Please note: This story was written purely for entertainment and is not for profit, and is not meant to trespass in any way on the holders of the rights to Starsky and Hutch.
This story takes place during and after the episode "Sweet Revenge."

5.1

Time: 0925

Officer Nick Valdez returned to consciousness slowly, finding himself prone on the plush grass. His chest hurt tremendously, and he found it hard to breathe. When he tried to stand, the pain increased and his head spun in twenty different directions. I've been shot! he slowly realized. His next thought was for his partner. "Malcolm! You okay? I've been hit! Malcolm!" he called out weakly.

There was no answer. His head finally stopped swimming, so he decided to risk looking around. He saw no one, nothing out of place. Knowing he wouldn't be able to walk, he crawled to the nearest door of the house.

Ten minutes later, he made it through the wide-open front door. He spied a princess telephone on a table next to a bench. Slowly, he crawled to it, noticing for the first time the blood trail he was making. Pulling on the cord brought the phone to the floor. The effort winded him even more. He ignored the temptation to wait so he could catch his breath and deal with the pain. Slowly, he punched in Metro Division's number.

"Bay City Metropolitan Division, how may I help you?"

"Emergency." Breath. "Dobey." Ragged breath. "Star safe house." A breath even more ragged. Valdez passed out.

"Hello, you still there?" Without hesitation, the operator opened a line to Dobey's office telephone.

"Captain Dobey."

"Cap, I just got a call," said the operator, trying to keep calm. "I got a weird feeling about it. This guy was pretty out of breath and only said a few words. 'Emergency,' your name, and, get this, 'star safe house.' The line is still open but I can't hear anything."

Dobey's heart sank. "Put me through to dispatch now, dammit, NOW!" A second later, he was barking at dispatch. "This is Dobey. I need all available officers at 121366 Ocean Beach Boulevard, top priority! Send a couple of ambulances, too! DO IT NOW!" He slammed the receiver down so hard the telephone broke. He grabbed his suit coat on the way to the detectives' room.

"Bennett! Parson! Let's go NOW!" Without as much as a glance at the other, the partners leaped from their chairs. Dobey was almost at the swinging doors when Hutchinson reached them from the other side.

"Hey, Cap, what's the rush?" the blond man asked.

"What are you doin' here? Where's Starsky?" he bellowed.

"Got a hearing today, remember? I came in to review the files. Starsky's at the safe house." Hutch's stomach tied itself in a thousand knots. His fire-and-ice-blue eyes widened as he stared at Dobey. Two seconds ticked by. He turned around and ran down the stairs.

"Where the hell do you think you're goin'?" Dobey rolled his eyes and gestured for Parson and Bennett to follow.

By the time the three men arrived in the garage, they saw Hutchinson driving a commandeered squad car out of the lot, tires and siren squealing and lights blazing.

Time: 1012

Hutchinson kept his mind empty as he barreled to the safe house in record time. He had no idea how he had kept control of the vehicle, weaving it in and out of traffic at speeds approaching 80 miles per hour and using just one hand.

The area around the safe house was clogged with squad cars, unmarked cars, and emergency vehicles. He screeched to a halt behind a squad car almost a block from the site. He was out and running before the engine shut down completely.

The knots in his stomach shot to his throat when he saw in the distance paramedics working on someone with dark curly hair just outside the front door. He conquered the weakness in his knees but couldn't control the racing of his heart. He finally reached the property line of the safe house and cut across the lawn to the paramedics. He slid the last few feet on his knees. He forced himself to look at the face of the man they were working so furiously on.

He took several stuttering breaths in when he recognized Nick Valdez. He felt a brief pang of guilt in his relief that it wasn't Starsky. He stayed only long enough to get back on his feet. He spotted another team of paramedics working on someone at the edge of the house. Running toward them, he saw their patient was Malcolm Foley. Another moment of relief followed by a heartbeat of guilt.

He headed back for the front door. He paused in the threshold, breathing heavily and shuddering at the immense amount of blood in the foyer. He flashed back to the garage but shook it away. He saw someone coming toward him. He gave no sign of recognition of her even after she called his name.

"Hutch," she said again, "it's Murphy. Come with me." She took his right hand in hers and walked away. She had to tug to get him into the house.

The strawberry blonde cop led him to the kitchen. She watched him carefully, squeezing his hand reassuringly, as he acknowledged the paramedics caring for…

Huggy! Oh my God! he finally allowed himself to think. This can't keep happening. They'll kill everyone until they get to us! Then he was aware of sound for the first time in many minutes.

"Okay, both IVs are going wide open, he's hypotensive and tachycardic. Let's get him outta here, Chas. He needs surgery, not us."

"Roger that." The paramedic named Chas activated his radio. "County General, this is Rescue 12. Our patient continues to be hypotensive and tachy at 134. Resps are 24, shallow, and labored. IVs of lactated Ringer's times two are infusing. Permission to transport immediately."

"Permission granted. An OR team will be waiting for him. Over and out."

Hutch continued to stare blindly at the drama unfolding on the kitchen floor. Murphy squeezed his hand tighter and tugged again to get his attention. He sluggishly turned his stare from them to her.

"He's not here. We can't find him."

"Wha'?" he croaked out.

"Starsky. He's gone."

Hutch's features remained blank. Then, 15 seconds later, without preamble, he loosed a primal scream filled with agony, sorrow, and loss. He hit the wall with his left arm with such force that the plaster cracked like thin sheets of ice under stress. The pain of that, paired with the disappearance of his partner, made him falter. He had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. I've failed you again! I wasn't there when you needed me! And now Huggy is paying the price, too! He slumped forward. He stayed there for a few minutes, while Murphy held his arm.

As the paramedics rolled their patient past the big blond man, both avoided looking directly at the person who rattled their teeth with such a seering howl. As he passed, Chas thought he could feel an intense heat radiating from the now-quiet man.

Dobey raced into the kitchen after he stood aside to let Huggy Bear and his caregivers pass. "What was that scream I heard? Hutch? You all right?" Worry and concern were all over the dark brown face. His usual gruff voice was softened considerably.

"They've got him, Captain. Henderson and Mitchell have kidnapped Starsk. And Huggy is…" Hutch drew in a deep breath, but it didn't stop his voice from cracking when he said, "I promised they wouldn't touch him again. And I failed him. He's probably dead already."

"You didn't fail him, son. If you had been here, they would've gotten you, too. And we don't know if he's dead." Secretly, Dobey feared and suspected the worst: that Starsky was dead, and they took the body just to torment them. Then it would be Hutch's turn.

