December posting 18: Depth of Field, part 3 (HL, Southern Comfort)
Still a WIP, but the cliffhanger is somewhat resolved! Available at the AO3 here (new chapter) or here (the entire work to this point). Part 4 will be out on the 26th, I think. After that... I have to finish writing the rest.
Depth of Field, part 3
San Francisco
Duncan pulled up at the address Methos had gotten out of Joe's emails and looked around, evaluating the street and the buildings. It was a busy commercial warehouse and transport district, but a few of the buildings were still damaged from the Northridge earthquake five years earlier; the insurance money might have been held up, or property ownership contested for them to be battered this much later.
Methos barely waited for the car to stop before he was out and pulling on his coat. Duncan knew that pattern of arm and hand motions; Methos was checking the placement on his sword and the guns he'd 'acquired' from Joe's office. Duncan had been a little startled by how many guns Joe kept around as well as how easily Methos could find them.
It was an area that was simultaneously busy and impersonal; ideal for predators as soon as dark fell or maybe before. It worried Duncan enough that he pulled his police scanner out from under the driver's seat. He turned it on and put it on the roof while he pulled his coat on. One quick shrug dropped his katana properly into place. "And here I'd have said there was no place you could take a quickening inside San Francisco, Adam -- Ben. Did you find anything else in Joe's system?"
Methos' smile at the scanner was sharp and calculating enough for that mess in Bordeaux. That might also be exactly what they needed to get Joe out of this, so Duncan didn't say a word. He didn't back away, either.
Methos shrugged and said, "Quite a bit. And yes, bring the scanner. Keep the volume down, but it might be useful."
Duncan ignored his attempted distraction and the steady, routine commentary of dispatch and confirmation on the police scanner. "Why are we here, Ben?"
Methos gave him the long look that meant he was debating how to keep Duncan from exploding. Duncan gave him a glare to say they didn't have time for that now. Methos nodded. "Do you know Joe's current position in the Watchers?"
"I try not to ask. I end up arguing with him." Duncan waited, hands and scanner in his pockets now, as the breeze off the bay ruffled his hair.
"He's still your primary Watcher, Duncan, but he's not your main Watcher. Not because of his legs, but because he's also Northwest Regional Coordinator. They decided San Francisco was close enough to leave him in the job when you moved." Methos went on quietly, "Which means any and all Watchers in the area update him on where they are and what their immortals are up to."
Duncan could hear where this was going. "You're saying there's an immortal in the San Francisco area that I don't know about. I can already tell I'm not going to like it. Just give me the rest of the bad news."
"One quick rip it is," Methos agreed. "A man called Kendall Myles moved in across the bay, in Tiburon. Thirty years ago he studied with Xavier St. Cloud." Duncan's mouth tightened, as did his hands. "Oh, it gets worse, Highlander. St. Cloud went in for mass killings for profit, but Myles is a purist. Given enough time, he'd be Caspian all over again. He came down here perhaps three months ago -- from Vancouver, Washington. The Watchers lost the first two men who followed him; they don't assign men to him anymore. The current woman has made it three months and she's very sure that Myles had something to do with the death of Chris Guerrero."
Tendons tightened down Duncan's jaw and neck when his memory called up the relevant news articles. "That poor transgender man murdered up in Washington?"
Methos tilted his head in acknowledgment. "The one whose body was found in pieces, and whose death has everyone screaming about a serial killer on the loose."
"Because he was a dark-haired, fair-skinned young man who'd died very badly," Duncan said quietly. "The others weren't dismembered."
"The others were completely male, MacLeod. At a guess, Myles didn't take it well when he found out he was lusting over someone who had some female anatomy."
"And you think he's got Joe here?"
"Myles' Watcher has never met Joe--" Methos' cell phone rang and he fell still. "Only so many people have this number. Let's see what we've got." He took two quick, sharp breaths before he answered the call, pitching his voice to play the distraught nephew. "Uncle Joe? Where are you? Are you all right?"
Duncan moved even closer, head angled in towards Methos so he could hear all of it.
"He can't come to the phone right now, Dawson." Their caller was trying to sound calm, but he sounded like a man pulled away from a hot date.
"Who is this?" Methos asked, playing young and inexperienced for all Joe was worth. Fortunately, he was very good at that.
"That doesn't really matter, does it? There can be only one. You're going to meet me and we're going to bring the number down a little more." He still didn’t sound entirely calm, but he was more steady than he'd been; was this some prearranged script?
"Where's my uncle?" Methos let his voice go angry and Duncan nodded approvingly. "He's not in the Game."
"He's my leverage on you. That's close enough. Meet me under the 280, off Cesar Chavez, in the next hour if you want him back alive. We both know you can find me. If you take longer than an hour, he'll be dead, and I'll still know what you look like."
Duncan stared as Methos shot back, "I know what you look like, too. You tripped his security system. If Joe Dawson dies, your picture will go out to every law enforcement agency with a fax."
After a startled moment, Myles laughed. "And here I was afraid you were going to make this too easy. Get here, Dawson, before I get bored."
Methos let out a small portion of his anger. "Oh, I'll be there." He hung up and studied the ground for a moment as he packed his emotions away; Duncan could almost feel them ripple down into the center of his quickening. Methos straightened again and said, "We're in the right place. He thinks he's got as much as an hour before I get here -- traffic from Joe's place?"
"Rush hour is starting up and it’s going to be bad today with the fog," Duncan confirmed. "That would do it. Does Joe's security system take photos?"
"It can. Some of the pictures I have even look like they could have come from there." Methos waved that aside. "Joe's still alive. I could hear him in the background."
Duncan nodded and pulled a med-kit out of the car and the backpack with a change of clothes for Joe. "We'll need these then." So they'd both heard Joe gasping for breath -- probably from trying to warn them.
Methos looked around one last time before starting across the street, his quickening drawing in as he went. "If Myles shoots me, get back out fast. You have an email from me with a picture of him."
Duncan shook his head. "And leave two of you to him? No. I'll let Myles worry about hauling your carcass. It'll make it easier to get the gun away from him."
The voices on the scanner had been constant and level until now, handling routine business; even through the muffling folds of fabric, both men heard the change in tone. Duncan pulled it out quickly, in time to hear SWAT and EMS were being directed to their address.
Methos stared at him, eyes wide but mouth tightening. "Did you…?"
Duncan shook his head impatiently. "I was driving, remember? Will Myles kill Joe if SWAT tells him to surrender?"
"Joe's heard his voice, maybe seen his face. What do you think?" Methos freed up his weapons.
"Then I'll go in first." Before Methos could argue, Duncan snapped, "You're a better shot. And I've got more mass to hit the door." He was already shoving the med-kit into the backpack.
Methos just nodded. "Go."
Duncan pulled the backpack on and sprinted towards the pair of doors, trying to pick up as much speed as he could in case they were chained shut. He hit the doors hard enough that his shoulder screamed. The doors slammed open a few inches, then caught on something and rebounded back into place. Without a word having to be said, Duncan dropped to the ground.
Methos shot over his head, targeting the hinges down the left side with three blasts from his sawed-off shotgun. Duncan lashed out with a foot, kicking the door inward to dangle on a thick chain.
Methos jumped through the gap and jogged into the shadow-filled building.
