Century Watch, by Techgrrl

Dedications: For DawnC (as this fits her old Y2K themefic challenge). Also for Shycat who challenged me to write a long story--this is my longest EVER!

And of course a VERY big thank-you to my good friends and bloodthirsty beta-readers, Kira Tomsons and Sheffield.

Rating: Low 'R' for violence and a little language. Let's face it, The Sentinel is not a kids' show.

Spoilers for and allusions to "Siege," "Black and White," "Smart Alec," "Sentinel Too" (both parts), "Four Point Shot," and "The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg." There may be others, and some are more spoiled more than others.

Disclaimers (with spoilers, not warnings) are at the end of the story. I recommend that you DON'T READ THEM until the end unless you are interested in my pseudo-legalese, and in ruining your own good time.

Summary: It's just past Y2K, and you'd think someone in Cascade would have expected this.

Century Watch

techgrrl@pobox.com

Wednesday, January 5, 2000.

Simon Banks took off his spectacles and tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Jim, I'm telling you, I've tried, and the answer is still 'no'."

Jim leaned forward, his eyes earnest and wide, his arms gesturing. "But sir, it's been months--"

"--and you've been doing just fine." They'd been having this discussion about once a week for the past several months, and at this point it was nearly like a script.

Jim backed off and closed his eyes. "We've been through this, Simon. Connor is a great partner. Smart, professional, capable, but it's not the same. I have the utmost respect for her, but she's not--"

"She's not Sandburg, I know," Simon interrupted. "Look, Jim, I need an official reason for him to be here. He's no longer a doctoral candidate. And we simply don't have the money or political support to create a position for him at the moment." Jim looked as though he might say something again, but Simon silenced him with a firm glance. "I'm being reasonable; you know I am. We can't renew his observer's permit solely on the grounds that he's a 'concerned citizen.' What would you have me do?"

Ellison shook his head. "I-- I--I don't know," he admitted. "Isn't there anyone you could talk to?"

The captain put a hand on Jim's shoulder. "I promise, I'm doing everything I can." He began to steer Jim toward the door. "If I could make you a promise, I would. But you and Megan are doing fine. Very well, in fact. Your solve rate is almost as good as it was with Sandburg around."

Simon decided to add a few new lines to their little script. "And maybe if you let Connor help you with your senses, you'd be able to use them more effectively in the field." Jim just looked at him, open-jawed, his face a mix of anger and stubbornness and hurt. "She knows about your abilities and is more than willing to help out. If you give her a chance--"

Simon's toned softened. "Jim. He's finally got another job. Things are starting to look up for the both of you." He tightened the grip on Ellison's shoulder. "You knew the facade couldn't hold out forever. Maybe you should start thinking in terms of the big picture. If he won't go to the academy, he's probably never going to have a secure position here."

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you to think about what it means in terms of Sandburg's career. As long as he's a civilian, it's not feasible for him to be your full-time partner. And if we get him a part-time consulting position, he won't be able to have a meaningful career anywhere else. Besides, whenever the department budget gets tight, the consultants are always the first to be fired. There's no long-term security whatsoever."

"No!" Simon sighed. "Sandburg used to have an identity outside the department, as a scholar. Now, what would he be? Your sidekick, your shadow? At what cost?" How could he say this so that Jim would understand? "I know he wants to help you. But do you really want him at your side that badly, that it would take away his chances of success elsewhere?"

Simon realized he was still gripping Jim's shoulder and let go. "You and Megan have been working together very well--no problems with your senses, nothing. When she returns to New South Wales, I fully expect that you will work as well solo, or with another partner." Jim's eyes narrowed slightly as he processed what Simon was saying. "We can generate excuses for him to work with you, Jim. But until there's a real reason for him to be here, we can't expect a lasting solution."

Ellison turned his back to Simon and opened the door, effectively ending the conversation.