Hutch started to sway, and it took both Dobey and Murphy to keep him from taking a header. They steered him to the living room and sat him down in an easy chair. His eyes were empty. His body was listless. He began to give in to his pessimism.

Bennett joined them in the living room. "Captain, I'm afraid the wounded officers were in no condition to speak. They, and Mr. Bear, are now en route to County General. Their chances of survival…" He paused and shrugged. "The first detective team on scene, Rogers and Thompson from the 19th precinct, have completed a thorough search of the premises. They discovered a trail of blood leading to the back door. It leads down to the beach, but they lost it there." The Englishman looked at Hutchinson before he proceeded. "The amount of blood does not appear significant. Parson is making a closer examination with them." He placed a supportive hand on Hutch's shoulder.

A man in a three-piece pinstripe suit strode into the room. He reeked of FBI. "Well, Dobey, seems that you called in that favor for nothing. Your guys still got hit."

Hutchinson lunged out of his chair and pushed the man to the floor mercilessly. He put a booted foot on the man's neck. "If I find out you or any of your other Bureau creeps leaked this location, I'll…" He began to press his foot down harder and harder and the man began to sputter and cough. Dobey had to forcefully pull Hutch away.

"That's enough, Hutch," Dobey said evenly as he held the blond man by his shoulders. The light blue eyes, steeped in frustration and worry, blazed when he looked into Dobey's dark brown orbs.

"I promised him, Cap."

Dobey, already filled with dread, almost broke down when he heard the earnest tremor in his detective's voice. He cleared his throat and said, "We'll find him, son." He patted him several times on both shoulders. "Bennett, why don't you take Detective Hutchinson and show him the blood trail."

"Yes, sir, certainly. Hutchinson?"

Hutch continued to stare into Dobey's seemingly placid and hopeful face for a few more seconds. Then he slowly began to nod, each nod deeper than the previous one. He looked past Dobey to Bennett, who carried an expression of sympathy on his patrician face. Hutch then nodded once at him. Dobey released his hold, and Hutch silently followed Bennett.

Dobey looked down at the FBI agent, who still cowered on the carpeted floor, holding his neck. The captain offered a hand. The agent accepted it cautiously. Dobey had him standing in no time. "Get this straight, Finley," Dobey said menacingly through clenched teeth, "if I find out anyone at the FBI leaked this, Detective Hutchinson won't have a chance to get to him, 'cause I'll beat him to it. Now get the hell outta here."

Agent Finley started to respond, but Dobey cut him off. "This is a police department investigation. I don't want any of that garbage about this being a federal case now! We'll take care of our own."

"Seems to me that you haven't been very successful at that lately," Finley said smugly.

Dobey's fist streaked as fast as lightning to zap the agent's face. Finley's head snapped to the right and he stumbled, doubling over. He felt something wet and sticky rushing out of his nose. He backed away when he saw the large man coming after him, fisted hand cocked and ready to swing again.

"Captain!" Murphy ran the few steps to Dobey to stand between him and the agent. She put her small hand on the well-muscled right arm of the captain. "That's enough, sir. You've made your point." She hoped she sounded calm.

Eventually, Dobey relaxed, the arm came down, and the fist became an open hand. He breathed rapidly and deeply, almost hyperventilating. Murphy squeezed his arm slightly. When she saw the rage begin to recede, she pivoted to look at Finley. "It's over, Agent Finley. We can handle it from here." Her left eyebrow raised, adding a touch of defiance to her otherwise pacific expression.

"I intend on bringing assault charges against you and that maniac Hutchinson, Dobey!"

"Go ahead, file your complaint!" Dobey started toward the agent again, and he backed away once more.

"Captain," Murphy said with a warning in her tone. "I saw nothing out of the ordinary, Agent Finley. I am sure Detective Bennett will attest to the same. It was a shame, though, that you tripped and fell against the back of the sofa. May I call a paramedic unit for you, sir?" Her voice dripped with both challenge and convincing innocence.

Finley pulled out a white handkerchief and tentatively swiped his nose and upper lip with it. "Fuckin' cops," he uttered under his breath as he left the safe house.

Dobey harrumphed uncomfortably. He looked at the blonde policewoman and studied her for a few moments. "Get back to work, Murphy."

She drew herself to attention and said, "Yes, sir."

"And, Murphy, one more thing," said Dobey to her back as she walked away.

"Sir?"

"Good job." He smiled his gratitude. She gave him a you're-welcome grin.

Dobey stood alone in the luxurious living room. Less than 24 hours ago, it was part of a celebration of two men overcoming incredible odds. Now, it was tainted with loss - the loss of one of those young men he held close to his heart, the loss of control for the other, perhaps the loss of his own career.

Screw my career, he thought. All I want is to bring those goddamned bastards to justice, before they waste my boys. He left the room in a rush to look for Hutchinson and Bennett.

5.2

Time: 1053

"So, Hutch, I think Starsky is still alive. He's bait to bring you out, dude, since you weren't here." Parson rubbed his short-cropped black hair for emphasis.

Parson, Hutchinson, Bennett, and Dobey stood in a circle in the sand at the foot of the stairs that led from the safe house's deck, where the blood trail vanished.

Bennett said, "I agree, Lancelot. Henderson and Mitchell want you both, Hutchinson. Your absence this morning was likely unknown and unexpected to them, no doubt. They believe the only way to get you is to keep your partner alive - for the time being." Hutch glared at him, but couldn't fault their reasoning and conclusion.

Hutch sighed and looked out over the ocean. "Yeah, I keep telling myself he's alive." He sighed and looked at the Englishman. "But we really don't know, now do we, Clive?" he asked with bitterness. Without warning, he hit his forehead with the heel of his right hand. "Shit! I forgot! I'm due in court at 11!"

Dobey checked his wristwatch. "I'll call Clements. Maybe he can get a continuance." The captain started the climb up the stairs. He stopped about halfway up when Thompson ran out onto the deck.

"Hutchinson!" the tall, stocky man yelled. "Got a call for you! Says his name is Mitchell!"

The big, blond former track star showed his prowess as he took the deck stairs three at a time, pushing by Dobey so hard that he almost forced the captain over the handrail. Recovering quickly, the larger man was only a few steps behind his detective.

Hutch yanked the receiver out of Rogers' hand. He took two breaths to settle his nerves and his stomach. "Mitchell? Where is he? I want him, now." He spoke with barely controlled rage.

"Ah, Big Swede, so nice to speak with you again, too. If you want your partner, you have to come get him."

