pain killers, and your other meds. All filled in the name of Mikhail Jener. There is a tiny gray dot in the corner of the label so you'll know that they're not the real thing."

Steve looked them over, noting the distinguishing mark. "Sugar pills, right?"

"We prefer the term 'placebo'," Jesse said.

"Fine." Steve shot him a wry look. "As long as they don't have any affect on me." He sat them atop the papers that Jesse had given him. "Fake pills have officially been added to the list."

"Time for these." Mark retrieved a small oval case from his pocket and moved closer. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Just seeing the object caused apprehension to build in the pit of Steve's stomach, but he settled back onto the examination table until he was lying flat on his back.

He held onto the sides of the table as his father readjusted the overhead light. He stared beyond the lights to the paneled ceiling, trying not to notice the slight sounds as the case was opened and his dad removed the extended wear lenses Steve would be using. Steve tried to quell that mild sense of panic that rose up within him. The part of the assignment that he had been dreading wasn't putting his life in danger, but having these damned contacts put in. The thought of anything in his eyes caused him to want to clench them shut and run for the hills.

Mark leaned in a bit over him and he caught sight of one of the transparent concave lenses perched on the edge of his dad's index finger. His reflexes kicked in.

"Steve," Mark chuckled affectionately from over head. "It might be easier if you'd unclench your eyes for me."

"Oh, sorry," Steve apologized and told his eyelids to do what his father had asked. The result was that he ended up squinting up at his dad, seeing the amusement in is expression.

"Just relax," Mark said, his voice calm and gentle. "Why don't you close your eyes, as if you're going to sleep? I'll take care of the rest."

Suck it up, Sloan! Steve was starting to feel a silly that he was letting such a common procedure get to him. Besides, he trusted his dad. Blowing out a breath, he forced himself to calm down. "Okay, Dad."

"This won't take long, son. Just relax." Mark's voice was low and had a soothing singsong quality to it. But Steve still tensed when he felt Mark touch his eyelid. He balled his hands into fists to prevent himself from reaching upward and moving his dad's hand away. Then, more quickly than he'd thought it would happen, the contact lens was slipped into his eye. In the same motion his lid was released and he began blinking.

"One more to go." He heard Mark moved around the head of the examination table to the opposite side. He kept up a calming dialogue as the process was repeated on the other eye. And then it was all over. Steve accepted the tissue that was handed to him as he blinked away reactive tears. Then, looking about the room, he was surprised to find that things looked much the same. But the thin lenses felt odd against his corneas.

He sat up and took the thin-framed glasses that his father next handed to him. Slipping them on, he got down from the table and faced the two men. "Vhat do you think?" he asked with the soft Russian accent that he had been cultivating the past week.

"See for yourself." Mark grinned and waved him toward the mirror above the sink in the corner of the room.

Steve moved toward it. He was more than a little curious after all of the preparation that had gone into getting ready for the role. He'd been allowing his beard and mustache to grow in, and he'd forgone visiting his usual barber in favor of an FBI specialist. All so that he could act as decoy for Mikhail Jener, a Russian businessman who was to testify for the FBI at trial.

As he came to a stop before the mirror, he was amazed at what he saw. His hair, usually combed back away from his face, was brushed forward, forming somewhat longish bangs. It had been lightened a bit, and styled in the way that Jener apparently wore his hair. Streaks of gray had been added, as well, to enhance the resemblance. The beard and mustache, he'd gotten used to over the past few days, but the stylist had done wonders with it. Both were trimmed short and neat, but gray had been added there as well. The addition of striking gray contacts completed the look. It was the feature Jener was most known for, his eyes. And now, to the casual observer, Steve Sloan looked like Mikhail Jener.

All three men turned at the tap on the door. It then opened to reveal FBI Special Agent Ronald Wagner. He was the person who had brought Steve in on the operation. "We all set in here?" His eyes settled on Steve for a moment and he whistled with amazement. "I knew you guys had some similarities, but this is incredible," he said, coming farther into the room and circling the detective. "You are Mikhail Jener."

"You think so, no?" Steve asked, feigning the accent and Jener's speech pace with a grin.

Ron shook his head and winced. "Remember to cough occasionally. Let them know you caught a cold in the hospital. That'll account some for the voice differences. Don't talk too much."

"We've been over it a hundred times," Steve said, remembering each of those occasions with very little joy. He'd been drilled to within an inch of his sanity. He knew more about the other man's speech patterns, likes and dislikes than he'd ever wanted to. But it was all necessary in order for the ruse to work.

Someone had tried to kill Jener while under FBI protection. Someone on the inside. Unfortunately, he hadn't seen his attacker. He had barely gotten out alive. He'd been transferred to Community General's secure wing at Ron's request, as the trial was to take place in Los Angeles Country in just three more days. Two attempts had already been made in the hospital, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to ensure the safety of the other patients.

And now, Steve was being set up in a new safe house, with a new team, masquerading as Jener, while the real Jener was spirited away as Steve Sloan, whose current status was officially on vacation. Even Steve wouldn't know where Jener was, though he had his suspicions.

"So one more time won't hurt," Ron shot back in response to his statement. "These drills are for your protection, Steve. And our witness's. Now, why don't you get dressed? I'll be back with the wheelchair so we can get you out of here."

"Right." Steve looked about for his clothing. "Don't I even get to see this guy who's playing me?"

Ron shook his head. "It's too risky for the two of you to be seen together. Besides, he doesn't have half your charm." With that he backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"I'll just . . . go. . . " Jesse gestured in the direction of the door that Ron had just departed through. He pointed at Steve on his way out. "You be careful. I don't want to have to try to run a BBQ joint by myself."

"Somebody's got to keep you from putting in a salad bar," Steve shot back just as the door closed.

He turned back to his father, who stood ready to hand him a shirt. Steve didn't miss the anxiety that he was studiously trying to hide while he moved to clean up the various remnants of supplies that had been used.

"You'll finally get to have the house to yourself for a few days." He tried a joke to lift his father's mood. Mark barely smiled.

Steve sighed before moving closer to his father. "I'll be all right, Dad. Someone will be with me at all times. One of the agents at the safe house even has medical experience, just in case. And if that doesn't help, check out these glasses."

He took them off and handed them to his father, explaining, "They have one-way communications. So, Ron will be able to hear everything I do." He lifted his arm and displayed the watch that was banded around his wrist. "This watch can be converted into a phone in case of an emergency, and is equipped with GPS satellite tracking software. They'll know where I am better than I will."

Mark's pitiful excuse for a smile broadened only slightly as he handed the high-tech glasses back to his son. "I know, Steve." He ran a hand over his head while he tried to find the right words to convey what he was feeling. "I know. And all of this is very impressive, but when you walk out that door, you'll have a target on your back. I just . . . I just want you to be careful."

"I will, Dad," Steve said. "I promise."