By the time Duncan rolled up, Methos was already a few yards ahead of him into the warehouse. For a building deserted for demolition and reconstruction, it still had lights on and didn't have as much debris as it should. The mess in front of them resembled a maze of collapsed plastic light covers, fallen acoustic tile, and metal sheeting listing in every direction.
From ahead and off to the right, towards the center of the building, he heard, "Trap, damn it!" Joe sounded hoarse and furious but alive and thinking.
"No, really?" Methos called back, also muffled by distance. "Where'd he go?"
Duncan was following the sounds, jogging through the mess and finding there were in fact paths. It also had blind alleys. He was backing out of his first dead-end when Joe called, "Off to your left. He's got a pistol and a knife, six inch blade."
Duncan let Methos go after Myles. He had the med-kit, which meant his job was to get Joe out of there. He followed Methos' tracks through the scatter of concrete dust and rust particles, ignoring any path where Methos' footprints doubled back. He kept a sharp eye on his surroundings as he went, both to find Joe and to remember the fastest path back out.
An open area at the center of the warehouse showed Duncan a very welcome sight: Joe Dawson, alive, breathing, and cursing steadily as he tried to fight his way free. Joe's arms were cuffed over his head. When Duncan got close enough, he saw that the handcuff chain was threaded through a hook which had been hammered into the post.
Duncan looked at the warped, dented metal and at Joe, who was glaring at him through two mostly-swollen eyes. Joe's face was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, his t-shirt and boxers were cut up and blood-splattered, but he was moving well enough Duncan could hope there weren’t any internal injuries.
His hands looked like they'd taken the worst abuse. Duncan could only hope no permanent damage had been done, because checking or bandaging any of it would have to wait they got somewhere safer.
The hook was the first problem. The second problem was the lack of prosthetic legs, and the presence of a twisted wreck that had, once upon a time, been a wheelchair. Joe's treasured Blues Brothers sticker was still visible on it, the checklist partially obscured by blood. Duncan just said, "Well, so much for charming the ladies this week. I'm going to have to hurt your wrists a little more, Joe."
Joe snorted and spat blood. "Immortal psychopath, Mac. Do whatever you have to, just get us both back out of here."
Duncan could feel Methos' quickening fade out and flare up again, just fast enough for him to be running full-out. Methos wouldn't be sprinting with a strange immortal in the area, much less one he thought was a serial killer. No. Methos was standing in the dark somewhere trying to stampede the bastard. If he really was young, it might work. Or he might think Duncan and Methos were hunting him like wolves, circling in and out. That might spook him, too.
Duncan wrapped a sleeve of his coat around the handcuff chain, letting the coat shield Joe from line of sight in case Myles had a distance weapon. He grabbed the fabric and chain in both hands and braced a leg against the post, just above the hook. "Hold on, Joe."
Duncan set his grip and pushed off against the post. He ignored the battered links cutting into his hands through the coat, ignored the screech of metal and the howls of his thigh muscles; they weren’t as important as the hook giving way or the wood yielding around it. It didn't matter which. What mattered was that Joe was free and Duncan's katana hadn't been nicked when he might yet need it to get them out of this.
Duncan let go and shook his hands out, disregarding the blood that came free as the fabric peeled out of already sparking cuts. The scanner was still chattering unit numbers: police, SWAT, an ambulance, a bomb squad. All of it was headed their way, which Duncan knew and Joe had no trouble guessing.
Joe said hoarsely, "Christ, Mac, did you call out the cavalry?"
"Not me, Joe." Duncan pulled his coat back on and asked grimly, "Any ribs broken?"
"Just make the pickup," Joe said, his voice flat and tight as he reached for Duncan's arms. So, probably yes.
The lights went out.
Duncan dropped to one knee beside Joe, made sure it was his almost-healed leg that was on the ground, and murmured, "Arms around my neck, Joe."
Joe didn't argue, just looped his still-handcuffed hands around Duncan's neck. Equally softly, in the barely audible whisper they'd both learned on battlefields, he said, "I can guide you in any direction for maybe eighty yards, Mac. Definitely some kind of exit directly across from where you came in. Millard kept going out and coming in that way."
"Then we'll go back the way I came in," Duncan said softly. "I know who I'm betting on in the dark. It's not Myles."
"Myles? Not Millard," Joe said grimly. "Knew I should have known him.…" His words cut off in a muffled grunt of pain as Duncan came up with him.
Without his legs, Joe wasn't nearly heavy enough, which made Duncan mutter some of Connor's favorite profanities. He'd do better later, or better yet, he'd let Joe and Methos do it; they were more creative about it. He said softly, "Which way?"
"Straight ahead for you," Joe said. "You're clear for thirty, thirty-five yards, then we're going to have to slow down and work out the entrance into the metal tunnel. At least you won't need a tetanus shot. Was that the old man?"
They both ignored the scanner's chatter. Duncan had his eyes closed rather than be blinded if the lights came back up. It also helped him concentrate on the sounds of his breathing echoing off the metal and the feel of the air currents. "Yeah, that was him."
Joe muttered something about storm crows and bad pennies that Duncan ignored.
They'd almost made it to the door when the shots came: one from the shotgun, two from a lighter gun, and one reply from the shotgun. None of the shots came anywhere near the two heading for the exit.
Joe hissed but didn't say anything. Duncan said softly, "We're almost there." He'd opened his eyes instinctively at the sound and seen a pool of sunlight ahead of them.
Joe nodded and bellowed, "We're clear!"
Duncan smiled despite his aching ears. "I haven't wrapped your ribs yet, Joe."
"Yeah, yeah, you're dating Matthew, not me…." Joe winced and Duncan didn't have time to ask why before Joe said, "Matthew. Oh, Christ. If Dave called him, would he…?"
Duncan stepped over the half-removed door and out of the warehouse. "If Matthew tracked your cell phone, Joe, it's back there-"
"-covered in my blood, with my wheelchair off to one side. God damn it." Joe shook his head, winced again, and said, "Later. Get us out of here now."
Duncan nodded, crouching to set Joe on the ground by the back tire. "Hold on, I've got to get the door open." Unlocking the car was his first priority, but Duncan kept flipping through his keys once that was done, pulling out the handcuff key he kept on there as a backup for reasons he had no intention of explaining to Joe or Methos.
Joe didn't ask, too busy working the handcuffs out of the bloody welts on his wrists with hands that were more swollen and bloody than his wrists. Duncan scooped him up and settled him onto the backseat of the car before he pulled the med-kit, slightly battered now, out of the backpack. He broke the first icepack to set the chemical reaction going and looked up as he felt an immortal heading his way.
It was Methos, sprinting towards them with all his weapons concealed again.
Now Duncan could hear the sirens.
Joe slid down onto his side, bracing a stump against the driver's seat, one forearm against the back of the passenger seat, and the other forearm on the door over his head. He didn't even try to use his hands. "Get in the car, Mac."
Duncan slung the first aid kit in behind his seat, closed doors, and started the engine.
Methos slid across the hood with a series of metal-on-metal clunks. He hit on his feet, spinning to yank the door open with the arm that wasn't covered in blood.
As soon as Methos was inside, Duncan accelerated smoothly away. The door closed a second later, and Methos pulled his seatbelt on, then reached over to fasten Duncan's. "Nice and slow, Duncan, maybe two miles over the speed limit by the time we're going under the 101. Yes, I know, you drove getaway for Cory and Amanda, but we don't want to follow that example."