"Prove to me he's alive, and I'll be there." Hutch ignored the sweat dripping into his eyes and making his new white shirt cling to his body. Don't antagonize this jerk-off. That could make things worse, he told himself. In the kitchen, Dobey carefully picked up the extension, covered the mouthpiece, and put the receiver to his ear.

"Henderson and I thought you'd say something like that. We have him right here. Just woke him up from a little nap. Looking a bit peaked, though. He's got a brand new scar to add to his collection."

Hutch's grip tightened tenfold on the receiver. He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to control the fire that raged in his gut and lungs.

"Okay, Starsky," Mitchell continued, "let your pussy partner know you're alive, if not well."

Silence for a few seconds. Then Hutch and Dobey heard what sounded like a slap and a punch, followed by a strangled yelp. Hutch felt the knots in his stomach trying to escape through his mouth. He gulped hard.

"Come on, Wild Thing, make it easier on yourself. Talk to your partner." This was from a different voice, a bit removed from the phone receiver. Henderson, you son of a bitch! Talk, Starsk, don't let him beat you any more, partner! Please!

Hutch and Dobey waited breathlessly for a few more seconds. Then they heard Starsky's pained voice: "Hutch, don't come -" The rest of the words were muffled. Then two thuds, the second one heavier than the first.

Hutch began to shake. "Okay, Mitchell, you proved he's alive. Where?"

There was a pause before Mitchell spoke. "Come alone, Pier 35. Stop by the crane. Get out and walk toward the end of the pier. Wear just a t-shirt, pants, and shoes - no jacket. Leave that bazooka of yours behind. No tricks, or Starsky dies before you do. It's eleven hundred hours now. Be here by noon, or Starsky dies before you do. You see, we would prefer to execute you at the same time, so you can watch each other's head disintegrate." Mitchell broke the connection.

Hutch was repelled and nauseated by the gloating tone of the assassin as he dictated the terms. He had trouble replacing the receiver in its cradle, finally fumbling it in place. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. He opened his eyes to see five pairs of them staring at him. He chose Dobey's to concentrate on. With fire and authority, he said, "Captain, we do as he says. To the letter. As long as we do, there's a chance I can keep Starsky alive and get us out of this." Starsky, I'm coming, buddy, stay alive.

Dobey knew it was useless to talk Hutch out of this. Besides, he was right and they didn't have time to mount an offensive. "Okay, we do as he says, but we add a few touches of our own."

Time: 1105

Shoppers ignored the dirty VW Bus in the parking lot strip mall on the outskirts of the city despite its psychedelic paint job. Those buses were still a common site in California, and they all tended to look alike.

Inside the Bus, one man watched as another taunted their prisoner he had blindfolded and bound like a prisoner of the Viet Cong - arms tied tightly together above the elbows behind the back, a sturdy stick thrust between the elbows and back, with wrists and ankles bound as well. It was virtually impossible to attempt an escape, especially when compounded by jagged, overwhelming pain and despair.

"So, Wild Thing, how does it feel to have your own jaw broken?"

"Henderson, you're still as stupid now as you were in 'Nam. My jaw ain't broke." Starsky decided to taunt back. He braced for a blow and wasn't disappointed when he was struck sharply across the face again. The bleeding from the laceration on his cheek increased. Damn! When am I gonna learn to keep my mouth shut? he asked himself as he slumped as far to the right as the stick would let him. Hutch has always said my mouth gets me in too much trouble. Oh, Hutch, please don't come after me! Don't let these goons get both of us! Let me die alone! He began to wish for unconsciousness and a quick death.

But Henderson wouldn't let him sink away. He sensed Starsky was fading out, so he opened an ammonia capsule under his nose. Starsky reared back, hitting his head on something metallic and unforgiving. Still, he didn't pass out.

"Now, tell me something, Wild Thing. What is so special about you and your partner that the police department is willing to have so many sacrificial lambs? Guess what? We took out your two cop guards and your nigger friend today."

Starsky did the only thing he could do - he spat in Henderson's face. "You and your partner there are the lamest excuses for human beings. Why are you doin' this? Gggunther's history. Is this some kind of sick revenge?"

Henderson laughed with profound malice as he wiped Starsky's spittle off his face. "Don't think this is about revenge, Wild Thing. Getting a broken jaw rather than twenty of hard time in Leavenworth was a bargain. No, this is about making one stubborn son of a bitch die like he should've done months ago." The assassin wadded up a filthy rag and crammed it into his prisoner's mouth. "Mitch, where's the cattle prod?"

Starsky emitted a low and drawn-out moan. With the news about Huggy Bear, which he had feared all along and was now confirmed, and knowing Hutch was coming to his own doom, abject despair joined the virtually constant pain he had experienced for almost three months. Unconsciousness didn't take him for several very long minutes.

5.3

Time: 1157

Hutchinson's squad car squealed to a stop by the crane on Pier 35. He began breathing again after a check of the time revealed he had arrived with three minutes to spare. The ten-minute layover at the 19th precinct had not eaten up a significant amount of time.

Starsky, I'm almost there. We'll get out of this mess, he thought as he scanned the area with an expert eye.

Pier 35 was in a section of the docks that was not in use at the time. The warehouse associated with it was empty except for several forklifts and a dozen empty crates. The crane was parked at the head of the pier. It was a long walk to the end of the pier.

Hutch checked his watch again. 11:58. Two more minutes, Starsk. Hang in there, buddy. Don't die on me, I need you to go on, for me to go on. Adrenalin prevented the tears from forming but didn't hide the shakiness in his voice as he reported in. "I'm here. Everything looks quiet. Hope I'm coming in loud and clear." He reached down to check one last time that the small gun wedged in his boot was still in position.

Finally, the appointed time arrived. Hutch slowly got out of the squad car. He stood there in the hazy midday California sun. The air was heavy with moisture, and there were storm clouds gathering offshore. He surveyed the area again. Seeing nothing unusual, he started the walk to the end of the pier, staying midway between the warehouse and the ocean.

About a mile away, Dobey and Parson sat in the front seat, with Bennett in the back of the partners' sedan, listening closely to the transmission from the wire concealed on Hutch's lower abdomen. Even though gain and volume were at maximum to compensate for the distance, the reception was spotty at best. Dobey, sweating profusely from the humid air, tension, and worry, swabbed his face with his ubiquitous handkerchief.

"Okay, he's started walkin'. Parson, check again that everyone's ready to roll."

Parson keyed the handheld radio. "All units, check in. It's almost showtime, dudes." Rogers and Thompson and the three black-and-whites called in ready.