~*~*~*~*~*

Jesse entered an examination room halfway along the secure wing. It was furnished with the usual medical equipment that was found in other rooms, but there was also a door that adjoined it to another room. He tapped on the door waiting for the voice on the other side to grant permission for him to enter.

Upon receiving the words, he opened the door and stepped into the room. Cheryl had arrived, and sat off to the side of the man who would be pretending to be Jesse's best friend for the next few days. Agent Wagner was also in the room, having already decided to time Steve and Mikhail's departures closely together. Jesse was there awaiting his final instructions. It thrilled him to be included in some small way with the operation.

"Wow." Jesse had to blink when he saw the finished results of Jener's transformation. His hair had been darkened to a deep auburn to match Steve's, the beard and mustache were gone, and he now wore blue contacts. Though Jener had a broader build and his face was fuller, the resemblance was still uncanny. If one didn't know him very well, he could very easily be mistaken for Steve Sloan.

"You understand what you're supposed to do, Dr. Travis?" Ron asked, bringing him out of his surprised observations.

Jesse dragged his gaze distractedly away from Jener. "Uh, yeah. We drive by BBQ Bob's, where Cheryl and 'Steve' drop me off. I make sure I yell their names when I say goodbye."

"Right." Ron turned back to Cheryl. "Detective Banks. Do you understand your part in this?"

"Yes," Cheryl nodded matter-of-factly. "I drive to the beach house where you and your team will already be waiting."

"Good." Ron then turned to Jener, who hadn't spoken at all since Jesse entered the room. "Do you understand your part in all of this?"

"I will be the part of Steven Sloan for two days. After this, we will go to the trial where I am to testify. I understand."

Ron nodded the affirmative. "Timing is important here. I'm going to get Steve ready. You'll need to be leaving in exactly five minutes. Two agents that I trust with my life will be with you every step of the way. You won't see them, but they'll be there."

Jesse could feel the palpable tension as Ron in turn locked gazes with everyone in the room, before turning and leaving. Suddenly the situation seemed so much more serious.

~*~*~*~*~*

Steve settled back into the wheelchair as Ron began to push him out of the examination room and into the corridor. A man dressed in a dark suit had been placed on the door at some point during Steve's 'makeover'. He waited until Ron had pushed the wheelchair a couple of yards and walked along behind them at a distance. Steve groaned slightly at so obvious a bureau tactic.

"Remember, you're Mikhail Jener," Ron murmured quietly from above him. "You're not here to find out who the mole is, or try to take down this person. And you're definitely not here to critique my team. Understand?"

Steve fought to avoid a dry expression, carefully schooling his features as if he was listening intently and eagerly to the agent's words, but his quietly accented, "Yes, Agent Wagner," was infused with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

Ron wasn't given an opportunity to respond to Steve's remarks as another dark-suited agent approached and murmured something in his ear. Ron replied back, then directed the agent to return to the nest.

"Problems?" Steve fought to suppress his frustration at his lack of knowledge of all of the details. He hadn't been included in many of the planning sessions to avoid revealing his identity to more people than necessary, so didn't know where 'the nest' was, or any of the other phrases that had been developed to describe the secret locations associated with the mission.

"No. Everything is going according to schedule," was Ron's reply.

"Oh. Good," Steve said wryly. As far as he was concerned, he could play the part of decoy, but that didn't mean that he had to be a helpless sitting duck. He had a gun stowed away in an ankle holster, and a few other surprises, as well. If someone attacked 'Jener' again, he'd be ready.

The wheelchair was delivered to a private garage off the secure wing in short order, where a black, subtly armored SUV was parked near the exit doors. The area had been otherwise cleared of vehicles and people. Only two serious faced agents awaited them, standing alongside the automobile.

There were no words spoken as Steve allowed himself to be loaded inside, feigning weakness. He stooped a bit at the waist as if his mid-section pained him. It felt silly to be play-acting, but he didn't know if the two agents were in on the ruse. He realized then that he would not be able to let his guard down at all over the next three days. He would be all alone among strangers, none of whom he could trust.

~*~*~*~*~*

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"He's on the move."

"Is everything in place?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Part Two: The Takedown

Mark gazed out of the deck windows as the sun began its descent. His son was out there someplace, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was in grave danger regardless of the measures that Ron had taken to ensure his protection. Mark began to wish that the agent had never shown up to ask if Steve was willing to do the job in the first place. The stakes in this deadly game seemed far too high.

"You are vorried about him, yes?" A quiet voice spoke from behind him, startling him slightly from his ruminations.

Mark turned and faced the man who, in passing, looked like Steve. It was odd having him in the house, pretending that he wasn't a complete stranger. It had almost felt like sacrilege when they had gone out on the deck earlier as if they were father and son enjoying a few minutes together. He understood that the purpose of the exercise was to give the neighbors the impression that Steve was there, but acting as if he was only made the worry in his heart all the more deeper. It was a constant reminder that his son could at any moment be at the mercy of ruthless killers.

He recalled that he himself had suggested the beach house as a safe haven for the Russian ex-patriot, arguing that whomever was after Jener would never expect to find him with a Malibu resident. While Mark believed that was true, his deeper reasoning behind the offer was so that he could be close to the operation, and thus closer to Steve. He knew that otherwise he would have been completely shut out until the trial was over.

"Yes, I am worried about him," Mark replied to Mikhail's question. He moved to sit in one of the armchairs, and gestured that the other man should sit as well.

"You have a great care for him. That is good."

There was no way that he could explain the anxiety that had only seemed to increase as he had helped Steve prepare for this assignment, or the knot that seemed to have lodged itself permanently in his stomach. It wouldn't be fair to make the other man feel responsible for his fears. So he simply smiled and nodded.

"He has dangerous work. You let him do. I thank you for that."

Mark had to chuckle. Obviously Mikhail Jener did not know about his son's deep sense of duty. "It's not so much what I let him do. Steve is his own man. He would have taken this assignment no matter what I may have said."

A confused wrinkle appeared in Mikhail's brow. "I do not know your Steven. But, I tell you how I hear stories of how you vork with him and with police. He has a great care for you, too. I think if you say no, he not do this."

It was Mark's turn to frown as he recalled a quick conversation that he and Steve had shortly after Ron had approached him. He'd asked Mark what he thought of Ron's plan. He remembered that at the time he'd shrugged, and responded that he thought it was a good one, although he wished it didn't include Steve at its center. But then, he had gone on to say that he knew that Steve was a good cop, and that he'd look on protecting Mikhail as his duty.

It had never occurred to him that Steve might be asking if he was too uncomfortable with the assignment. Or even if he was asking Mark whether he should turn it down. In that light, Mark's own responses could have been seen as encouragement to go ahead with the dangerous mission. He couldn't have misinterpreted something like that, could he?