Duncan concentrated on slowing his breathing back down. He pulled to the right and slowed down as the first police cars streamed past in the other direction, for all the world a law-abiding citizen who'd had nothing to do with any trouble back there. Without looking back, rubbernecking at the cop cars like any other passenger, Methos said calmly, "And San Francisco's finest arrive. Talk to me, Joe. How’re you holding up?"
"Buddy, I'm not back there with Myles. I am fucking peachy right now." Joe's labored rasps belied his claim, but Duncan couldn't pull over yet.
"Just keep breathing for us and we can work on everything else," Duncan said, picking up a little more speed as the first wave of emergency responders went past. "Methos, please tell me you didn't grab Joe's phone?"
"God, no. Phones can be replaced. So can your wheelchair, Joe." Methos was rearranging his coat to cover up the bloodstains on his arm.
"Yeah, well--" Joe's words broke off in a hiss as Duncan hit a pothole. "We're gonna have to replace my chair fast, Methos. Bastard took my legs for some game he was playing. He kneecapped one, right in front of me."
Methos glanced at Duncan, then up at the ambulance whose flashing lights had sent them over to the side of the road again. "Cross-street coming up, Duncan. Will it do us any good? Joe, do you have any idea what Myles did with your prosthetic after that? Something's kicked up a hornets' nest."
Joe sounded tired finally; the adrenaline was probably starting to crash. "Not a clue, Methos, but dumbass said you guys already knew I was bait. He didn't send my legs to you, Mac?"
Duncan shrugged. "I haven't been home since nine this morning. Maybe he did."
Immortal presence hit them as Duncan pulled sideways for another series of cars with flashers going. From the right lane, Duncan glanced sideways, met Matthew's eyes, and saw his face go blank. Then his car was past them and Duncan turned his attention back to the road. "Methos. Did you get Myles?" He turned right, too, wanting away from the official presence.
"I hit him at least once. He's not dead, no." Methos glanced back at Joe and then said grimly, "What I want to know is how Salisbury got here so quickly."
"Don't ask me, buddy," Joe said; from the sound of his voice, the adrenaline was definitely running out. "I was trying to mind my own damn business."
Back at the warehouse
Matthew answered his phone with most of his attention on the SWAT teams forming up to breach the warehouse. "McCormick."
"He sent you another package, sir." Amar gave him a moment to digest that, voices chattering behind him in a purposeful chaos. "The bomb squad has already checked it. It's another prosthetic leg; this one's been shot through the knee, and there's a bloody hand-print on it. Blood typing is taking a little while, and neither IAFIS or the San Francisco Liquor Board have kicked out Mr. Dawson's fingerprints yet. I have a request in to the Marine Corps for both blood type and prints as well, but the records are almost thirty years old. It may take them a while."
Matthew didn't bother to ask how Amar knew about the first box. The man was an admin assistant, not an agent, but he'd been working at the Oakland office for nine years now and had a higher security clearance than some of the agents. "I see. Anything else in the box, Amar?" SAC Michaels was on a phone call of his own; it was probably Matthew's second-in-command calling him to apprise him of the new 'gift.' Nathan shouldn't have stuck Amar with any of the calls, but Matthew was just as glad to be getting simultaneous notification.
"He sent a note this time: three lines, typed. First line says 'Tag! You're it!' Second line reads, 'Alserda.'" Amar spelled that out, then went on, "The last line is an address one block east of your current location." He added briskly, "We’ve already checked your car for bombs and moved it into direct line of sight of security . Agent Raske is getting a description from this courier. Do you need me to contact anyone for you, sir?"
Matthew shook his head and refused, again, to speculate on what it meant that Duncan and 'Ben' had been leaving as he arrived. "No. Word's already out, Amar, but thank you. Make sure the rest of the office knows this might not stay focused solely on me. Also, I seem to remember Alserda's a surname. See if we have anyone by that name anywhere in the databases, please."
That drew a huff that was probably the least dignified noise Matthew had heard from his secretary yet. "Also already done." A door closed before Amar said bluntly, "We have people checking your career to see if someone's gotten out who shouldn't, Matthew. When you get back, I've also got the list of who was already working on it when I asked. Until you do return, you will kindly keep two things in mind. One, your MacLeod is a martial artist but that doesn't mean he is expecting, or up to, our brand of maniacs. Two, by my calculations, at most you've had ten hours of sleep in the last forty, and that's if you skipped your run this morning. Knowing you, I doubt you did. So watch your temper and watch your back. It looks bad on my review if I break an ASAC this quickly."
Matthew chuckled, as he was meant to. "Reminder accepted and thank you." Much more quietly, he added, "It might be a little late on the temper, though. I'm having trouble convincing people that serial killers don’t care about our standard procedures."
Amar said quietly, "I'll let you know if I hear anything about them pulling Agent Oshiro
back from the Washington state manhunt. So far, they haven't. If they stick you in a safe house, just send me your library list; you can catch up on your sleep and your reading."
Matthew said dryly, "Thank you so much. Your optimism is inspirational. Keep the office from sliding into the bay, would you?"
"Of course. Also in my job requirements. You know that."
Matthew hung up as the teams went in. He made himself watch patiently, listening to the quiet commentary over the radio and wishing again that he was in there himself. Part of his mind thought he should remember the name Alserda, but he wasn't sure from where. Hopefully it was from work, not his private life.
When he looked around to see who'd gone in and who was prepping to follow, SAC Michaels was standing next to him, watching the scene just as intently. On impulse, Matthew asked, "Do you miss it, sir?"
Michaels glanced over. "The adrenaline rush? Yeah. Some days." He could have left it at that. Instead he went on, "I expected you to fight harder to go in with the front line."
Matthew shook his head. "No. They're the experts at this and a derelict warehouse is definitely a job for a large squad." A sharp crack was followed by a radio explanation of 'just some falling metal.' They both relaxed again, as much as they would until this was done.
Michaels said thoughtfully, "You're not actually what I expected, McCormick."
Matthew shrugged. "I do get that a fair bit. Mind if I ask what you expected?"
"I thought I was getting a by-the-book, classic blue-flamer. One of the type-A overachievers, judging from your record." The bomb teams began moving once SWAT advised they had lanes clear and were in need of expert checks. "You've put enough people away it seemed reasonable. The part that surprised me was that a couple of your references suggested offices run more smoothly around you." He shrugged. "Interestingly, the Oakland office is running more smoothly now."
Matthew turned to face his boss, frowning. "There's no profit in upsetting an office just to upset it. There's rarely need to upend one entirely even when there are problems. Best to fix the one or two things that need a nudge - or occasionally a good swift kick in the ass - and let the rest get on with the work."
Michaels smiled, amused and cynical at the same time. "Do you know why you got this job?"
"Because AD Skinner recommended me for it, I thought," Matthew said, shrugging slightly.
That got a lifted eyebrow. "I wasn't sure if you knew that, or would admit it if you did. But yeah, that's part of it. He wasn't the only one who endorsed you, however, or the only one I listened to. So do you think you're good at what you're doing?" Michaels asked, never looking away from the building.
"I'm having more days where I think I can do it than days I think I can't," Matthew said simply. "Is it what I'd rather be doing? Not necessarily. I think I'm a better field agent, honestly."