Parson glanced at his watch. 12:03.

12:03. Hutchinson let his right hand drop to his side after checking his watch again. He was about a third of the way to pier's end. Nothing moved but him and the water. There were no sounds but the thud of his boots on wood and the gentle lapping of waves against pilings.

He stopped, sensing that something had finally changed, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He slowly made a 360-degree turn, extending his senses to detect anything out of the ordinary. Once more facing the end of the pier, he resumed walking.

Two steps later, the pier gave way beneath him and he plunged into the dirty water.

The three men in the sedan swore at the massive static that came over the receiver.

Just as Hutchinson's head breached the surface after his submersion, a club smacked the side of his head. He lost consciousness and went limp.

One man in scuba gear kept the detective's head above water, while another applied a nose clip and thrust the mouthpiece to a small aqualung into his mouth, taping it in place. The two men, supporting Hutchinson between them, sank beneath the surface.

"Move in, dammit, MOVE IN! Something's wrong!" bellowed Dobey frantically. Parson immediately keyed in the code. Almost simultaneously, five cars started their engines. Parson peeled out ahead of the pack, making it to the pier in less than two minutes.

Dobey had the door open and was stepping out of the car before it had come to a complete stop. The other cars rolled in. As the officers departed their vehicles, Dobey directed them to fan out and search the pier and surrounding area. He took off down the pier with Bennett and Parson on his tail.

Bennett spotted the neatly cut, gaping hole in the pier and pulled Dobey back roughly before he fell through. The captain was about to lay into the Englishman but paused so he could follow the downward gaze of his detective.

"I think one might surmise what has happened to our Detective Hutchinson," he said with a mixture of sarcasm and anger.

"Parson," the frustrated captain snapped, "get on the horn to the Coast Guard. See if they made it to the area yet. Tell 'em we think our kidnappers got wet feet. MOVE IT!"

As Parson raced back up the pier, Dobey and Bennett scanned the vicinity. Dobey rubbed the top of his head, hoping it would calm him. It didn't.

Time: 1237

Jimmy Gilmore had just finished interviewing the captain of the merchant ship carrying Egyptian artifacts for a traveling museum show. He stood at the top of the gangplank and looked around one last time before leaving the ship. Movement two piers over caught his attention. Squinting to improve his sight, he saw two men in scuba gear lift a third who appeared to be in streetclothes out of the water.

Great, a rescue! He headed down the gangplank. The increasingly oppressive humidity slowed him down in the race to his car, but he got to the pier in question to see a white panel truck leaving. Where're the emergency vehicles? He looked down the pier and saw nothing. He decided to pursue the truck. He was about eight carlengths behind it when something flew out the driver's window. Curious, he stopped where he thought the discarded object might be. He found it quickly. Looks like a microphone, like the cops or spies use. He gulped when he realized what this meant. He continued to follow the truck and would call the police first chance he got. It never occurred to him that perhaps the device was still working.

5.4

Time: 1405

Hutchinson could see the two faces in the squad car now, for the first time. They looked like any mother's sons. Until one stuck the barrel of an automatic gun out the window and fired, leaving behind a sea of blood. He could see his own gun fire in retaliation, but the bullets didn't go farther than a few feet before dropping harmlessly to the ground. He could hear that sea of blood percolating into the concrete. He could feel Gunther - no, it's Starsky - lying on his right side, curled in a fetal position, the headwaters for the sea.

What the hell's going on? He began to panic, to shiver, to throb in pain. His eyes shot open. In a split second, he went from one nightmare to another.

He was in a small, dimly lit, windowless room. He was on his knees, butt on heels, leaning against a post, wearing nothing but his shorts. Rope was wrapped around the wrist of the cracked cast and his right bare wrist. His ankles were tied as well.

There, hanging by his thumbs, feet just inches off the ground, was his partner, head lolling forward, body twitching. Blood, both old and fresh, covered the left side of his face and chest. There were rope burns above his elbows and around his wrists. He was clad only in droopy, bloodstained scrub pants.

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. He let the vomit come, hoping its release would take with it some of his guilt, his incompetence with it. Before he was through, someone grabbed him by the hair and yanked. He couldn't help but breathe in some of the emesis. Coughing to try to expel the foreign material in his airways, he stared at the soulless, psychotic eyes of Horace Harvey Mitchell.

"Got you both now, you dumb-fuck cop. You two are going to die, and I get my life back." Mitchell released his hold on Hutch's fair hair. "You disobeyed the rules I set down. Your partner will pay the price." In one incredibly swift motion, Mitchell raised the weapon they had confiscated from Hutch's boot and fired at Starsky.

"NOOOOO!" cried Hutch and he fell toward Mitchell, too late to ruin his aim. He heard Starsky cry out feebly. Fuck me! I come to get you out of this, and now you're hurt worse because of me! Hutch forced himself to look at his partner.

The bullet had left a deep flesh wound in Starsky's left triceps muscle. Hutch was relieved when he saw it wasn't bleeding much. But he knew as soon as his partner's arms came down - if ever - the bleeding would increase.

"You sick son of a bitch! Why punish him? Punish me instead. I'm the one who brought in the gun."

"Okay." In an instant, Mitchell fired the pistol a second time. The bullet lodged itself in the flesh of Hutch's outer left thigh. He screamed at the initial shock, then his leg went numb.

Mitchell grabbed a thatch of the straw-colored hair again, and used it to pull Hutch back into his previous position. "Frankie, bring Wild Thing around so we can tell them about their last half-hour on this planet."

Henderson, who had been lurking in a shadowed corner of the room, came forth and stood before the dark-haired detective. He snapped open an ammonia capsule beneath Starsky's nose. Henderson, in order to keep Starsky's head still, snatched him by his curls and forced him to breathe the foul-smelling fumes.

It took the detective several moments to orient himself. The awareness of pain came rushing back, this time with the addition of a burning in his left arm. Bile climbed to his throat when he recognized Henderson. He searched the room with his eyes, which almost immediately latched onto his partner's.

Hutch watched the expression in his friend's eyes go from hope to anger to emptiness. He had to look away briefly, because he couldn't stand to see his partner giving up. Oh God, he's dead already! Hutch felt profound grief welling in his gut, and the knots twisted themselves even tighter.