He was dragged from his thoughts by the doorbell. The all clear echoed from one of the guest bedrooms where surveillance equipment had been set up to create a mini command center. Cameras had been installed around the outside of his home during the course of the past week while Steve was working with the linguist. The system had been brought fully online earlier in the day and the onsite and technical teams were in place. He moved past an armed agent to open the door. Ron, Amanda and Jesse stood there as previously planned. All carried cartoons emblazoned with the BBQ Bob's logo. Smoky aromas wafted into the house ahead of them.

The maneuver was designed so that an outsider might think that friends were simply gathering for a pleasant dinner together. But Mark's first thoughts were with Steve. He had to know about the success of the first leg of the plan.

Ron entered the house right behind Amanda, answering without Mark having to voice the question. "He's all settled in, complaining about how bored he is. And pretty soon, he's going to be having dinner, just like us."

"Thanks, Ron." Mark grinned sheepishly at his transparency. But the news did allow him to relax somewhat. As far as he was concerned, boredom was good. It meant that things were going smoothly and as planned.

Jesse was the last one through the door and gestured toward his bag. "Hey Mark! I brought some of that new potato salad we've been telling you about. You're going to love it, it's incredible."

Mark's smile broadened at the younger man's energy. Things almost seemed normal. Then he caught sight of one of the agents stationed half between his and Steve's unit, and remembered that they weren't. With a half sigh, he followed the group into the dining room where the food was being set out.

"What's incredible?" Amanda asked, picking up on Jesse's enthusiastically spoken statement.

"The potato salad. The recipe belongs to one of the new cooks. It's to die for!" Jesse began rummaging through the bags in search of the side dishes. He then opened one of the plastic containers and flipped the top for all to see. "Yum, huh?"

"I will have to take your word for it," Mikhail spoke up. "I am allergic to the eggs. But, I am looking forward to your ribs. I have only seen them in the commercials."

"You are in for a treat, then," Jesse insisted and proceeded to make certain that Mikhail had the opportunity to try every variety of barbecued meat that had been packed in the bag. The young doctor beamed when Mikhail declared the ribs the best American food that he had ever tasted.

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~*~*~*~*~*

Steve had been surprised to find that the safe house was a rental property about five miles up the coast highway from his dad's place. The suspicion that had been in the back of his mind resolved into certainty, but he wasn't at liberty to ask the question with the two other agents in attendance. He had simply allowed himself to be led into the house, introduced to Agents Raymond, Seymour and Cotouri, before being shown into a bedroom where he was expected to "rest".

Alone in the room, he quietly voiced his opinions. "At the beach, in a house. Funny thing this FBI." He knew that Ron could hear him as he was wearing the receiving end of the communications system.

Moving about the room, he sorted through the stack of video tapes and books. "All these books and movies. In Russian. I must remember to thank the thoughtful American agent." He allowed a hint of dryness to slip into his tone as he muttered, "If I don't go bug-eyed nuts first."

Steve sighed heavily, running a hand through the hair that he wasn't used to having in his face. He settled down on the bed and looked around at the depressing array of 'nothing to do'. There wasn't even a window that he could look out of. Unless things changed very soon, Mikhail Jener was going to gain one heck of a reputation for mumbling to himself.

He almost sang out with relief when there was a tap on the door. One of the agents poked his head in and told him that dinner was ready. The man led him into the kitchen and gestured toward a paper bag bearing the BBQ Bob's logo. Just the smells emanating from the bag were making Steve's mouth water. He decided then and there that he might have to forgive Ron for a few of the more boring aspects of this decoy detail.

He was left alone at the small table to enjoy his meal, which he did with gusto. The delicious smells and flavors gave some familiarity to this otherwise alien surroundings, and he enjoyed every morsel, especially the new potato salad. Ingrid had out done herself. He was going to have to get with Ingrid and Jesse to see what they could do about making it a permanent menu item.

~*~*~*~*~*

"There is a problem."

"Of what sort?"

"It is not him. It is a decoy."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Will he lead us to the other?"

"I am not sure."

"Abort the previous plan. Find out what he knows."

~*~*~*~*~*

Steve, having just completed brushing his teeth before going to bed, paused to check his disguise in the bathroom mirror. He rubbed at the gray near his temples, wondering if he would ever get used to it. He had to chuckle when he tried to imagine himself as gray as his dad.

Dismissing such a possibility, he readjusted the leg of the baggy stripped cotton pants that he was wearing. There was just the hint of a dark bulge low on his left calf. He was forced to admit that a few weeks ago, wearing an ankle holster with a pair of pajamas had seemed unlikely as well. Never mind the fact that he would be growing a beard and a mustache.

"You're going to owe me big time, Wagner," he said softly, before sliding the glasses back on and taking another look at the stranger in the mirror. Then, turning away, he reached for the knob of the door that would lead him back into the bedroom. Suddenly the lights blinked out. Before his retinas could adjust to the abrupt change, he felt the hard edge of the door slam into him.

Completely thrown off balance, he slipped on the rug that had been placed in front of the bathtub. In the pitch darkness, he had no chance to catch himself and went down with a crash onto the tiled floor. In the next instant, a pair of hands grabbed him roughly about the collar of his pajama shirt and pulled him upward into a semi-sitting position. Pain exploded in the side of his head as something slammed into him, sending the glasses clattering against porcelain. Another impact caused him to collapse out of his assailant's grasp to collide painfully into the side of the bathtub. He was grabbed up ruthlessly for a third punch which took him under.

Part Three: The Search

Author's Note: This chapter has scenes of torture that some may find disturbing. There is nothing graphic, I don't think, but I would find it personally painful to watch - hence the warning.

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Ron had been sitting around the table joking with everyone in the aftermath of their meal. The conversation was occasionally peppered with comments that Steve had made into his earpiece. Everyone laughed along, glad that the agent was sharing the words with them.

Suddenly Ron jerked, then jumped up from his chair. He raised a hand in an attempt to shush everyone. The room fell into an immediate and complete silence as he pressed a hand to his earpiece, trying to hear what was coming from the other end of the connection. No one dared make a sound, or even a movement, hanging onto Ron's every flickering expression.

As he turned and headed suddenly from the room, Mark moved from his seat and followed. Panic flooded his system. "Ron . . . . what happened? What did you hear?"

Ron shot a look over his shoulder as he continued on to the spare bedroom that housed the surveillance setup. "Something's happened." He raised a hand to halt Mark's next question as he entered the room and addressed the agent sitting before three laptop computers. "Did you get it?"

"Some." The agent had pulled a set of headphones half off of his head and was adjusting his equipment in apparent anticipation of Ron's next request. Words shot between them in rapid-fire succession.

"Com Net?"

"Gone."

"Visual?"

"Jammed."

"Ear piece audio?"

"That's all."

Ron swore viciously. "Play back audio."

The surveillance agent pointed the mouse toward a box on the screen and clicked the button. There were sounds of something being tapped against porcelain with running water in the background. The water was shut off, and Mark had clear imagery in his mind of his son's nightly ritual.