Michaels shook his head, almost amused. "There's usually a slight uptick in productivity when we change out ASAC or SAC. Oakland productivity is staying up."
Matthew shrugged. "You gave me some good agents, sir. And the Bureau does run to Type-A overachievers."
"Both true," Michaels agreed. "All right, now that you and I have both calmed down, let's have that talk again. If this were someone else, if it was one of your agents, would you let him work this?"
"Not if he were one of my supervisory agents, or an ASAC?" Matthew asked dryly, but he nodded too. "I know this isn't the answer you want, sir, but yes. I would. For exactly the reasons I gave you: a direct challenge like this has to be answered or the maniac doesn't just explode; he does it in a direction we don't expect, solely to make it clear he's upset. Now, that said, I wouldn't necessarily make my agent lead on it within the Bureau. But I'd damn well put him lead as far as any news to the public went."
Michaels considered that. All he said at first was, "Serial maniacs as thwarted children?"
"A great many of them were," Matthew agreed. All-clears were starting to come from the bomb squads. Thank God.
"It still wasn't the answer I expected, ASAC. Co-lead, huh?" Michaels seemed to be considering it, from what Matthew could read of that set to his shoulders.
Matthew shrugged. "Still speaking hypothetically, not letting the agent be seen to be working on it would definitely be hazardous to the agent. Less hypothetically, I don't know this maniac well enough yet, won't know him until I see Joe Dawson - or whatever's left of him - but thwarting him may lead to some kind of blowup if he's unstable. I don't know that we're in danger of bomb or shooter threats, but I won't pretend there isn't a good chance of it. I'd say have me work it part-time and not necessarily lead, with one or two of your violent crimes boys or girls who wants to go after him."
"It's risky," Michaels said thoughtfully, "but your name's known. It won't take long for him to hear you're on it. And it gets some of my agents a mentor for this." He added wryly, "We both know hunting these maniacs is considered a high-profile specialty."
Matthew's voice was equally dry when he pointed out, "It's not usually one that leads to promotions, however."
"So I've pointed out once or twice," Michaels agreed. "They aren't listening to me on that. Maybe they'll listen to you. I'll send you a few who could make profiler if they wanted but could also go ASAC."
"And I'll kindly bring them along for management as well as hunter?" Matthew nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'll appreciate the help. If I'm doing this part-time, I'm going to need it."
Michaels chuckled finally. "Now I understand some of those recommendations."
Matthew's phone rang and the SAC waved him towards it. "McCormick."
Joe Dawson sounded strained and angry as he said, "Hey, Matthew. I kinda need a ride home, buddy. By way of a hospital, sorry, and hopefully not your office."
Matthew felt himself freeze and tried to keep his voice calm; he probably didn't manage it. "It's rarely been such a pleasure to hear your voice, Joe. Where are you, do you know?"
Michaels stared, eyebrows going up as he mouthed, 'Is that him?' Matthew nodded, and Michaels waved a tech in to start tracing the call.
"Got no clue, Matthew. Gimme a sec and I'll ask. Gonna need you to put in a good word with PacBell for me, too. I kinda bled all over their phone."
Upset people were chattering behind him - male and female, Matthew thought. "We'll handle it, Joe. We're tracing the call for your location now. How badly are you hurt?" He added immediately, "Not on a scale of one to Vietnam, thank you."
"Nah, nowhere near losing my legs," Joe said tiredly. "Gonna need stitches and ribs wrapped, definitely. Don't think I need blood yet, but..." He bit back some words and finally ground out, "Think I'm gonna need a surgeon, Matthew. My hands are pretty fucked up."
Matthew swallowed his rage down, tucking it in with his fear, and tried to keep both off his face. "We'll find them for you, Joe." When he looked up, Michaels was watching him. Matthew relayed, "He'll need a hospital, one with a good hand surgeon."
"Can you get a witness statement from him?" Michaels asked. When Matthew nodded, Michaels said, "I'll go get your new partners. Do not leave without them."
Matthew exhaled. "Of course not, sir. Someone's got to secure the scene while I get Joe to the hospital and get his statement." A cop waved a note in front of him, specifying not only a hospital, but a doctor to ask for.
Matthew nodded a thank you to her and said, "Joe. Ask the people with you where you are."
Joe said, "Gimme a sec, yeah." He didn't bother covering the phone, just said, "Lady and gentleman, where in hell am I?" Someone said something about berths and Joe came back on. "The berths at Mission Creek Garden; Channel Street, near 4th." Joe added, "And they're offering me ice packs and some cushions and bandages 'til you get here. Think I'm gonna say yes. Call Mac for me, tell him everything's cool?"
Matthew shook his head, somewhere between annoyed and worried. This was beginning to sound as if Joe was covering something up. Possible explanations cascaded through his mind, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. "I may call him when I've got you safely in medical care, Joe; not before. Don't hang up yet." He heard chatter over the comms as the SWAT team confirmed that they'd found the cell phone, as well as a wheelchair and a lot of blood splatter.
Joe said tiredly, "Matthew, I'm on a pay phone and these folks only have so much cash."
"Then give me their names before you go." Matthew scribbled the address for the pair of agents Michaels had waved towards him, both of them young, eager, and wearing clearly labeled FBI windbreakers which partially concealed their badges.
"That's fifteen minutes from here this time of day," said the man who'd been assigned to him, "maybe ten with our lights on. Come on, ASAC, we've got a car."
Joe came back. "Names are Erland Gulbrandsen and Magda Machado."
Matthew followed them, still talking. "Got it. Just hold on, Joe. We'll be there in fifteen at most."
"Looking forward to it. See you then." Joe was already saying something about, "Appreci-" when the connection cut out.
The female agent was a tall, wiry strawberry blonde whose armoring professionalism reminded Matthew of Agent Scully. The man was shorter, equally wiry, with dark hair. Both of them had sharp eyes and looked like hunting hounds waiting for the release. The man said over his shoulder, "Introductions in the car, sir. Bree, wave one of the ambulances on with us?"
The blonde just said, "Pick me up on your way by, Diego," and took off towards the EMTs at a sprint.
"Or that." Diego wasn't running, but he was moving fast enough that Matthew had to stretch his legs to keep up. "We've been wanting to pick your brain, sir, but not like this."
Matthew snorted. "I've never noticed criminals are convenient in their timing. You'd almost think they like to aggravate us."
"Yeah, some of them are that stupid." Diego veered towards a plain blue sedan with government plates. "Do you want shotgun?"
Matthew said dryly, "I take it you'd rather I didn't for some reason?" He took the back seat without arguing the point; it let him watch both sides of the car.
"If someone's targeting you, let's not make his job easy." Diego gunned the car around with a casual precision that Matthew appreciated and slowed just enough for Bree to grab the door and swing into the front seat. As soon as she did, he accelerated again.
Immortal presence grated against Matthew for a moment: not powerful, but sharp-edged, almost discordant. He hadn't felt anything like it in decades and hadn't expected to feel it in the middle of a crowd of first responders. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the people closest to the car, but Diego was still accelerating away and whoever it was might be young, but apparently he or she wasn't young enough to give themselves away in a crowd.
Damn it.
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San Francisco peeps, I have done my best to make it somewhat believable; as Duncan said, it's a bitch to find a place for a challenge around there, much less a villain's lair. If I've screwed up, let me know, and if you can help fix said screw up, even better. Otherwise, I may have to plead authorial license, sorry! Original post on Dreamwidth | Leave a comment on DW | Read
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Given the new LJ 'design' decisions, please comment on DW if you can.