"Hey, Big Swede, you should've been here earlier." Henderson sneered. "Your boy here went crazy. We left him in this room while we picked you up. Yeah, he freaked - started hyperventilating. Seems he's got claustrophobia. Prob'ly because he got buried alive for a while in 'Nam. Was in one of those VC tunnels, weren't you, Wild Thing?" He laughed, enjoying the panic he was helping to kindle in Starsky. "Yep, the day after you catch me with that sweet young thing, you and your buddy get caught in a tunnel after he trips a booby trap. But he's dead, and you're by your lonesome, surrounded by dirt and VC and no air. He ever tell you about that, Swede? Heard he'd only sleep outside for weeks." He laughed again, this time sounding like a depraved troll. He had gone over the edge without Mitchell's steadying influence.

That explains a lot, thought Hutch.

"That's enough, Frankie. Let's get on with the business at hand. David Starsky, Kenneth Hutchinson, you have been sentenced to death by James Marshall Gunther. We are here to carry out that sentence." He paused, looking for a reaction. Starsky was too busy trying to control his compulsion to hyperventilate to listen to Mitchell. Hutchinson kept his face unchanged, controlling his revulsion to the insanity glowing in Mitchell's brown eyes.

"But you are to be punished first for not dying as you should have. Once my partner and I leave, you will have approximately thirty minutes before this building explodes," he droned. "You may try to escape, but be warned that that action has its consequences. If by some chance you do escape, we will be waiting for you, ready to carry out your executions." He cleared his throat. "Any questions?" He sounded almost like a game show host explaining the rules to the contestants.

"Why don't you just kill me now, you friggin' idiot?" Starsky finally spoke, voice hoarse and emotionless. Mitchell shoved Frankie out of the way so he could crash his fist into the detective's abdomen.

Starsk, watch your mouth! Hutch tried to communicate to him. But Starsky was ignoring him. "Starsk, shut up!" He let out a wounded scream when Henderson kicked him in a kidney.

Continuing to ignore his screaming partner, Starsky carried on in breathless agony. "Kill me…any way you wanna…for as long as it takes…just let my partner go. I'll make him promise…not to go after you…to leave you alone. Don't kill or hurt anybody else. You can go about your business. How 'bout it?"

"No deals, Wild Thing. It's my way, no exception. The contract was for both of you. If we don't fulfill its terms, we'll never get another one. Besides, it's personal now." Mitchell spat in Starsky's face. He didn't react.

Mitchell nonchalantly checked his watch. "It's almost fourteen fifteen hours. You'll be dead by fourteen fifty. Let's go, Frankie." Frankie laughed dementedly when he turned out the weak light and closed the door behind him.

The partners said nothing in the dark for a few moments. Starsky spoke first. "Hutch, I told you not to come. Now you're gonna die, too. It…it shoulda only been me."

The lifelessness in Starsky's voice crushed Hutch's soul. No fucking wonder. How much more could he possibly take? He considered that maybe his optimistic, resilient partner had reached his limit. He fought back against the despondency that thought engendered in him. "Starsk, don't give up, buddy. You're not dead yet. And that means there's hope. I need you. I can't get out of here on my own. But you have to make the decision. Is it really 'me and thee,' or has it been a pathetic joke for all these years?" That's right, Hutch, make him angry. Maybe that'll start his engine running again. I know you, Starsk, and you haven't reached that limit! I won't let you!

Starsky, who thought he was beyond feeling any longer, was surprised that his best friend's words scorched him. "Too many hurt by all this. I got nothin' left any more. No life. All I've ever wanted was to be a cop. With you as my partner, it was perfect. But they're already in the process of kicking me off the force. You partnered with Meredith - " Saying her name evoked memories of her - her smell, smile, voice, intelligence, strength and vulnerability, tenderness and toughness, love and acceptance of him. He was heartbroken that he had to leave her. He let his defeat overtake him.

There was Terry, right there with him. She was difficult to see through the smoke and ashes of his heart, but she was unmistakable. Don't take back the gift you gave me. And I do like Meredith, very much.

Hutch now knew that one thing, that one final spark, missing from his partner. "Starsky, don't let them win, damn you! Fight back! You'll never be a cop again unless you do!" Hutch shouted vehemently. "If you're gonna die, let it be as a cop! Where is my friend, my brother, who won't go down easy, huh?" Hutch's voice started to give out, but he persisted. "Don't leave this way, Starsky. I'll never forgive you if you do!" Hutch despised himself for even thinking such a thing, but he and Starsky had to confront the truth.

Hutch's fiery words sought out and found the lone ember in his partner's all-but-dead spirit. The ember began to glow brighter, as Hutch's words stoked it, gave it new life. "What the fuck did you say to me?" Starsky's question sparkled with quiet anger.

He's hooked! Now to reel him in… "You heard me. If you die like this, those people who suffered because of these assholes won't get even a hint of justice. And you'll die without my forgiveness. And I'll regret ever being partners with you. Do you understand me?" Hutch ached at the harsh words, but he had to protect his valuables. Maybe this is how I protect him, safeguarding his soul. Hell of a way to do it…

"Just wait till I get down from here! You got some explainin' to do, friend, partner." He struggled against the restraints encircling his thumbs and cried out in anger.

Caught you! Hutch exclaimed to himself, delighted to hear the fury in his partner's voice.

Time: 1418

Jimmy Gilmore sat in his Ford Maverick and sweated. A storm was rolling in and the humidity had gone beyond oppressive. From a distance, he watched the panel truck he had followed for miles, until they were out of the city. He couldn't decide what to do. He thought the guy they carried into the huge, abandoned, and dilapidated mansion was Detective Hutchinson. But he wasn't sure. He didn't want to cause any trouble for anybody if this was innocent. Besides, he wanted the exclusive.

Jimmy, you are a fuckin' idiot! No matter who it is, they're up to no good! Call the cops, for Pete's sake.

He started the engine and began his search for the nearest public telephone. He would ask for Bennett at Metro. Maybe I'll call Susanna at KZAM. If I tell her about this one, maybe she could get me a job at her station when I get fired. Better yet, maybe she'll finally go out with me.

The rain began to fall in slow, large droplets.

5.5

Time: 1420

The curly-haired captive struggled harder against the ropes. He could hear his partner's small cries. Must be tryin' to get the ropes off his cast. He better hope he gets free first. I don't have to take that shit from him. His struggles were finally strong enough to tip over a bucket full of ice-cold water, drenching Hutch.

The kneeling detective gasped at the sudden assault of freezing wetness. His cast was quickly disintegrating, and his shorts, now transparent, clung to his body.

"Hutch, babe, you okay? Talk to me! You okay?" A frantic Starsky quickly forgot his anger at his partner. But not knowing what had happened to Hutch brought him back to the reality of the small, dark, close room. He began to feel the panic, to hyperventilate again.