There was silence for several seconds, then a soft grunt before Steve's voice, in a whispered tone, echoed around the room. "You're going to owe me big time, Wagner."

"This is where we lost Com Net and visual," the tech agent spoke quietly against the other sounds coming from Steve's location. At that point, Mark noted that several of the smaller windows on his laptop went dark with the words "searching . . . " flashing in their corners.

His attention was quickly drawn away from the blank screens as a hollow wooden thunk echoed around the room, followed by a sudden loud crash and an "oof!" of a body hitting the floor. Mark startled at the unexpectedness of it, though he had known that something bad was going to happen. Before he could emotionally separate himself, other sounds came; unidentifiable scrabbling noises, then the unsettling sound of flesh pounding into flesh, followed immediately by a loud ricocheting clank that again sent a bolt of adrenaline through him, causing him to jump.

What followed seemed to be another punch. Though it seemed more distant, each was a sharp stab to his heart as he knew who was on the receiving end of such treatment. Mark's ears registered the loud bony thump that followed, seeming as if something had fallen atop the audio source. Then the scrabbling sound as if the microphone was being dragged across the floor, and then harshly resounding of flesh against flesh again. This time the impact was accompanied by an audible sigh of surrender.

That heavy thump that could only indicate a body being dropped to the floor coincided with Mark's heart tumbling to the level of his toes. Though he was sure that he couldn't take much more, he continued to listen to the dragging noises that followed until they were interrupted by a gentle bump. There was a soft slapping and then the dragging continued and faded into the distance. Then there was silence.

Mark turned toward Ron in utter shock. The other man was on a cell phone, talking quietly on the opposite side of the room. He hung up, his expression telling the story before he even began to speak. "He's been taken." He seemed to be having a hard time meeting Mark's eyes as he confirmed that horrible truth. "We have a team mobilizing at the site. It's a . . . house a few miles away. We'll find him, Mark. I promise you that."

Mark looked numbly at the agent. "You can't promise me anything."

Something flickered beneath the surface before Ron shoved his phone back into his pocket and headed toward the door. "We're going to do everything we can. I've got to go to the site."

"I'm going with you," Mark insisted, intending to follow. "I need to see the scene. I could --"

"No, Mark," Ron cut him off with an emphatic gesture. His voice gentled a little as he continued, "You can't. If you're seen anywhere near there it will arouse suspicions that could only make things worse for Steve and would completely blow our cover."

Mark wilted, forced to accept the possible truth of Ron's statement. There was nothing he could do. He hated the helpless feeling that settled over him, and was simply unable to accept that he would have to go on and do nothing in the search for his son. He listened only halfway when Ron turned toward Mikhail. He had nearly forgotten the other man was there.

"You have the panic button," Ron was saying. "I want you to hit it if anything, and I mean anything, out of the ordinary happens. Agent Macey here has my contact number. Call if anyone needs to speak with me."
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"Video is coming back up," Agent Macey announced to no one in particular.

Alertness shot through Mark's body at the words. He looked sharply in Ron's direction.

"Please share the video and other data with Dr. Sloan," Ron told the agent, though his gaze never left Mark's. He then completed his exit.

Mark wasted no time in joining Agent Macey near his laptop. He quickly obeyed the younger man's instructions to sit before one of the many computers which had taken over nearly every available surface.

The tech clicked a number of keys on the keyboard and gave everyone a crash course in some of the commands that would cause the images to react in the way that they wanted. Mark listened distractedly, then settled in front of the chest of drawers, barely aware that the others were doing the same in front of their own monitors. He quietly began to observe the things that Steve had done just before the mission had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

~*~*~*~*~*

Steve awoke with a start, fight or flight reflexes on full alert. He found himself seated in a hard backed chair, icy water drenching him from head to foot. The dousing had to have been recent because he could feel the water as it ran from his hair and into eyes which struggled to focus in the absolute darkness. He instinctively tried to wipe it away, but found that his arms were tightly secured to the sides of the chair. His ankles, he discovered, were bound in a similar manner to the legs of the chair. He knew without checking that his gun was gone. Not that he would have been able to use it in his present situation, anyway.

Ignoring the pounding in his head, and the uncomfortable sensation of swelling on the left side of his face, he struggled to get himself under control. To get out of this situation he was going to have to think. And he wouldn't be able to do that if he allowed himself to fall into panic mode. Suddenly he heard a sound which competed with that of his still heavy breaths. He cocked his head to the side as he tried to identify it.

It was the gentle click of shoes moving across cement. They echoed hollowly, giving him the impression that they were in a large room of some kind. Maybe a warehouse. The footsteps moved closer in the darkness, coming to a stop just in front of him. Steve was certain that the foot falls belonged to a man. Silence descended. He could hear nothing except for the sounds of his own soft breaths as he breathed purposefully through his nose in an effort to prevent the other man from knowing of his anxiety.

He squinted into the darkness, trying to see something, anything, that might help him to get a better grasp of his situation. But the silence remained, and still the person who had come and stood before him did not move.

He wanted to speak up, ask what the person wanted, but he knew that this game was psychological. He couldn't know if they were aware that he was a decoy or not. He could feel that the bandages that Jess had placed were still present as they had only been made more itchy by the addition of water. Any words he spoke could tip his hand. After a time, the silence stretched, and Steve began to breathe more easily. His inhalations and exhalations were much more controlled. He could do nothing more than wait.

Suddenly, there was the sound of movement in the darkness. A red pin-point of light appeared and shown in his direction. Steve realized with growing panic that the target end of the dots were illuminated on his chest, just above the bandages. He'd barely breathed a sound of protest before he felt the slight sting of something sharp entering his body. The mild pain was followed immediately by the indescribable feeling of high voltage being forced through his muscles. He wanted to cry out, but he couldn't. He couldn't move or think as he was held captive to the power of his tormenter. And when it was over, he collapsed against the chair, his mind numbly battling the fear of what else might be in store for him.

He could do nothing as he heard the footsteps approaching and felt the probes being removed from his skin. He knew with sinking certainty that his captor was using a taser gun, and he also was aware, based upon the demonstrations that the LAPD had organized on the use of that devices that it would be a few minutes before he recovered. It had been the subject of much humor during the training sessions, but there had been nothing there to prepare him for this situation.

His worry intensified as he felt another prick on the surface of his skin. At first, his still reeling mind thought that it was another shock, then he began to feel a coolness spreading out from the site. He had been injected with something. The syringe was removed from his arm, and then the other occupant backed off. Sound ceased in the darkness, and Steve was forced to wait fearfully, wondering at the drug and whatever else might be in store for him.

His breathing was almost his own again when, without a word, the other individual reactivated the taser gun, sending the red dots in Steve's direction once again. The cycle started all over again, but this time, the sensations were far more intense as the voltage again invaded his system. It tore through his body, prohibiting any control over shaking that took him while the taser did its work.

