Beaver Creek Motel, fifteen minutes later

Jim pulled his truck onto the shoulder across the street from the motel, staring incredulously at the building. Various marked and unmarked cars stopped at intervals along the road. Jim opened the door and stepped out, joining Simon by his Sedan. The police captain had the same expression Jim was sure he was wearing.

The motel was a throwback from the seventies, all sharp angles and loud, yet faded colors. Half of the sign was missing and weeds had long ago retaken the parking lot. Boards covered whatever room windows were not broken and several doors hung open, swaying slightly.

Connor and Taggart approached the other men, identical frowns on their faces.

Banks glared indiscriminately. "Taggart, I thought you said--"

"The guy said he was the manager," Joel said, trying to defend himself.

Jim ignored the argument. He let his vision telescope in, focusing on room four. The door was firmly hinged and shut tight, unlike the others. His eyes traveled to a space between the tattered blue curtain. He had an angle of stripped bed and watermarked wall. A familiar odor wafted through the air. Jim took a deep breath, recognizing it with a sudden wave of dread. He opened his sense of hearing. His heart began to pound when he heard the steady countdown of a digital timer. "Plastique," he said.

Simon glanced at him sharply. "Jim?"

"Take cover!" Ellison screamed.

Too late. Room number four exploded in a great burst of fire and sound, setting off a chain reaction. One by one, the rooms exploded, throwing debris in all directions and knocking the police contingent off their collective feet. Jim was thrown to the ground; Banks landed on top of him. After what seemed like an eternity of flying debris, noise and heat, it was quiet.

Jim coughed from the smoke, closing his tearing eyes against it. He shook his head and reopened his eyes. "Captain?"

"I'm fine," came the hoarse answer. "Connor? Joel?"

"Fine," Taggart responded.

A soft moan came from Jim's left. He sat up and crawled to where Megan lay sprawled on the pavement, her bleeding right arm cradled protectively across her chest. "Connor?" Jim asked.

She blinked up at him. "Bugger! I think a shard of wood tagged me."

"Can you move it?"

Megan tested the appendage without lessening the pressure to her wound. "Yes, but it hurts like hell."

Simon crouched next to Jim. "How is she?"

"I'm fine," Connor hissed. "What happened?"

"The whole damn place was rigged to blow," Banks said. "We could have all been killed."

Jim's eyes widened and he leapt to his feet, racing towards his truck.

"Ellison!" Simon screamed.

"It was a diversion!" Jim yelled back. "I've gotta get to the loft!"

852 Prospect, ten minutes ago

Blair was leaning against the balcony doors, staring through the glass at the familiar city scene. A cup of herbal tea rested in his left hand, half finished. Behind him, Rafe and David were stretched out on the couch, watching a mindless action movie on the television. David fit well inside his borrowed clothes and turned out rather handsome underneath those layers of dirt. His scraped hands and knees had been cleaned and bandaged, and he'd already wolfed down three of Jim's frozen hotdogs.

Rafe let his right hand lazily ruffle David's hair. "You want to talk about it?"

David shrugged, more interested in watching Steven Segal kick a Cuban guy's butt. "I ran away. No big deal."

"Why?"

"To find you." David looked at the older man. "I always thought you stopped caring and that's why you didn't call or write or anything for the last six years. I was looking through some old newspapers in the library and...well, let me just say it's really creepy reading your own obituary. I confronted my father and he said he did it to start fresh. He got pissed when I said I wanted to find you, said he'd kill me if I did."

"But you left anyway."

"Yeah. When I got arrested, I was scared to death he would shoot me on the spot. As soon as the charges were dropped, I made tracks again. This time, he didn't find me."

"You found him," Rafe finished.

David nodded. "I didn't know he killed people, I swear it. He never told me what he did in Seattle and I never asked. I guess I was afraid of what I'd find."

"Hey, David?" Sandburg called from the balcony doors.

"What?"

Blair grinned mischievously. "What's L.T. stand for?"

Rafe groaned in synch with the telephone ringing. Blair took a step forward to answer it.