Depth of Field, part 3
San Francisco
Duncan pulled up at the address Methos had gotten out of Joe's emails and looked around, evaluating the street and the buildings. It was a busy commercial warehouse and transport district, but a few of the buildings were still damaged from the Northridge earthquake five years earlier; the insurance money might have been held up, or property ownership contested for them to be battered this much later.
Methos barely waited for the car to stop before he was out and pulling on his coat. Duncan knew that pattern of arm and hand motions; Methos was checking the placement on his sword and the guns he'd 'acquired' from Joe's office. Duncan had been a little startled by how many guns Joe kept around as well as how easily Methos could find them.
It was an area that was simultaneously busy and impersonal; ideal for predators as soon as dark fell or maybe before. It worried Duncan enough that he pulled his police scanner out from under the driver's seat. He turned it on and put it on the roof while he pulled his coat on. One quick shrug dropped his katana properly into place. "And here I'd have said there was no place you could take a quickening inside San Francisco, Adam -- Ben. Did you find anything else in Joe's system?"
Methos' smile at the scanner was sharp and calculating enough for that mess in Bordeaux. That might also be exactly what they needed to get Joe out of this, so Duncan didn't say a word. He didn't back away, either.
Methos shrugged and said, "Quite a bit. And yes, bring the scanner. Keep the volume down, but it might be useful."
Duncan ignored his attempted distraction and the steady, routine commentary of dispatch and confirmation on the police scanner. "Why are we here, Ben?"
Methos gave him the long look that meant he was debating how to keep Duncan from exploding. Duncan gave him a glare to say they didn't have time for that now. Methos nodded. "Do you know Joe's current position in the Watchers?"
"I try not to ask. I end up arguing with him." Duncan waited, hands and scanner in his pockets now, as the breeze off the bay ruffled his hair.
"He's still your primary Watcher, Duncan, but he's not your main Watcher. Not because of his legs, but because he's also Northwest Regional Coordinator. They decided San Francisco was close enough to leave him in the job when you moved." Methos went on quietly, "Which means any and all Watchers in the area update him on where they are and what their immortals are up to."
Duncan could hear where this was going. "You're saying there's an immortal in the San Francisco area that I don't know about. I can already tell I'm not going to like it. Just give me the rest of the bad news."
"One quick rip it is," Methos agreed. "A man called Kendall Myles moved in across the bay, in Tiburon. Thirty years ago he studied with Xavier St. Cloud." Duncan's mouth tightened, as did his hands. "Oh, it gets worse, Highlander. St. Cloud went in for mass killings for profit, but Myles is a purist. Given enough time, he'd be Caspian all over again. He came down here perhaps three months ago -- from Vancouver, Washington. The Watchers lost the first two men who followed him; they don't assign men to him anymore. The current woman has made it three months and she's very sure that Myles had something to do with the death of Chris Guerrero."
Tendons tightened down Duncan's jaw and neck when his memory called up the relevant news articles. "That poor transgender man murdered up in Washington?"
Methos tilted his head in acknowledgment. "The one whose body was found in pieces, and whose death has everyone screaming about a serial killer on the loose."
"Because he was a dark-haired, fair-skinned young man who'd died very badly," Duncan said quietly. "The others weren't dismembered."
"The others were completely male, MacLeod. At a guess, Myles didn't take it well when he found out he was lusting over someone who had some female anatomy."
"And you think he's got Joe here?"
"Myles' Watcher has never met Joe--" Methos' cell phone rang and he fell still. "Only so many people have this number. Let's see what we've got." He took two quick, sharp breaths before he answered the call, pitching his voice to play the distraught nephew. "Uncle Joe? Where are you? Are you all right?"
Duncan moved even closer, head angled in towards Methos so he could hear all of it.
"He can't come to the phone right now, Dawson." Their caller was trying to sound calm, but he sounded like a man pulled away from a hot date.
"Who is this?" Methos asked, playing young and inexperienced for all Joe was worth. Fortunately, he was very good at that.
"That doesn't really matter, does it? There can be only one. You're going to meet me and we're going to bring the number down a little more." He still didn’t sound entirely calm, but he was more steady than he'd been; was this some prearranged script?
"Where's my uncle?" Methos let his voice go angry and Duncan nodded approvingly. "He's not in the Game."
"He's my leverage on you. That's close enough. Meet me under the 280, off Cesar Chavez, in the next hour if you want him back alive. We both know you can find me. If you take longer than an hour, he'll be dead, and I'll still know what you look like."
Duncan stared as Methos shot back, "I know what you look like, too. You tripped his security system. If Joe Dawson dies, your picture will go out to every law enforcement agency with a fax."
After a startled moment, Myles laughed. "And here I was afraid you were going to make this too easy. Get here, Dawson, before I get bored."
Methos let out a small portion of his anger. "Oh, I'll be there." He hung up and studied the ground for a moment as he packed his emotions away; Duncan could almost feel them ripple down into the center of his quickening. Methos straightened again and said, "We're in the right place. He thinks he's got as much as an hour before I get here -- traffic from Joe's place?"
"Rush hour is starting up and it’s going to be bad today with the fog," Duncan confirmed. "That would do it. Does Joe's security system take photos?"
"It can. Some of the pictures I have even look like they could have come from there." Methos waved that aside. "Joe's still alive. I could hear him in the background."
Duncan nodded and pulled a med-kit out of the car and the backpack with a change of clothes for Joe. "We'll need these then." So they'd both heard Joe gasping for breath -- probably from trying to warn them.
Methos looked around one last time before starting across the street, his quickening drawing in as he went. "If Myles shoots me, get back out fast. You have an email from me with a picture of him."
Duncan shook his head. "And leave two of you to him? No. I'll let Myles worry about hauling your carcass. It'll make it easier to get the gun away from him."
The voices on the scanner had been constant and level until now, handling routine business; even through the muffling folds of fabric, both men heard the change in tone. Duncan pulled it out quickly, in time to hear SWAT and EMS were being directed to their address.
Methos stared at him, eyes wide but mouth tightening. "Did you…?"
Duncan shook his head impatiently. "I was driving, remember? Will Myles kill Joe if SWAT tells him to surrender?"
"Joe's heard his voice, maybe seen his face. What do you think?" Methos freed up his weapons.
"Then I'll go in first." Before Methos could argue, Duncan snapped, "You're a better shot. And I've got more mass to hit the door." He was already shoving the med-kit into the backpack.
Methos just nodded. "Go."
Duncan pulled the backpack on and sprinted towards the pair of doors, trying to pick up as much speed as he could in case they were chained shut. He hit the doors hard enough that his shoulder screamed. The doors slammed open a few inches, then caught on something and rebounded back into place. Without a word having to be said, Duncan dropped to the ground.
Methos shot over his head, targeting the hinges down the left side with three blasts from his sawed-off shotgun. Duncan lashed out with a foot, kicking the door inward to dangle on a thick chain.
Methos jumped through the gap and jogged into the shadow-filled building.
By the time Duncan rolled up, Methos was already a few yards ahead of him into the warehouse. For a building deserted for demolition and reconstruction, it still had lights on and didn't have as much debris as it should. The mess in front of them resembled a maze of collapsed plastic light covers, fallen acoustic tile, and metal sheeting listing in every direction.