When it was stopped, his head collapsed forward as his breaths left him with loud labor gasps. If not for the bindings holding him fast, he was sure he would have toppled out of the chair onto the cold, wet floor. Various muscles continued to twitch and burn as he remained helplessly bound, completely at the mercy of the man who seemed to have none. He couldn't move even as he heard him approaching, again removing the leads from his skin. Steve's worry grew as he realized that the sounds around him were becoming louder. The pounding of his heart seemed to thump roughly in his ears with discomfiting clarity, and his breathing seemed amplified. He had a sick feeling that due to the drug, things were about to get a lot worse. But he refused to give in, no matter what they did to him.

The man seemed unconcerned either way, as instead of moving back to his position in front of Steve, he began working at the detective's waist. It seemed as if he was connecting something. Steve remembered with a sinking feeling the other item that had been mentioned, but not demonstrated. The stun belt. A deep sense of dread invaded him, and he tried to struggle. But it was pointless. His muscles were simply not his own. He quietly began to panic.

~*~*~*~*~*

Mark had been staring at the tiny screen for hours, looking for some kind of clue as to what had happened to his son. There was video of the bedroom, and many of the other rooms of the house, but none of the bathroom that adjoined the room that Steve had occupied.

He couldn't find anything that indicated anyone else had entered the house aside from the three agents who were already present. But when the recovery team had arrived on scene it was discovered that all three of the agents had been incapacitated with some sort of gaseous substance. They had found that the method of delivery was a small, remotely activated canister fitted into a decorative piece near the table where the agents were playing cards.

The remains of the glasses that Steve had been wearing were found in the bathroom, the watch had been tossed onto the bed. A gun and an ankle holster had been discarded there as well. The agents who were handling outside surveillance had been taken out with the same type of gas as had been found in the house. The canister had been planted in the van's ventilation system. They hadn't seen a thing. As best the FBI could tell, his son had vanished without a trace.

But Mark couldn't, wouldn't give up. Forcing his eyes to focus, he reset the video and began to study it again. It was a scene he'd viewed dozens of times. Steve, as Mikhail, entered the kitchen behind another agent who watched him as he downed his placebo meds before he began to eat. Though the beard and the hair were all Mikhail Jener, the mannerisms were all Steve Sloan. Mark couldn't draw his eyes away as he watched him eat with his usual appetite until every morsel on his plate was gone.

As he watched, something tickled at the back of his mind. It was a vague memory and he struggled to pull it forth. He stood sharply upright when it hit. Everyone turned and looked in his direction at the sudden movement. The sounds of tapping keyboards stopped as they waited expectantly. It touched him to know that everyone was still crammed in the small room, searching for clues, including Mikhail.

Stepping around coffee cups, wires and laptops, he searched for the room's phone extension. Several pairs of glassy eyes blinked as they followed his frantic motions. "Phone," Mark said gruffly. "I need a phone."

Spurred into the action, the group began to search around among the explosion of the technology in the room. Seconds later, Mark accepted one from the tech who had gotten to his first. "I need to talk to Agent Wagner," he said.

"Hit star, then 2," the agent replied.

"Thanks," Mark grunted then pressed the appropriate buttons. When Ron answered almost immediately, he blurted, "I know who your mole is."

Part Four: The Rescue

Steve sat, tremors running through his body as he continued to wait. A stun belt brought not only loss of control, but also pain and humiliation. The things were inhumane. But the waiting in the quiet and dark was worse. He knew what was coming, he simply didn't know when.

Time stretched and lost meaning as the silent stand off continued; neither side willing to give up the psychological edge. Steve refused to speak, unwilling to acknowledge his fear. The others, he knew, wanted to break him in that small way so that they could open the door to the next level of torture.

And then it came, firing like lava out from the middle of his back through to every nerve ending in his body. Total loss of control combined with the excruciating pain that seemed to go on and on and then suddenly it stopped. He was left dazed with the shock of it, almost whimpering with relief that it was over.

But it wasn't over. It was just a second's reprieve. The pain began again, seeming worse than before. It tore relentlessly through him, burning its way through his body as he shook uncontrollably. Surely he was dying. And then, blessedly, it ended.

But he knew, with absolute certainty that it was coming again. He wanted to weep at the inhumanity of it all. He wanted to cry out for them to stop, but he couldn't catch his breath, couldn't form the words properly. And then it was back. It shot through him, along his spine, to his brain and then he knew no more.

~*~*~*~*~*

Though bleary-eyed with exhaustion, Mark tapped at the re-play button on the computer's keyboard as he continued to comb through the video images. He hoped to gather more information while everyone waited for Ron to arrive. Though the agent had promised that he'd be there in less than ten minutes, Mark found that he couldn't simply sit and wait.

"All right, who is it?" Ron wanted to know.

Mark started slightly as the man's voice echoed loudly around the room. He had been so engrossed in the images and low-toned sounds coming through his headsets that he hadn't even noted Ron's entrance.

He took in his form, noting immediately that the other man had changed, obviously showered, and dressed in a different set of clothing. That set Mark's frazzled nerves farther on edge. No one else in the room had taken time to attend to such matters, having been too intent on doing what they could to try to help find Steve in the limited manner which was available to them.

Ron, seeming to notice the direction Mark's gaze took, raised a hand in defense.

"It's for appearances, Mark. I'm supposed to be working a routine protection case, not one that involves a good friend. I can't give any indication that my visit to this house has anything to do with the assignment. Ostensibly, I'm dropping by to pick up the jacket I left last night." To back up the claim, he displayed the jacket.

Mark relaxed somewhat. Information about Mikhail's true whereabouts was still a closely guarded secret, known only to the people who currently occupied his home. Even Steve didn't know, although from listening to the recorded audio, he figured that his son had guessed.

Mark ran a hand over his forehead, trying to put his thoughts in order. "Steve said that one of the agents had medical training, just in case it was needed. Would that agent have access to Mikhail's medical records?"

Ron frowned slightly, apparently not liking where Mark was going. "Yes, that agent would. But Agent Seymour has been with the Bureau for ten years and has an exemplary record. You're not suggesting . . . "

Mark turned to Mikhail. "You mentioned an allergy to eggs when Jesse offered you the potato salad."

"Yes. It is true. But it is not a serious one. I develop the hives and itch very badly. I did not vant to experience these things vhile in your home."

"Right. But it would have still been a part of your medical work up. Agent Seymour would have known about it."

Mark turned back toward Ron. "Can you describe Agent Seymour?"

Ron shrugged. "Red hair. Medium height."

Mark nodded. "He's the one who told Steve that dinner was ready, and the one who stood by and watched while he was taking the medications we gave him. He saw Steve eating the potato salad. He would have known that if he was truly Mikhail Jener that he had an allergy to eggs. It would have been an immediate tip-off that Steve wasn't who he purported to be. Which is probably why the took him, instead of . . . "

Mark couldn't finish the statement, but he knew that everyone understood what he meant.