Officer Cindy Brake ducked into the break room, desperately in search of a cup of coffee. As she filled one of the small Styrofoam cups, she greeted Detective Anderson, from Homicide. "How's it going, Mike? How was your New Year's?"

"Cindy! Good to see you. New Year's was great." The tall detective stood in front of the vending machines, searching through a handful of change. "Eileen and I drove to Seattle for New Year's Eve--she's got family there. They cancelled the fireworks--but it was still a blast!" He looked at her again. Small ripples appeared in her coffee as her hands shook slightly. "What brings you way up here?" he asked suspciously.

"Oh, don't worry." She ripped open a packet of artificial creamer and dumped it in her coffee. "I was just transferring one of my cases to Ellison up in Major Crime. It seems that one of our drug busts is associated with a larger ring than we thought. They're going to bring in the big guns and take over."

Anderson shoved another quarter in the vending machine and punched the button to get a cola. "Ellison, hmm? That explains it." Cindy raised an eyebrow, but smiled knowingly. "Don't get me wrong," he continued, "Ellison's an excellent detective--the best. But lately, what a grouch!"

"Yeah, he nearly bit my head off when I gave him our files! Do you know what's up with him lately?"

"He's still bent out of shape that the Department won't hire that partner of his back. I saw him and Captain Banks going at it this morning."

"I liked Sandburg, too, but what he did just makes me boil." The soda hissed as he opened it. "We work really hard, and it shows. Despite all the bad press, Cascade actually has a pretty low crime rate, which is especially amazing, since we're a port town so close to the border."

Mike took a swig of his drink. "He's part of the whole P.R. problem! Whenever people look at the Cascade P.D., all they think about is the True Crime specials and the whole mess with Sandburg's bogus 'Supercop' thesis last year. It just makes me so angry that he thought he could exploit the department like that!"

Cindy was quiet for a moment. "I heard he's working for CCC now, teaching some of their Anthropology courses."

He gave her a dubious look. "He was a Ph.D. candidate at a world-reknown Doctoral I university. Now he's a three-quarter time instructor at Cascade Community College, teaching off his master's. That's a big step down, and a dead-end position if I ever heard one." Mike took another sip.

Cindy tried to look stern, but it didn't work very well, since she was already chuckling.

Cindy followed his gaze and saw Ellison stalking down the hall toward the elevators. As he passed by the doorway, he shot them a sharp glare. After a few seconds, she whispered, "You don't think he heard us, do you?"

"I guess not," she agreed. But something about Ellison's expression still made her nervous.

Blair Sandburg exploded into the small windowless office, simultaneously managing his backpack, a paper sack of bagels, and a plastic travel mug of tea. He nearly dropped it all as he collided with his officemate. "Maxine!" declared Blair in surprise and greeting. "Ohmigosh, I'm sorry. Did I spill anything on you?" He dug in the bag, looking for a napkin.

She laughed at the comical look on his face, and his continued juggling of his belongings. "Nope, I think you missed me this time." Maxine grabbed the paper bag before he dropped it altogether and set it on the nearest desktop.

They were a study in opposites. Cocoa-skinned Maxine, with her short hair and smart maroon suit, stood an inch or so taller than Blair, who wore rumpled khakis and a worn blue sweater.

Aha! She had missed him--this was a good sign, as far as Blair was concerned. "I arranged it so that I have Tuesdays off. No classes, no office hours... that way I can work from home, or cart my laptop around and work from more, um, palatial surroundings."

"What could be better than this?" she joked. Blair shared the tiny room with Maxine and another part-time instructor, Art Haufmann. Maxine taught music appreciation and theory, while Art was with the math department. When all three of them were in the room together, they nearly bumped elbows. With its orange carpeting and tan walls, they'd dubbed their office "the 70's closet."

"Hey, at least we have an office," Blair mumbled, dumping his backpack on the desk and digging out one of the bagels. "Want one?" He offered her the bag.