Hutch was out of his cast, then the rest of his ropes, in seconds. Those turkeys did this on purpose. They want us to try escaping, and they knew we would. He could hear Starsky breathing deeply and rapidly. "I'm okay, Gordo. I'm loose. I'll turn on the light." He stood, but immediately fell, left leg collapsing. He cursed angrily.

"Huuutch!" Panic and concern dueled for dominance in his voice.

Hutch "walked" on his right knee, dragging his left leg behind him. He found the door quickly. He felt around and finally touched the bottom of a broken switchplate. He stretched until he found the switch itself and flipped it upwards.

The dim bulb illuminated the room, revealing a kicking and manic Starsky. Even in the low light, Hutch could see a small twinkle in his friend's eyes. "Dammit, Starsk, be still! You're just making things worse."

"Open the damn door, willya?" he shouted, exasperated with Hutch. "But be careful! Remember what they said about consequences!"

Obeying his partner, Hutch turned the knob, pushed the door open, and hit the floor.

Nothing happened. He pushed himself back to his right knee and made it over to Starsky. He could figure no other way to stand than to grab hold of the waist of Starsky's pants and pull himself up. "Sorry, buddy, but this'll hurt you more than it'll hurt me." As he pulled his largely uncooperative 180 pounds up, Starsky cried out in maximum torment. "Fight it, Starsk! Don't pass out! We don't have time, buddy!"

His partner's touch gave him the strength he needed to stay conscious and endure. I'll do it, Hutch, I'll do it for you. But I'm running on empty here!

Hutch was up, holding Starsky just under his ribcage. He hyperextended his head to determine how the ropes on Starsky's thumbs were fastened to the pole from which he hung. Hooks. Good. All I have to do is lift. "Okay, partner, you have to help me here. I have to lift you, but then you need to bring your arms forward. Think you can manage that?" He took the feeble grunt as a "yes." "Okay, here goes nothin'." He took a deep breath, and screamed as he raised the 160 pounds. The pain in his left arm escalated to unimaginable heights and his left leg chose this time to wake up. But a second later, he was rewarded with Starsky's arms falling against his shoulders.

They landed on the floor together in a heap. They panted from the exertion and groaned from the unrelenting pain. They let a minute pass to recover. "How much time you think we got left?" Starsky eked out between gulps of air. He grimaced as sensation began to return to his arms.

"Enough." Hutch held Starsky's eyes for just a moment, expecting to see defeat or resignation, but instead he saw hope and fight. He turned his eyes to inspect his partner's thumbs. They were purple and swollen. Damn, he could lose both of them! "Thumbs hurt much?"

"Naw, pretty numb. But my arms are startin' to wake up, and it hurts like a sonuvabitch. Ready to get outta here?"

"Absolutely. Let's go turkey hunting." Hutch stood slowly, using Starsky's shoulders to help him. Once steady on his uninjured leg, he helped Starsky stand. They leaned against each other for a few moments as the activity made them both dizzy.

"Before we head outta here, I think they have some surprises for us," Starsky warned. "Prob'ly booby traps. Prob'ly real nasty ones. Those fuckers are sick. We gotta be real careful, partner."

"Starsk, we don't have much time to be careful."

"Okay, then, last one out's a rotten egg."

"Better rotten than fried."

Hutch led the way by half a step, dragging his left leg behind him. Starsky staggered and stumbled, coming close to but never quite falling. They entered a large, empty room with a bay window. Looking out through the filthy panes, they could see the rain and could tell they were most likely on the third floor. Hutch looked back at the room they had just left and said, "Walk-in closet."

"It's a walk-out now." Starsky shivered, recalling the closeness of his recent prison.

They headed for the door. Just as they got to the threshold, Starsky tripped on his own feet and stumbled into Hutch. The latter grasped for the doorframe, twisting in such a way that his left leg went out the door first. It triggered a trapdoor, and his leg went through the opening, hand sliding down the frame, buttocks closing in on the floor. He felt something sharp cut him from ankle to knee. He screamed.

Starsky, his back now against the wall just to the right of the doorway, yelled with alarm, "Hutch, what is it? You okay?"

Through gritted teeth, the freshly injured man said, "Something just cut me up my leg. Grab me, Starsk, I'm losing my grip!"

Hurriedly, Starsky tried to get his arms to work. They flopped around like landed fish. He put his back against the wall again, and slid down to the floor. He scooted on his butt until he was in position to wrap his legs around Hutch's waist.

"Hurry, Starsk!" Hutch was holding on by two fingers, and they were slipping.

"Gotcha!" Hutch's waist now firmly between Starsky's legs, the brown-haired man performed a backward somersault. Must have a reserve tank, thought Starsky. Hutch found himself back in the room, noting he was going to have a few new bruises thanks to that stunt. He saw blood coursing from both the bullet and the newest wounds. He turned to Starsky, who was curled knees to chin, rocking slightly and crying through tightly closed eyes.

"I think you just qualified for the U.S. Olympic gymnastic team with that move, slick." Hutch's attempt at distracting Starsky did not have the desired effect.

Barely audible, Starsky said, "Oh God, Hutch, I hurt so much, everywhere."

Hutch crawled over to his friend and put his head on his shoulder. "I know. But we'll be out of this soon, and you can get some medicine." I could sure use some of that narcotic sweetness myself… He began to crave it, not only for its relief of his physical pain, but for its relief of his psychic agony. He stayed for a few seconds longer, then crawled to the threshold and looked into the pit. His stomach rolled when he saw numerous wooden stakes, all whittled to long, sharp points. "Starsk, what did you call sharpened stakes in 'Nam?"

"Wha'?"

"You know, punjab…"

"Punji sticks."

"You just saved me from falling into a pit full of 'em."

"Any time." Starsky started to jerk and heave, so Hutch crawled back to him, happy to leave the grisly sight.

"Starsk, I'm bleeding pretty bad. I need your pants."

"No way. Not for sale."

"If I'm gonna die" - spasm and heave - "I'm gonna die with dignity." He jerked again. "Sometimes, Blintz, you take my dignity too lightly." He went into an unexpectedly long and severe paroxysm of pain; Hutch draped his good arm over Starsky's shoulder, comforting him the best he could.

Starsky panted heavily for close to a minute after the spasm ceased. "Didn't think I could hurt worse. Was wrong." He winced and breathed through his bared teeth. "Aw, screw it. Take 'em. But you're gonna hafta get 'em off me."