"But he doesn't know anything," Jesse spoke up.

Ron raised his eyes thoughtfully in Jesse's direction. "That doesn't mean that they aren't going to try to get the information out of him anyway."

Those words added an additional weight of worry to Mark's heart. Not only was his son missing, but he was probably being tortured as well.

"You may be on to something, Mark," Ron continued. "I'll bring Seymour in. He was released from duty and debriefed after the incident. Once the gas wears off, the only symptoms that remind is lethargy and a mild headache."

"Is there anyway to tell if he got the gas after everyone else?" Mark asked.

"I'll have to check into that." Ron turned to the tech, who had long since insisted that everyone call him Joey, and asked him to look into Seymour's records.

The young man nodded his head. Judging by what Mark could make out on his laptop, he had already started. It helped a little that everyone seemed enthusiastically focused on finding Steve.

~*~*~*~*~*

"He's not talking."

"How many rounds of treatment?"

"Two. He's not available at the moment."

"We're running out of time. Wake him and move to the next step."

~*~*~*~*~*

Steve wasn't sure how much time passed before the water hit him. It was icy cold and it left him gasping with shock. He coughed and sputtered, struggling to catch his breath. All the movements aggravated muscles that had stiffened from being in the same position for an extended period of time. Then there was the bone deep ache that had nothing do with the way he was sitting.

The torment started against with the taser gun, silently immobilizing him. The man needn't have bothered because Steve didn't think he would have the strength to even remain upright in the chair much less try to struggle.

"Where is he?"

When the whispered voice sounded in the darkness, Steve at first thought that he'd imagined it. But he felt puffs of air as the speaker spoke very close to his ear.

"Where?" the voice demanded again.

Realizing that the opposing side had broken the silence first reinforced his determination. It was a psychological victory for the home team. Buoyed despite his continued physical helplessness, Steve remained stubbornly silent.

A rough hand grabbed unto his arm, startling him with its suddenness. In the next moment something was jabbed painfully into his forearm. This time he felt a burning sensation as something was again injected into his bloodstream. He knew immediately that it was something different as the man's next whispered words echoed and flowed around him. He had a difficult time grasping what he was saying. And then he felt the stun belt being reattached.

Steve's heart began to race, and he started to pant, seemingly unable to control his responses. He didn't want to do this anymore. He couldn't. But he couldn't tell them what they wanted to know either. While he'd guessed where the FBI was hiding Mikhail Jener, there was no way he could send a killer to his father's house. He'd die first. The application of the stun belt started and he wished that he could, if only to make the pain go away.

~*~*~*~*~*

The day dragged into evening, and still there were no leads on where Steve might be. Mark was reaching the end of his endurance with worry and exhaustion. He'd been up the whole of the night before going through the video. He didn't think he could get his eyes to focus if he wanted to. But he couldn't sleep either. When he closed his eyes, all he could think of was all of the ways that a man could be made to talk.

According to Ron, Agent Seymour had reported into the field office as usual. He'd been questioned under the guise of getting more information concerning what had taken place and the man had given nothing away. The other two agents at the safe house had been questioned as well.

Aside from Mark's assertion as to his knowledge of Mikhail's medical condition, nothing else had been found to implicate him. He'd only shown a little more residual tiredness than the other agent's displayed -- which he attempted to remedy by going back to his hotel room for a lunchtime nap. Ron had wanted to drop him as a suspect, but Mark had argued against it. Amanda had even joined in, supporting Mark's instincts. Eventually Ron had given in, agreeing to monitor the agent himself when he left duty that evening.

As Mark stood watching another sunset, he wondered if he would ever see his son again. Since the trial was due to start in 36 hours, arrangements were already being made to handle Mikhail's movement to the courthouse.

Steve had been officially missing for nearly 24. Though it wasn't mentioned openly, Mark had caught the hints that there was some worry about exposure of Mikhail's location. Apparently, Steve's comments regarding the beach house had been interpreted by the F.B.I. to mean that he had guessed the location as well. Mikhail was being moved from Mark's home to another secure location. Of those present, only Ron knew where.

The Russian had come to Mark upon hearing the news. He had obviously wanted to communicate his sympathy for the situation. Unable to come up with satisfying words in English, he had spoken a phrase in his own language before squeezing both of Mark's hands between his.

Jesse had come into the room then, wanting to do a final check of the other man's injuries, to ensure that they were healing properly. Amanda had followed on his heels, attempting to arrange a final dinner before he left.

Mark wasn't sure that he could eat. But as he heard Amanda returning, he headed back to the room containing all of the surveillance equipment. Maybe there was something else that he'd missed.

~*~*~*~*~*

When Steve awoke again, the thin pajamas he was wearing had dried, but the faint smell of ammonia and body odor remained. As he had woken slowly and there was no water beading on him, he figured that he was alone. The omni-present darkness prevented him from knowing for sure.

He was certain though that if there was light, the room would be spinning. He was having a hard time holding up his head, and things seemed fairly unstable even in the dark. Fighting against the pervading weakness, he tried to move his feet. They were bare against the cold concrete, and the fastenings were tight.

He tried moving his hands. A faint ray of hope flickered as he felt one of the bindings shift a little. He worked at them, aggravating the areas already raw from his movements during the shocks that had been inflicted upon him. He shuddered at the memory and redoubled his efforts to get his hand loose.

~*~*~*~*~*

"What about Agent Seymour?" Mark wanted to know. All of the agents had moved out of his home in shifts. It was as if they had never been there except for all of the dishes and carry out cartoons. Ron had called to tell him that there was no new information in the search for Steve.

"He had dinner with the other agents and went up to his room early," Ron replied, slightly exasperated.

"I want to talk to him," Mark said.

"Look Mark, I'm really sorry I got Steve involved in all of this. I'm not giving up on him. I will find him. But I don't think your talking to Agent Seymour is going to be any help."

"Fine. I'll go see him myself. I saw Agent Macey's screen, I know he's at the Riverdale Inn. I'll check every one of them in the Los Angeles area if I have to to find him."

Ron sighed heavily. "Okay, Mark. I guess I owe you. I'll meet you there. It's the one on Broadway. But do not go in without me. Understood?"

"Yes. I understand." Mark hung up the phone and hurried toward the door. He didn't argue when Jesse followed him.

~*~*~*~*~*

"Sorry I'm late. I couldn't contact you earlier."

"I take it he has not talked."

"No. Either he is unusually determined or he knows nothing."

"We've wasted enough time with him. You'll have to make your move at the courthouse."

"And the decoy?"

"Get rid of him."

~*~*~*~*~*

"How long before he's supposed to be here?" Jesse asked, looking around the darkened parking lot. They had been waiting for the other agent for close to 10 minutes.