~CRACK~

The front door slammed open, splintering the wood around the lock. Carl Dawson marched into the loft with two men flanking him. Rafe jumped to his feet, yanking David behind him. Dawson pulled a .38 fitted with a silencer and shot the phone into silence. Blair dropped his mug and reached around to pull his own weapon. Dawson turned on the curly-haired detective and shot him once in the chest. Blair flew backwards, crashing through the glass doors and landing in a heap on the balcony.

"No!" Rafe shouted. He reached for his pistol, but froze when three guns trained themselves on him.

"Drop it, son," Dawson ordered, aiming his gun directly at Rafe's head.

Streets of Cascade

Jim threw his cell phone onto the empty seat next to him. Not getting an answer at the loft was making him very nervous.

"Damn rush hour traffic," he muttered.

Even his flashing lights didn't seem to make a difference in his fight with time. Trying desperately to control his temper, Jim pressed the gas pedal a bit harder, willing the cars in front of him to part faster and let him through.

852 Prospect

Rafe handed his gun to the man on his right, never taking his eyes off Dawson.

"Well, look at you," Dawson said snidely. "Fancy suit for a cop. You on the take or something?"

His eyes blazing, Rafe returned with, "Go to hell and take a left, Carl."

Dawson laughed. "Is that any way to treat your old man?"

Rafe snorted. "Old man you may be, but mine you are not."

"Still as spirited as ever. Oh well. I'll be taking what's mine and leaving."

"I don't think so," Rafe said, taking a defensive stance in front of David.

"Looks like we've got a conflict of interests." Dawson cocked his gun. "I guess I'll just have to eliminate you, too."

"No!" David shouted, pulling away from Rafe and walking to the opposite corner of the coffee table. "I'll go with you. Just don't hurt L.T."

Dawson raised an eyebrow. "Where'd this nobility come from all of a sudden?"

"I know where it didn't come from," Rafe spat.

Dawson brought the butt of his gun crashing across the top of Rafe's head, sending the detective careening onto the floor. Rafe landed hard on his backside, pressing one hand protectively over his wound. David rushed forward, but Dawson grabbed him by the shirt collar.

"Wonderful offer," Carl sneered. "But no."

He dragged David to the front door, his .38 jammed into the boy's side. "Scream and I'll shoot you where you stand." To his henchmen, he said, "Take care of him and meet me in the usual place."

The men nodded and Rafe watched helplessly as David was led out of the apartment. The fatter of the two walked around behind Rafe and yanked him to his feet by his hair. Rafe yelped and stood unsteadily, watching the men circle him, praying desperately for a way out of this.

The skinnier man cocked his silenced weapon and pointed it at Rafe's kneecaps. "This could be fun," he said, grinning evilly.

~CLANG~

The skinny man's gun was knocked from his hand at the same instant a gunshot echoed in the room. He stumbled back in shock. Rafe didn't question it or waste the opportunity. He lunged at the fat man, knocking them both backwards onto the coffee table. It broke with a crash. Rafe landed two hard rights to the man's jaw, knocking him unconscious. Quick as lightning, he snagged the dropped gun and turned it on the skinny man. He was standing with his hands in the air, his attention towards the balcony doors. Rafe followed his gaze.

Sandburg was on his back, propped up on one elbow, his revolver trained on the skinny man. He was breathing hard, but there was no blood on his shirt. Angry scratches lined his face and hands from his tumble through the glass doors.

Keeping one eye on the criminal, Rafe walked over to Blair and helped him get unsteadily to his feet.

"You okay?" Rafe asked.

Blair touched his chest lightly and grimaced. He reached into the left breast pocket of his shirt, just above the bullet hole, and pulled out a round piece of metal. He held it up, his blue eyes widening. There was a dent on one side of the medallion and a smashed slug on the other.

"Guess this thing came in handy after all," Blair said.

Rafe nodded in amazement and stepped farther out onto the balcony. He peered over the edge in time to see a brown Cavalier peel away from the curb and turned to Blair. "Come on. Carl took David."