Hutch was beginning to feel woozy from pain and blood loss. What I wouldn't give for a taste of horse right now. With some urgency, he prodded Starsky to unfurl his legs. The latter cried out yet again, but straightened his legs enough for the pants to come off. Hutch untied the string. "Starsk, you have to help me pull 'em off."

"Jesus Christ, Hutch, do I gotta do everything?" Working together, the pants were off in less than a minute.

"Sorry, pal, but you'll have to help me wrap 'em around my leg."

"Guess I got my answer. What would you do without me, partner?"

Hutch watched as his partner struggled with his malfunctioning upper extremities to tie the pants above the bullet wound. Again working together, they fashioned something akin to a pressure dressing/tourniquet. With what little length was left, they spiraled it down Hutch's leg.

Time: 1430

"Dispatch, this is Detective Bennett. Patch me through to Captain Dobey immediately! This is an emergency!" Bennett's normally calm, proper façade was distinctly animated.

"Dobey," came the loud, gruff rumble over the radio.

"Captain, Bennett here. I just fielded a call from that reporter Mr. Gilmore. He seems to have spotted something very suspicious at the docks just after noon. Two scuba divers helping a third man in clothes out of the water. He followed the chaps to an abandoned mansion. On the way there, they seem to have disposed of a body microphone. I think we have our men!"

"Where, dammit?!" Dobey allowed himself to feel a small dollop of hope.

"Out State Route 344, past the town of Currier. It will take Parson and me at least twenty minutes to get there at best speed."

"It'll take me thirty. Go on, I'll have a couple of black-and-whites in your area respond as well. I'll meet you there." Bennett signed off. Dobey chose another line on his telephone. "Let me speak to Sheriff Palmer now. Captain Dobey, BCPD. It's an emergency."

Time: 1432

"Enough rest, Starsk. We don't have all day." Hutch was wearying of fighting the pain and the siren song of narcotics. But his will to survive and his love for his partner pushed him on.

"'Kay. Hutch, we gotta be real careful. They prob'ly got this place rigged a thousand ways. The punji sticks were prob'ly just one of a lot of booby traps."

"Now I know why they made it so easy for us to escape from that closet. They want us to suffer before we die."

Starsky could detect a hint of pessimism in his partner's voice. "That ain't gonna happen, you hear me?" he demanded. "Now, we gotta watch for trip wires, look all around, includin' up. We gotta listen for sounds that don't fit. We're gonna get out of this. Hell, we've come too damn far." He took a deep breath and coughed harshly. "First we gotta get outta this room." He looked around the room for ideas. The door!

The door to the bedroom was half off its hinges. Starsky willed himself to stand and walk the few steps over to it. The wood of the doorframe was rotting, so it took little effort to pull the door off its remaining hinges. He managed to let it fall over the pit despite still uncooperative hands but improving arms. The activity winded him, but he pressed on. "Come on, Hutch, all ya gotta do is walk. No broad jumpin'. You can do it." He went to his partner's side to help him stand. Hutch inhaled sharply when he put a few pounds of pressure on his left leg.

"I'll go first, make sure it's okay," Starsky said. The door barely covered the pit, so he crossed carefully, somehow keeping his stumbling gait controlled. Across the hallway from the bedroom's entrance was the landing of a staircase. Starsky checked the area thoroughly, then knelt down and rested his elbows on the edge of the door. His fresh gunshot wound had woken up, and was bleeding slowly but steadily. "Hutch, hurry, wouldja?"

Hutch took a deep breath in, held it, and limped hurriedly across the door. When he felt the door slip, he increased his speed and was across.

Unfortunately, Starsky couldn't afford to move, and Hutch's knee met his forehead. The force knocked him over and he tumbled down several steps, while Hutch crashed into the landing wall.

"Damn, Starsk, why didn't you get out of the way? You okay?"

Through gritted teeth came his angry reply. "If I hadn't'a held that door, you blond buffalo, you'd be shish kabob right now. Shit it hurts!"

"What?"

"Everyfuckin'thing, whaddya think?" Starsky barked. He began to put his twisted limbs back in working position when he saw a paper-thin, almost transparent wire inches from his nose. "Hutch," he whispered frantically.

"What is it now," Hutch said testily as he worked on righting himself.

"Uh, trip wire on the step below me." His breathing became slow and shallow.

Now standing, Hutch's eyes widened in horror and fear. "What's it lead to? Can you get to it?"

Starsky slowly moved his head to follow the wire all the way to the right, then to the left. That was when he saw the wire was attached to the wall but continued downward, doubtless to some sort of explosive. Goddamn it, I'm back in Indian country, he swore to himself. "There's somethin' there, but I can't get close enough to see it." Then, without warning, he slid an inch closer to the wire.

The partners held their breaths for almost a minute. Hutch broke the silence. "Starsk, can you feel for it?"

"Do you think I'm nuts?! I'm not puttin' my hand down there! I might set it off!"

"Well, I don't see any other choice. Do you?" For a short-lived moment, Hutch found looking at Starsky's bare ass quite amusing. The moment had long passed when Starsky said, "Here goes nothin'."

The brunet man worked his tingling right hand under the wire and moved it to the left cautiously until he thought he felt a two-inch-thick bump on the step. His thumb was still not functioning, but his fingers could do some large motor movements. With great care, he wedged his ring finger under the bump, clasped down on it with his index and middle fingers, then flung it away as hard and as fast as he could.

The small device exploded in a thousand sparkles as soon as it separated from the wire less than a foot from Starsky'head. He exhaled in relief. Hutch staggered back a few inches.

"These guys are really beginnin' to piss me off!"

"Starsk, they're just messing with our heads. This is just their sick humor."

"Yeah, I know. Let's go." Starsky slowly got to his feet. He wiped his sweaty brow and looked back over his shoulder at Hutch. He, too, was perspiring heavily, and was alarmingly pale. "Come on down. I'll walk right in front of you. That way, if you trip, I'll break your fall - maybe."

Hutch grabbed the deteriorating handrail and started down the steps, one at a time. "Don't do me any favors." Starsky grinned up at him. Right hands on the rail, they slowly descended the steps, both keeping their eyes peeled for anything suspicious.

Time: 1438

"How did you convince the boss man to let you use the chopper to cover this story?" asked the pilot of his pretty passenger.

With a sly grin on her painted red lips, Susanna Beck drawled, "I promised I'd sleep with him."

"WHAT?!"

She laughed a big Texas guffaw. "His definition of sleep ain't the same as mine, but he doesn't know that!" She enjoyed the you're-a-smart-one grin from her companion. "Hey, is it safe to fly in one of these things in rain like this?"