"He didn't say," Mark replied, his worry growing. Surely Ron wouldn't mislead him about something so important.

He scanned the lot in search of the other man's car. A white Buick pulled in, but that wasn't the type of vehicle the agent had been driving, so Mark allowed his gaze to continue on. His attention was caught when Jesse touched his shoulder.

"Hey, check that guy out. He shouldn't be doing that. I thought those set off an alarm or something."

Mark followed Jesse's gesture and noticed a man moving through a side emergency exit. The man seemed to look nonchalantly around the lot before heading off toward the back of the building. The hotel butted against a section of older warehouses. In a brief spot of light in the corner of the parking area, Mark thought he caught the flash of red hair.

"Wait for Ron, would you, Jess?" He didn't wait for a response as he set off after the man. The distance was too far to make out the man's features, but something told him that the man wasn't about legitimate business.

"Mark! Wait!" Jesse called after him in a stage whisper.

"He should be here any minute," Mark assured him over his shoulder and continued onward into the darkness.

~*~*~*~*~*

Steve had almost gotten one of his hands loose when he heard a sound that sent a chill along his spine. It was the sound of a heavy door being opened. It echoed through the room, confirming the fact that he was in a warehouse.

A dim shaft of light invaded the darkness at the far side of the room and a man was briefly highlighted against the opening. Wherever they were, it was nighttime. Then the room was plunged into darkness again as the door slammed shut.

In that moment, his right hand broke free of its bondage. He struggled to reach across to release his other hand, but his muscles protested and his movements were uncoordinated and painfully slow. Meanwhile, the footsteps continued to sound in the room, not moving toward him, but along what he now knew was the far wall.

Suddenly there was a deep echoing click. The room was flooded in brilliant light. It shot into his straining, unprepared retinas and rendered him nearly blind. He squeezed his eyes closed in pain, reflexively lifting his right arm in an attempt to block the invading brightness.

He caught a watery glimpse of a red-haired man in dark clothing and the taser gun. He cried out, hoping to postpone the inevitable. The fact that the man was allowing him to see his face told him that he was no longer needed. The man didn't listen. He continued advancing and fired the stun weapon. It's energy tore into his muscle once more.

When it was over, he was half slouched to one side in the chair. He was helpless to respond as the red-haired man approached, a hypodermic in hand. His mind was a muddle, his energy was spent, and he knew it was all over. He only wanted to be able to say a final good-bye to his father.

"Dad . . . " The words slipped past his lips as his plea was answered. There in the doorway was an image of his father.

"You get away from him!" The hallucination came with sound as his dad's voice echoed around the warehouse.

Apparently the red-haired man heard it too, which caused Steve some confusion. He ignored it, protective instincts kicking in when the man turned toward his father with the taser gun. He didn't know for sure that his dad was out of range, but he couldn't risk it.

Using energy from he knew not where, he swung his free arm back against the dark dressed man, knocking him slightly off center. The taser shot went wild. But the man spun on him in response. Steve waited for the blow that was to come, but it was interrupted by the sound of a shotgun blast echoing endlessly in the cavernous room.

Time seemed to go out of focus as he looked up into the emotionless eyes of his attacker. The man toppled to the side in impossibly slow motion. The haze increased as he saw the images of Ron, Jesse and other men bearing weapons. There was a flurry of motion and sound all around him. He struggled to get a grip on it all, to understand the words, but found that he wasn't able. None of it made sense anymore.

All that mattered to his overtaxed mind and body was that when the hand that had been attached to the chair was released, and he collapsed forward, his father's arms were there to catch him. He closed his eyes and let go, allowing the darkness to take him.

Part Five: The Epilogue

Mark jerked awake with a start. His eyes shot around the room as he tried to get his bearings. Peripherally he recognized his office at Community General, and the tray of fruit of crackers on the table near the sofa where he had been lying. The coo-coo clock on the wall proclaimed the time to be 7:07. A quick glance at his watch, put that at A.M.

The events of the previous day rushed through his mind, sending him to a sitting position where he hurried pushed his feet into his shoes. He was appalled that he had slept so long. By the time Steve had been removed from the warehouse to the hospital and they had catalogued the variety of drugs in his system and tended the wounds on his face, wrists and ankles, the sun had risen on a new day.

He had lost track of the number of hours that he had been awake and worrying, but his body apparently had not. When Steve had finally been settled in a room, Mark had turned toward one of the nurses, intending to ask a question, he had found that the world tilted unpleasantly around him. After that none of his claims of being fine worked, and he found himself bustled off for rest. That had been twelve hours ago.

Tossing away the blanket that he vaguely recalled Amanda covering him with, he made his way to his feet and set off toward Steve's room. He was unsurprised to find Jesse there looking energetic and refreshed. "Did he wake yet?" he asked, hoping that he had not missed his son's return to consciousness.

"No." Jesse wrote something on the chart before flipping the upper pages back down and handing it to him. "But I expect him to anytime now. Everything is looking pretty good physically. Most of the drugs are cleared out of his system. There shouldn't be too many residual effects."

"Good." Mark breathed a relieved sigh. Not only because of the drugs, which had been worrying the night before, but also because he wasn't too late. He flipped through the chart not really seeing anything -- he trusted Jesse's judgment as a doctor. His gaze seemed drawn to the form sleeping on the bed. He noted that his hair had been restyled into Steve's usual manner, and the beard and mustache had been shaved. Despite the streaks of gray that remained at the sides, the face was still the familiar one of his son. He shot a small smile in Jesse's direction.

"I thought he'd prefer to be back to himself," Jesse explained. "Well, mostly."

Mark nodded his agreement. "Did you remove the contacts?"

"Yeah. Figured he wouldn't want to deal with that again. He can be squeamish sometimes, you know."

Mark chuckled. "Don't let him hear you say that."

Jesse shot him a look that clearly wondered why he'd avoid sharing such a thing with his best friend when it would be so much fun.

Mark's grin broadened. "Oh, I never got the chance to ask. What happened that night? How is it that Ron happened to show up with all that back up?"

"You didn't hear?" Jesse seemed surprised to have gained some bit of knowledge that Mark didn't have. "Remember the tech guy? Agent Macey? When he went back to the hotel, he put a quasi-illegal scan on the communications in and out of Agent Seymour's room. He managed to get a very interesting scrambled message. He called Ron after he got it decoded."

Mark nodded in acknowledgement. "Do they know why Agent Seymour did what he did? Or if he was working for someone else?"

Jesse shrugged. "You know how it is. It's all classified. We no longer have a need to know. Ron did say that the trial is starting this morning, though. Right on schedule."

Mark grunted, thinking that it was going on at the expense of his son's pain. But then, Steve started to stir. He made a soft sound deep in the back of his throat as he fought his way to the surface. Mark handed the chart back to Jesse and approached the bed. He wanted to be right there with him when he opened his eyes. He barely noticed when the young doctor replaced the chart and quietly slipped out of the room.