From ahead and off to the right, towards the center of the building, he heard, "Trap, damn it!" Joe sounded hoarse and furious but alive and thinking.
"No, really?" Methos called back, also muffled by distance. "Where'd he go?"
Duncan was following the sounds, jogging through the mess and finding there were in fact paths. It also had blind alleys. He was backing out of his first dead-end when Joe called, "Off to your left. He's got a pistol and a knife, six inch blade."
Duncan let Methos go after Myles. He had the med-kit, which meant his job was to get Joe out of there. He followed Methos' tracks through the scatter of concrete dust and rust particles, ignoring any path where Methos' footprints doubled back. He kept a sharp eye on his surroundings as he went, both to find Joe and to remember the fastest path back out.
An open area at the center of the warehouse showed Duncan a very welcome sight: Joe Dawson, alive, breathing, and cursing steadily as he tried to fight his way free. Joe's arms were cuffed over his head. When Duncan got close enough, he saw that the handcuff chain was threaded through a hook which had been hammered into the post.
Duncan looked at the warped, dented metal and at Joe, who was glaring at him through two mostly-swollen eyes. Joe's face was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, his t-shirt and boxers were cut up and blood-splattered, but he was moving well enough Duncan could hope there weren’t any internal injuries.
His hands looked like they'd taken the worst abuse. Duncan could only hope no permanent damage had been done, because checking or bandaging any of it would have to wait they got somewhere safer.
The hook was the first problem. The second problem was the lack of prosthetic legs, and the presence of a twisted wreck that had, once upon a time, been a wheelchair. Joe's treasured Blues Brothers sticker was still visible on it, the checklist partially obscured by blood. Duncan just said, "Well, so much for charming the ladies this week. I'm going to have to hurt your wrists a little more, Joe."
Joe snorted and spat blood. "Immortal psychopath, Mac. Do whatever you have to, just get us both back out of here."
Duncan could feel Methos' quickening fade out and flare up again, just fast enough for him to be running full-out. Methos wouldn't be sprinting with a strange immortal in the area, much less one he thought was a serial killer. No. Methos was standing in the dark somewhere trying to stampede the bastard. If he really was young, it might work. Or he might think Duncan and Methos were hunting him like wolves, circling in and out. That might spook him, too.
Duncan wrapped a sleeve of his coat around the handcuff chain, letting the coat shield Joe from line of sight in case Myles had a distance weapon. He grabbed the fabric and chain in both hands and braced a leg against the post, just above the hook. "Hold on, Joe."
Duncan set his grip and pushed off against the post. He ignored the battered links cutting into his hands through the coat, ignored the screech of metal and the howls of his thigh muscles; they weren’t as important as the hook giving way or the wood yielding around it. It didn't matter which. What mattered was that Joe was free and Duncan's katana hadn't been nicked when he might yet need it to get them out of this.
Duncan let go and shook his hands out, disregarding the blood that came free as the fabric peeled out of already sparking cuts. The scanner was still chattering unit numbers: police, SWAT, an ambulance, a bomb squad. All of it was headed their way, which Duncan knew and Joe had no trouble guessing.
Joe said hoarsely, "Christ, Mac, did you call out the cavalry?"
"Not me, Joe." Duncan pulled his coat back on and asked grimly, "Any ribs broken?"
"Just make the pickup," Joe said, his voice flat and tight as he reached for Duncan's arms. So, probably yes.
The lights went out.
Duncan dropped to one knee beside Joe, made sure it was his almost-healed leg that was on the ground, and murmured, "Arms around my neck, Joe."
Joe didn't argue, just looped his still-handcuffed hands around Duncan's neck. Equally softly, in the barely audible whisper they'd both learned on battlefields, he said, "I can guide you in any direction for maybe eighty yards, Mac. Definitely some kind of exit directly across from where you came in. Millard kept going out and coming in that way."
"Then we'll go back the way I came in," Duncan said softly. "I know who I'm betting on in the dark. It's not Myles."
"Myles? Not Millard," Joe said grimly. "Knew I should have known him.…" His words cut off in a muffled grunt of pain as Duncan came up with him.
Without his legs, Joe wasn't nearly heavy enough, which made Duncan mutter some of Connor's favorite profanities. He'd do better later, or better yet, he'd let Joe and Methos do it; they were more creative about it. He said softly, "Which way?"
"Straight ahead for you," Joe said. "You're clear for thirty, thirty-five yards, then we're going to have to slow down and work out the entrance into the metal tunnel. At least you won't need a tetanus shot. Was that the old man?"
They both ignored the scanner's chatter. Duncan had his eyes closed rather than be blinded if the lights came back up. It also helped him concentrate on the sounds of his breathing echoing off the metal and the feel of the air currents. "Yeah, that was him."
Joe muttered something about storm crows and bad pennies that Duncan ignored.
They'd almost made it to the door when the shots came: one from the shotgun, two from a lighter gun, and one reply from the shotgun. None of the shots came anywhere near the two heading for the exit.
Joe hissed but didn't say anything. Duncan said softly, "We're almost there." He'd opened his eyes instinctively at the sound and seen a pool of sunlight ahead of them.
Joe nodded and bellowed, "We're clear!"
Duncan smiled despite his aching ears. "I haven't wrapped your ribs yet, Joe."
"Yeah, yeah, you're dating Matthew, not me…." Joe winced and Duncan didn't have time to ask why before Joe said, "Matthew. Oh, Christ. If Dave called him, would he…?"
Duncan stepped over the half-removed door and out of the warehouse. "If Matthew tracked your cell phone, Joe, it's back there-"
"-covered in my blood, with my wheelchair off to one side. God damn it." Joe shook his head, winced again, and said, "Later. Get us out of here now."
Duncan nodded, crouching to set Joe on the ground by the back tire. "Hold on, I've got to get the door open." Unlocking the car was his first priority, but Duncan kept flipping through his keys once that was done, pulling out the handcuff key he kept on there as a backup for reasons he had no intention of explaining to Joe or Methos.
Joe didn't ask, too busy working the handcuffs out of the bloody welts on his wrists with hands that were more swollen and bloody than his wrists. Duncan scooped him up and settled him onto the backseat of the car before he pulled the med-kit, slightly battered now, out of the backpack. He broke the first icepack to set the chemical reaction going and looked up as he felt an immortal heading his way.
It was Methos, sprinting towards them with all his weapons concealed again.
Now Duncan could hear the sirens.
Joe slid down onto his side, bracing a stump against the driver's seat, one forearm against the back of the passenger seat, and the other forearm on the door over his head. He didn't even try to use his hands. "Get in the car, Mac."
Duncan slung the first aid kit in behind his seat, closed doors, and started the engine.
Methos slid across the hood with a series of metal-on-metal clunks. He hit on his feet, spinning to yank the door open with the arm that wasn't covered in blood.
As soon as Methos was inside, Duncan accelerated smoothly away. The door closed a second later, and Methos pulled his seatbelt on, then reached over to fasten Duncan's. "Nice and slow, Duncan, maybe two miles over the speed limit by the time we're going under the 101. Yes, I know, you drove getaway for Cory and Amanda, but we don't want to follow that example."