"Not really. Flight time should be pretty short, and the storm's already passing. We'll be fine." He had flown in much worse weather as a medevac chopper pilot in Vietnam. "Check your seatbelt again. We ought to be there in about ten minutes. Rick, check your belt again, man. I promise I'll fly this bird so you can get great footage from the safety of your seat."

Time: 1440

The partners were nearing the bottom of the stairs from the third floor. Neither had identified anything out of the ordinary, either by sight or sound.

"How much time you think we got, partner?"

"Probably not much. Wish we had our watches."

"Ah, watches. I haven't worn one since…the garage. Hey, where is it, anyway?"

"You and your stupid, elaborate watches. Don't worry, it's in safekeeping at my place."

"Hutch, you don't have a place any more!" Starsky's voice easily betrayed his feelings of loss and disappointment.

"Oh, yeah, right. Well, buddy, I…" Something tickled his fingers. Instinctively, he jerked his hand away and almost immediately heard a thong! come from somewhere ahead of him and Starsky.

The curly-haired man heard the sound as well but was unable to identify the source before an arrow pierced his left side. He grunted in surprise, tripped down the last step, and fell onto the filthy, lumpy rug on the spacious second floor landing, with Hutchinson tumbling on top of him.

"Hutch, I'm hit! Get off me! Where the hell did this thing come from?!"

The big blond rolled to the right. He lay on his back for a few moments before helping Starsky turn on his right side. "Forgive me, buddy," he pleaded to Starsky's back, "but I think I tripped a wire! It must've been on the outside of the rail! I'm so sorry!" He didn't try to stop the tears.

"Izz okay. Don't hurt." Much. "It's a fuckin' arrow, prob'ly from a crossbow. Just like the VC used to do in 'Nam." He cursed under his breath, closed his eyes but only for a short moment as he saw an arrow sticking into the windpipe of one of his Army buddies. Trembling from the memory, he asked, "Is it all the way through?"

Hutch wiped the tears from his eyes and inspected the lightly bleeding wound. "Yeah. I can see an inch, inch and a half of metal shaft. I'm so…"

"Babe, not your fault," Starsky interrupted, "just not your fault. I don't blame you, even though you are a klutz. We got more important things to worry about. 'Kay?"

"Yeah, okay," Hutch said, though not convincing enough for his partner. "I think we better leave the arrow where it is."

"Yep. Guess I got my own handle, huh?"

"Personally, I'd rather see you with the love types many years from now, buddy."

The partners helped each other up, each functioning for the other when and where he could not. They stood for a moment to catch their breaths. Hutch coughed harshly, and his airways seemed to burn. Starsky, worried look on his face, surveyed the view from the landing.

The stairs actually opened into a hallway that had rooms on either end. On the wall opposite the steps was a large, stained glass window that ran from floor to ceiling. Next to it was a built-in cherrywood armoire. That's where they rigged the fuckin' crossbow. Peering around the edge of the banister, Starsky looked down the hall and saw the base of the punji sticks. He shuddered at remembering how close his friend had come to being skewered.

Hutch had his breath back. "I bet the stairs to the first floor are right under these." He turned to head down the hallway. With his second step with his right foot, he heard a muffled click.

Starsky heard it, too. "DON"T MOVE! Don't shift your weight! Don't even BREATHE!" He frantically scanned for something to use to disarm what was probably some sort of anti-personnel mine. Nothing! Dammit!

"Starsk, hurry! I can't stay like this. My leg…" He stopped, cognizant that Starsky knew this already.

The arrow! That oughta work! Starsky snorted when he realized he didn't have the grip yet to hold something that slender. He slid his feet along the rug to avoid stepping on a mine himself. In front of his partner, he looked into the fatigued, pained, pale blue eyes and said, "You gotta pull this out. I need it. No time to look for anything else."

Hutch's expression plainly said NO! But Starsky's resolute and forgiving look gave him the courage. "Don't mean nothin', Hutch."

The blond man grasped the shaft of the arrow, blinked his eyes several times to clear his vision blurred by salty tears, and silently and needlessly asked the dark blue eyes opposite him for his forgiveness. He concentrated on maintaining the same amount of pressure on the mine, and pulled the arrow out of his partner.

Starsky, ready for the pain, still yelped loudly and collapsed. He narrowly missed kneeing the mine. Now bleeding from the two new and just enlarged holes in his body, Starsky worked the rug back over the mine. Yep, just like a homemade VC mine. Enough to blow off his foot - or blow out my eyeballs. "Teeth." Hutch put the bloodied arrow between Starsky's teeth. "Hold it up." Hutch grabbed the rug as he was told.

Time: 1447

The sweat now poured off both of them. Starsky could feel his partner trembling and knew he only had seconds before Hutch collapsed. Holding the arrow between the palms of his hands, he situated it so the arrowhead and several inches of shaft were exposed out the pinky side. He bent over and quickly but carefully inserted the arrowhead, flat side parallel to the mine, under the pressure plate. When he felt what he was probing for, he gave the arrow a little jerk. "Got it!" I hope!

Hutch collapsed and began to hyperventilate to compensate for not breathing. Starsky didn't move - he just stared at the disarmed mine.

A few seconds later, the dark-haired man felt compelled to stare at the armoire. He had a suspicion that there was something more to that than just the hiding place of a crossbow. He groaned and moaned as he struggled to his feet and headed for the armoire. Without checking for booby traps, he flung its doors open.

Next to the crossbow, he identified an incendiary device hooked to a timer. The timer's digital display read 00:00:20 in bright red. A quick check showed the device was bolted in place.

00:00:18. Starsky shuffled the few steps to where Hutch lay on the floor. "Come on, Blintz, we gotta get out of this place." Hutch immediately comprehended the all too evident urgency in Starsky's tone. The latter offered his friend his arms.

00:00:15. Hutch grabbed hold of Starsky's arm with his one functioning hand. He pulled himself up as Starsky raised his arms.

00:00:11. Neither spoke. Starsky, worn out, had run out of ideas. He looked to Hutch for one.

00:00:09. Hutch told Starsky his idea with a quick eye movement that also said, Trust me. The dark curls bobbed up and down once - message understood, received, and accepted.

Time: 1449

Parson silently swore at the continuing rain as steered the Ford Sedan into the entrance of the long driveway to the mansion just a few yards behind the sheriff's four-wheel-drive vehicle. When he finally heard the sound of a helicopter nearby, Bennett turned to speak with his partner but never uttered a word. The explosions and the conflagration that rapidly followed tied his tongue.