His wish was granted when after several minutes, Steve's lids gradually parted. He looked hazily around the room, taking in his surroundings before settling on Mark.

"Hi, Steve." Mark offered an encouraging smile as he looked into the familiar blue that he'd first gazed into over four decades ago.

"Dad." Steve's voice was slightly above a whisper and weighted with tiredness. He readjusted his position and seemed to come awake a little more. He groaned slightly.

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked, wincing sympathetically.

"Tired. Sore. Like I went a couple too many rounds with Old Sparky." The words were accompanied by a pitiful excuse for a laugh.

Mark barely suppressed a grimace at the mention of Florida's electric chair. He'd seen some of the items that had been in that warehouse and he knew how they worked on the human body. He was disturbed that Steve had experienced them first hand. "You had some pretty exotic drugs in your system, but you should start to feel better in a day or so," he assured him. "Until then, Jesse can give you something for any residual aches and pains."

"S'okay," Steve murmured. "It'll pass." He looked over at the clock. "Sunday?" he questioned.

Mark shook his head. "Monday. Mikhail Jener is safe. The trial should be starting pretty soon, now."

Steve sighed his relief, and closed his eyes. "I'm glad."

Lines of exhaustion and pain were clearly visible in his face. Mark thought for a moment that he was about to drift back off into sleep, but a frown started between his brows and his eyes opened abruptly.

"Are you sure you don't want anything for the pain?" Mark asked, already turning for the door. "I could get Jess to give --"

He stopped when he felt Steve's outstretched hand brush his arm. Mark looked down at it, his gaze caught by the bandages that circled his wrists. The rope burns there had been pretty severe, and there had been some worry of infection. The guilt over having possibly sent his son into this mess washed over him.

"No. I don't need anything." Steve's whispered, but insistent tone broke into Mark's thoughts, making him immediately attentive to what he was saying. "It isn't that bad."

"Steve, there is no reason for you to be in pain. That is why there are medications to take it away." He didn't like the thought that his son was suffering needlessly, no matter how willing. He'd been through enough already.

"It's all right, Dad." Steve patted his hand lightly. "I'll be okay."

Mark sighed. He couldn't force the medications on him. But there were still questions that needed answers. Despite the comfort of Steve's return to consciousness there was the notably absent request for information as to what had been missed while he was out, or the normally inevitable needling as to when he would be allowed to go home.

Taking a silent breath to steady himself, he waded into the murky waters. "Do you remember what happened?"

Steve's gaze danced away before Mark could get a solid read on the emotions that were suddenly reflected there. "I remember." His reply was toneless.

Mark waited, giving him time to say more, though he knew that more wasn't forthcoming. He'd been here before with his son. When Steve didn't want to discuss things he either left or became very quiet. He wasn't quite up to leaving, so he simply looked off into the distance. Mark couldn't just leave him be until he was ready to talk on his own, but he would back off a bit.

He began to busy himself with checking on the IVs and other equipment as he continued speaking, keeping his voice as conversational as possible. "You're probably wondering how they found out you weren't Jener. It was really a hole in the background information that they gave you. No one bothered to brief you on the fact that Jener has an egg allergy."

Steve's gaze creaked in his direction, his expression becoming more animated. "What eggs? I didn't have any . . . ." His voice trailed off as realization spread over his features. "The potato salad. That's how I blew my cover, isn't it?"

"You didn't blow your cover, Steve. As I said, you weren't given all of the information. If the mole had been anyone but the doctor, they may have never realized the switch."

Steve snorted. "Then they would have probably just tried to kill me outright. So how did you find me? I have some hazy recollections of you, Jesse and a lot of guys with guns in that warehouse."

Mark refused to contemplate the implications of Steve's previous statement. "Once we figured out the egg thing, we were able to determine that the doctor was the mole. The warehouse where you were kept was right behind the hotel where the agents were staying. We happened to see him sneaking out of the hotel pretty late that night. Meanwhile, one of the other agents was able to intercept a rather interesting transmission which caused Agent Wagner to call in the Calvary."

Steve smiled thoughtfully. "I seem to remember you charging in a little bit ahead of them. Was that just to give the bad guys a false sense of security?"

Mark smiled at Steve's attempt a humor, but it was tempered by the memory of seeing him half tied to a chair, and then later the implements of torture that had been used. He waited a beat, then, "We were able to piece together what happened to you in that warehouse." The words came out more gruffly than he intended.

Steve's smile dropped away. "I figured you would."

"Want to talk about it?" Mark asked despite the obviousness of the answer.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You're going to have to make a statement," Mark pushed a bit more. "Might help if you come to terms with it. Get it straight in your mind."

"What's there to get straight in my mind? I was beaten, then strapped to a chair, drugged and tortured over and over and over again until I felt that I was something less than a human, until in my worse moments I thought death might be better. I think I've got it pretty straight."

Mark's mouth dropped open, speechless. He ached for what his son had endured. The wave of guilt and uncertainty that slammed into his conscience was nearly his undoing. He couldn't seem to get his brain to come up with a single coherent reply.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Steve's apology interrupted his struggle. "I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that I would have preferred to have spared you having to know about it. I should have known how impossible a wish that was. But, I'm here and alive, and I'm not broken. I will be okay. Okay?"

A real smile full of earnestness and affection was sent in Mark's direction. The hand made a reappearance from beneath the covers and settled Mark's where it lay on the bedrail.

"Okay." Mark let go a shaky breath and put his other hand atop Steve's and squeezed. But there was just one more thing that he needed to know. He allowed a moment to pass. "Do you regret taking the assignment?" he asked, hoping that Steve didn't notice just how important the answer was to him.

Steve seemed to think about the question, then looked thoughtfully back at him. "No," he said finally. "I've come to terms with the fact that sometimes I have to put myself between the bad guys and innocent people. It's just one of the hazards of the job."

A hazard that scares me to death. Mark pressed a little more. "Would you have turned it down if I asked you to?"

"Dad . . . . " Steve obviously didn't want to answer.

"Steve, please. It's just a question. A simple yes or no."

Steve sighed. "Dad, it's not a simple yes or no. I've been on a lot of dangerous assignments and I've talked to you about a lot of them because I truly value your opinion. But I also know that you'd never ask me not to do something that I truly felt was my duty."

Mark smiled at that and squeezed his son's hand again. Some of the weight that he had been carrying lifted from his shoulders. "I was really worried that I had lost you this time."

Steve's gaze softened. "Well, you're not getting rid of me so easily," he said.

"And I wouldn't want to," Mark countered.

"Good." Steve smiled warmly at him. "And since you feel that way, you won't mind telling me when I get out of here. Not that I wouldn't enjoy the food, mind you. But I'd really like to go home."

Mark could help the laugh the bubbled up within him. "I don't mind you asking at all."
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THE END

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