Duncan concentrated on slowing his breathing back down. He pulled to the right and slowed down as the first police cars streamed past in the other direction, for all the world a law-abiding citizen who'd had nothing to do with any trouble back there. Without looking back, rubbernecking at the cop cars like any other passenger, Methos said calmly, "And San Francisco's finest arrive. Talk to me, Joe. How’re you holding up?"
"Buddy, I'm not back there with Myles. I am fucking peachy right now." Joe's labored rasps belied his claim, but Duncan couldn't pull over yet.
"Just keep breathing for us and we can work on everything else," Duncan said, picking up a little more speed as the first wave of emergency responders went past. "Methos, please tell me you didn't grab Joe's phone?"
"God, no. Phones can be replaced. So can your wheelchair, Joe." Methos was rearranging his coat to cover up the bloodstains on his arm.
"Yeah, well--" Joe's words broke off in a hiss as Duncan hit a pothole. "We're gonna have to replace my chair fast, Methos. Bastard took my legs for some game he was playing. He kneecapped one, right in front of me."
Methos glanced at Duncan, then up at the ambulance whose flashing lights had sent them over to the side of the road again. "Cross-street coming up, Duncan. Will it do us any good? Joe, do you have any idea what Myles did with your prosthetic after that? Something's kicked up a hornets' nest."
Joe sounded tired finally; the adrenaline was probably starting to crash. "Not a clue, Methos, but dumbass said you guys already knew I was bait. He didn't send my legs to you, Mac?"
Duncan shrugged. "I haven't been home since nine this morning. Maybe he did."
Immortal presence hit them as Duncan pulled sideways for another series of cars with flashers going. From the right lane, Duncan glanced sideways, met Matthew's eyes, and saw his face go blank. Then his car was past them and Duncan turned his attention back to the road. "Methos. Did you get Myles?" He turned right, too, wanting away from the official presence.
"I hit him at least once. He's not dead, no." Methos glanced back at Joe and then said grimly, "What I want to know is how Salisbury got here so quickly."
"Don't ask me, buddy," Joe said; from the sound of his voice, the adrenaline was definitely running out. "I was trying to mind my own damn business."
Back at the warehouse
Matthew answered his phone with most of his attention on the SWAT teams forming up to breach the warehouse. "McCormick."
"He sent you another package, sir." Amar gave him a moment to digest that, voices chattering behind him in a purposeful chaos. "The bomb squad has already checked it. It's another prosthetic leg; this one's been shot through the knee, and there's a bloody hand-print on it. Blood typing is taking a little while, and neither IAFIS or the San Francisco Liquor Board have kicked out Mr. Dawson's fingerprints yet. I have a request in to the Marine Corps for both blood type and prints as well, but the records are almost thirty years old. It may take them a while."
Matthew didn't bother to ask how Amar knew about the first box. The man was an admin assistant, not an agent, but he'd been working at the Oakland office for nine years now and had a higher security clearance than some of the agents. "I see. Anything else in the box, Amar?" SAC Michaels was on a phone call of his own; it was probably Matthew's second-in-command calling him to apprise him of the new 'gift.' Nathan shouldn't have stuck Amar with any of the calls, but Matthew was just as glad to be getting simultaneous notification.
"He sent a note this time: three lines, typed. First line says 'Tag! You're it!' Second line reads, 'Alserda.'" Amar spelled that out, then went on, "The last line is an address one block east of your current location." He added briskly, "We’ve already checked your car for bombs and moved it into direct line of sight of security . Agent Raske is getting a description from this courier. Do you need me to contact anyone for you, sir?"
Matthew shook his head and refused, again, to speculate on what it meant that Duncan and 'Ben' had been leaving as he arrived. "No. Word's already out, Amar, but thank you. Make sure the rest of the office knows this might not stay focused solely on me. Also, I seem to remember Alserda's a surname. See if we have anyone by that name anywhere in the databases, please."
That drew a huff that was probably the least dignified noise Matthew had heard from his secretary yet. "Also already done." A door closed before Amar said bluntly, "We have people checking your career to see if someone's gotten out who shouldn't, Matthew. When you get back, I've also got the list of who was already working on it when I asked. Until you do return, you will kindly keep two things in mind. One, your MacLeod is a martial artist but that doesn't mean he is expecting, or up to, our brand of maniacs. Two, by my calculations, at most you've had ten hours of sleep in the last forty, and that's if you skipped your run this morning. Knowing you, I doubt you did. So watch your temper and watch your back. It looks bad on my review if I break an ASAC this quickly."
Matthew chuckled, as he was meant to. "Reminder accepted and thank you." Much more quietly, he added, "It might be a little late on the temper, though. I'm having trouble convincing people that serial killers don’t care about our standard procedures."
Amar said quietly, "I'll let you know if I hear anything about them pulling Agent Oshiro
back from the Washington state manhunt. So far, they haven't. If they stick you in a safe house, just send me your library list; you can catch up on your sleep and your reading."
Matthew said dryly, "Thank you so much. Your optimism is inspirational. Keep the office from sliding into the bay, would you?"
"Of course. Also in my job requirements. You know that."
Matthew hung up as the teams went in. He made himself watch patiently, listening to the quiet commentary over the radio and wishing again that he was in there himself. Part of his mind thought he should remember the name Alserda, but he wasn't sure from where. Hopefully it was from work, not his private life.
When he looked around to see who'd gone in and who was prepping to follow, SAC Michaels was standing next to him, watching the scene just as intently. On impulse, Matthew asked, "Do you miss it, sir?"
Michaels glanced over. "The adrenaline rush? Yeah. Some days." He could have left it at that. Instead he went on, "I expected you to fight harder to go in with the front line."
Matthew shook his head. "No. They're the experts at this and a derelict warehouse is definitely a job for a large squad." A sharp crack was followed by a radio explanation of 'just some falling metal.' They both relaxed again, as much as they would until this was done.
Michaels said thoughtfully, "You're not actually what I expected, McCormick."
Matthew shrugged. "I do get that a fair bit. Mind if I ask what you expected?"
"I thought I was getting a by-the-book, classic blue-flamer. One of the type-A overachievers, judging from your record." The bomb teams began moving once SWAT advised they had lanes clear and were in need of expert checks. "You've put enough people away it seemed reasonable. The part that surprised me was that a couple of your references suggested offices run more smoothly around you." He shrugged. "Interestingly, the Oakland office is running more smoothly now."
Matthew turned to face his boss, frowning. "There's no profit in upsetting an office just to upset it. There's rarely need to upend one entirely even when there are problems. Best to fix the one or two things that need a nudge - or occasionally a good swift kick in the ass - and let the rest get on with the work."
Michaels smiled, amused and cynical at the same time. "Do you know why you got this job?"
"Because AD Skinner recommended me for it, I thought," Matthew said, shrugging slightly.
That got a lifted eyebrow. "I wasn't sure if you knew that, or would admit it if you did. But yeah, that's part of it. He wasn't the only one who endorsed you, however, or the only one I listened to. So do you think you're good at what you're doing?" Michaels asked, never looking away from the building.
"I'm having more days where I think I can do it than days I think I can't," Matthew said simply. "Is it what I'd rather be doing? Not necessarily. I think I'm a better field agent, honestly."
Michaels shook his head, almost amused. "There's usually a slight uptick in productivity when we change out ASAC or SAC. Oakland productivity is staying up."