The two detectives had the intruders handcuffed to the kitchen pillar in record time and were out the door. Rafe made a quick call for back-up while they raced down the stairs. They hit the sidewalk at a run, their first destination the unmarked car across the street. Sandburg checked the driver, but knew he didn't have to bother with a pulse. Both officers had identical bullet holes over their hearts.

"They're dead," he shouted to Rafe.

The other detective was several cars down, examining his red Excel. "Damn. The tires are slashed," he reported.

Blair sighed, then sucked in his breath, one hand going protectively to his chest. He was going to have the bruise of the century later. Sirens made his ears perk up.

Jim's blue Ford seemed to come out of nowhere and slammed to a stop in front of the building, startling Rafe and Blair. They barreled over to the truck and yanked open the passenger door. Rafe climbed in first, giving Blair the door seat.

"What happened?" Jim asked, noting Blair's pained expression and the thin trickle of blood on the side of Rafe's face.

"Follow that brown car!" Rafe ordered, pointing down the street.

Jim hit the gas, tires squealing as they sped up. He tried the question again. "What happened?"

"Dawson showed up," Rafe explained. "He killed the guys outside, then came in and took David and tried to kill us."

Sandburg grabbed the radio mike, still wheezing a bit as he spoke. "This is David 152. Suspect is heading east on Atlantic Street, in a brown, late model Cavalier. Requesting back-up."

The radio squawked to life. "Roger, David 152. Back-up has been notified."

"Are you okay, Chief?" Jim asked, concern for his partner reflected in his eyes.

"Yeah. He got me in the pendant."

Jim was about to ask about that when the Cavalier took a sharp turn to the right. He followed, carefully negotiating the curve so as not to jar his injured passengers too much. They were less than fifty feet behind the brown car and gaining fast. The Cavalier turned again, onto a street that was much narrower and marred with pot holes.

The truck hit a deep hole, sending Blair crashing against the door. "Take it easy, Jim," he complained.

Jim grunted in reply and swerved sharply to avoid another one. Up ahead, the Cavalier hit a rut, blowing out the rear left tire. The vehicle fishtailed across the road, swerved into an alley and out of sight. The Ford caught up and turned into the alley. Jim slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding crashing into the abandoned car. The three men piled out of the truck.

Dawson was several yards away, backed against a bricked building, his .38 at David's throat. The policemen drew their weapons and advanced slowly.

"Put it down, Dawson!" Jim ordered.

The burly man simply tightened his hold on David's throat. "You put it down or I kill him right here."

"You'd shoot your only son to save your own ass?" Blair asked incredulously.

"Why aren't you dead?" Dawson retorted. "Now lower your weapons!"

To emphasize his point, Dawson cocked his .38. Jim nodded and the detectives slowly placed their weapons on the pavement.

Gasping for air, David's left hand traveled inconspicuously down his leg and into the back pocket of his borrowed jeans. Sandburg realized immediately what the boy was doing. He must have left it in the pants the last time he washed them.

David withdrew his hand, his fingers wrapped securely around Blair's Swiss Army knife. He opened it expertly and stabbed Dawson in the left thigh, sinking it in to the handle. Dawson cried out, loosening his hold on his son. David twisted out of his father's arms, grabbing the .38 from the surprised man. Unable to stand, Dawson tumbled to the ground. David trained the gun on his father, fury and anguish equal partners in his youthful face.

"David?" Rafe's voice was calm, but the boy didn't look up. "Give me the gun, David."

Jim and Blair watched from a distance as Rafe slowly approached and pried the gun from David's fingers, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. David seemed to wilt under the touch and let Rafe lead him away from the fallen man. Sirens could be heard in the distance.

From the corner of his eye, Blair caught a movement from Dawson. From his pant leg, the man produced a small Derringer pistol. "Look out!" Sandburg shouted.

Rafe spun automatically and pumped two rounds into Dawson's chest, jerking back as he felt the heat of the man's single shot whiz by his head. Dawson slumped to the ground, dead. David released a strangled cry and lunged for his father's body. Rafe held him back, pulling his brother into a tight embrace, neither man able to hold back their tears.

Sentinel and Guide looked on sadly, wishing that they could take some of the pain away from their friend.