Matthew shrugged. "You gave me some good agents, sir. And the Bureau does run to Type-A overachievers."
"Both true," Michaels agreed. "All right, now that you and I have both calmed down, let's have that talk again. If this were someone else, if it was one of your agents, would you let him work this?"
"Not if he were one of my supervisory agents, or an ASAC?" Matthew asked dryly, but he nodded too. "I know this isn't the answer you want, sir, but yes. I would. For exactly the reasons I gave you: a direct challenge like this has to be answered or the maniac doesn't just explode; he does it in a direction we don't expect, solely to make it clear he's upset. Now, that said, I wouldn't necessarily make my agent lead on it within the Bureau. But I'd damn well put him lead as far as any news to the public went."
Michaels considered that. All he said at first was, "Serial maniacs as thwarted children?"
"A great many of them were," Matthew agreed. All-clears were starting to come from the bomb squads. Thank God.
"It still wasn't the answer I expected, ASAC. Co-lead, huh?" Michaels seemed to be considering it, from what Matthew could read of that set to his shoulders.
Matthew shrugged. "Still speaking hypothetically, not letting the agent be seen to be working on it would definitely be hazardous to the agent. Less hypothetically, I don't know this maniac well enough yet, won't know him until I see Joe Dawson - or whatever's left of him - but thwarting him may lead to some kind of blowup if he's unstable. I don't know that we're in danger of bomb or shooter threats, but I won't pretend there isn't a good chance of it. I'd say have me work it part-time and not necessarily lead, with one or two of your violent crimes boys or girls who wants to go after him."
"It's risky," Michaels said thoughtfully, "but your name's known. It won't take long for him to hear you're on it. And it gets some of my agents a mentor for this." He added wryly, "We both know hunting these maniacs is considered a high-profile specialty."
Matthew's voice was equally dry when he pointed out, "It's not usually one that leads to promotions, however."
"So I've pointed out once or twice," Michaels agreed. "They aren't listening to me on that. Maybe they'll listen to you. I'll send you a few who could make profiler if they wanted but could also go ASAC."
"And I'll kindly bring them along for management as well as hunter?" Matthew nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'll appreciate the help. If I'm doing this part-time, I'm going to need it."
Michaels chuckled finally. "Now I understand some of those recommendations."
Matthew's phone rang and the SAC waved him towards it. "McCormick."
Joe Dawson sounded strained and angry as he said, "Hey, Matthew. I kinda need a ride home, buddy. By way of a hospital, sorry, and hopefully not your office."
Matthew felt himself freeze and tried to keep his voice calm; he probably didn't manage it. "It's rarely been such a pleasure to hear your voice, Joe. Where are you, do you know?"
Michaels stared, eyebrows going up as he mouthed, 'Is that him?' Matthew nodded, and Michaels waved a tech in to start tracing the call.
"Got no clue, Matthew. Gimme a sec and I'll ask. Gonna need you to put in a good word with PacBell for me, too. I kinda bled all over their phone."
Upset people were chattering behind him - male and female, Matthew thought. "We'll handle it, Joe. We're tracing the call for your location now. How badly are you hurt?" He added immediately, "Not on a scale of one to Vietnam, thank you."
"Nah, nowhere near losing my legs," Joe said tiredly. "Gonna need stitches and ribs wrapped, definitely. Don't think I need blood yet, but..." He bit back some words and finally ground out, "Think I'm gonna need a surgeon, Matthew. My hands are pretty fucked up."
Matthew swallowed his rage down, tucking it in with his fear, and tried to keep both off his face. "We'll find them for you, Joe." When he looked up, Michaels was watching him. Matthew relayed, "He'll need a hospital, one with a good hand surgeon."
"Can you get a witness statement from him?" Michaels asked. When Matthew nodded, Michaels said, "I'll go get your new partners. Do not leave without them."
Matthew exhaled. "Of course not, sir. Someone's got to secure the scene while I get Joe to the hospital and get his statement." A cop waved a note in front of him, specifying not only a hospital, but a doctor to ask for.
Matthew nodded a thank you to her and said, "Joe. Ask the people with you where you are."
Joe said, "Gimme a sec, yeah." He didn't bother covering the phone, just said, "Lady and gentleman, where in hell am I?" Someone said something about berths and Joe came back on. "The berths at Mission Creek Garden; Channel Street, near 4th." Joe added, "And they're offering me ice packs and some cushions and bandages 'til you get here. Think I'm gonna say yes. Call Mac for me, tell him everything's cool?"
Matthew shook his head, somewhere between annoyed and worried. This was beginning to sound as if Joe was covering something up. Possible explanations cascaded through his mind, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. "I may call him when I've got you safely in medical care, Joe; not before. Don't hang up yet." He heard chatter over the comms as the SWAT team confirmed that they'd found the cell phone, as well as a wheelchair and a lot of blood splatter.
Joe said tiredly, "Matthew, I'm on a pay phone and these folks only have so much cash."
"Then give me their names before you go." Matthew scribbled the address for the pair of agents Michaels had waved towards him, both of them young, eager, and wearing clearly labeled FBI windbreakers which partially concealed their badges.
"That's fifteen minutes from here this time of day," said the man who'd been assigned to him, "maybe ten with our lights on. Come on, ASAC, we've got a car."
Joe came back. "Names are Erland Gulbrandsen and Magda Machado."
Matthew followed them, still talking. "Got it. Just hold on, Joe. We'll be there in fifteen at most."
"Looking forward to it. See you then." Joe was already saying something about, "Appreci-" when the connection cut out.
The female agent was a tall, wiry strawberry blonde whose armoring professionalism reminded Matthew of Agent Scully. The man was shorter, equally wiry, with dark hair. Both of them had sharp eyes and looked like hunting hounds waiting for the release. The man said over his shoulder, "Introductions in the car, sir. Bree, wave one of the ambulances on with us?"
The blonde just said, "Pick me up on your way by, Diego," and took off towards the EMTs at a sprint.
"Or that." Diego wasn't running, but he was moving fast enough that Matthew had to stretch his legs to keep up. "We've been wanting to pick your brain, sir, but not like this."
Matthew snorted. "I've never noticed criminals are convenient in their timing. You'd almost think they like to aggravate us."
"Yeah, some of them are that stupid." Diego veered towards a plain blue sedan with government plates. "Do you want shotgun?"
Matthew said dryly, "I take it you'd rather I didn't for some reason?" He took the back seat without arguing the point; it let him watch both sides of the car.
"If someone's targeting you, let's not make his job easy." Diego gunned the car around with a casual precision that Matthew appreciated and slowed just enough for Bree to grab the door and swing into the front seat. As soon as she did, he accelerated again.
Immortal presence grated against Matthew for a moment: not powerful, but sharp-edged, almost discordant. He hadn't felt anything like it in decades and hadn't expected to feel it in the middle of a crowd of first responders. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the people closest to the car, but Diego was still accelerating away and whoever it was might be young, but apparently he or she wasn't young enough to give themselves away in a crowd.
Damn it.
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San Francisco peeps, I have done my best to make it somewhat believable; as Duncan said, it's a bitch to find a place for a challenge around there, much less a villain's lair. If I've screwed up, let me know, and if you can help fix said screw up, even better. Otherwise, I may have to plead authorial license, sorry! Original post on Dreamwidth | Leave a comment on DW | Read
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