"Nope, I'm on my way out anyway, so the place is all yours. I think Art's out for the day, and I know I won't be back until four at the earliest."

"Maybe I'll see you later, then. I've got office hours 'til three, and then a meeting with one of the student activists. He's been showing some interest in leading the campus Amnesty International chapter we're trying to get going.

"Anyone who needs to come to office hours after the first day of class is in for a hell of a term," she laughed.

"It's so nice that you're getting some spirit back into the College, Blair," said Maxine. "Aren't you advising the environmental group, too?"

"Mmm-hmm," he said around a mouthful of tea. "Students for a Sustainable Earth. The hard part is getting a core group together. Since most of the students here are commuters, finding a time when most of them can meet has been a real challenge. It's fun, though. Takes me back to my tree-hugging days," he said fondly.

"Yeah." His face fell for a moment, and she realized that probably wasn't the nicest thing to say. Then a twinkle returned to his eye. "Yeah, the people here are much nicer." He grinned.

As Maxine had predicted, nobody showed up during Blair's office hours. He took advantage of the time to put together a lesson plan based on the syllabus he'd created last week. In the past, he'd always planned his lectures at the very last minute. This time, he was determined to follow through. Maybe it was his New Year's resolution.

Now that he was a staff member, and not just a lowly grad-student peon, he actually had the chance to teach some advanced classes, not just Intro to Anthropology. He hadn't actually studied some of the topics since his own undergrad years--not in detail, anyway. So he spent his time reviewing the main points and putting together a sensible flow of ideas.

It was a nice change, in a way. Between his research responsibilities and helping Jim, his lectures at Rainier had never been as well-polished as he wanted. Of course, he'd probably end up going off on a tangent anyway. That's what had happened last term. It was inevitable, he supposed.

He was typing away on his old laptop, which seemed to be working, even after Y2K. A knock at the half-open door caught his attention.

"Hey, Jeremy." Blair took off his glasses, and motioned for the student to come in. "Come on in, have a seat."

"It's all right, I didn't even notice." Jeremy certainly seemed nervous, or maybe excited. "What's on your mind?"

"Well, you know how we're working for people's rights and stuff," the sophomore began. Blair nodded for him to continue. "Well, we're not the only group in town doing that. See, I just joined this other group doing exactly that, and I thought that maybe we could collaborate sometimes."

"What's this group called?" Between Jack Kelso and Naomi and his other oddball friends, Blair was familiar with many socio-political organizations.

"It's called Century Watch--it's been around for a few years now but just recently went through some reorganization."

Jeremy leaned forward, eager to explain. "You'd like it, I know you would. We watch for and report government corruption and stuff, keep people informed of their rights and all that. It's really amazing! I just got started last month, and it made me think of our group on campus here, and I thought if we could get together that'd be even better."

Blair tucked a lock of hair behind his ear as he thought about it. "Hmm. I've been wondering how we could get more involved in the community. You know, break out of the 'college worldview' once in a while," he joked. "I'd like to find out more about it before making a commitment, though," he warned. "The group would have to meet the campus organization charter guidelines."

"Oh, excellent!" Jeremy practically bounced out of his seat. "Tomorrow night, we've got a guest speaker coming--president and founder of the national Century Watch movement. He just got out of prison, and I think he'll talk about some of what he went through, and what the system did, and all. He was a prisoner of conscience, and now he's an activist."

"Wow. Sounds really relevant. What time tomorrow? I've got an afternoon lecture that doesn't get out until five-thirty."

"No problem. Why don't I meet you here at six? The meeting starts at six-thirty, and I'll give you a ride, since I know the directions and all."

"Thanks, Mr. Sandburg. I'll see you then." He launched himself out of the chair, then paused. "I know you're going to love it." The kid left in bundle of energy.

Blair shut down the laptop and packed up. He'd finish the work at home, away from the energy-sapping glare of fluorescent lighting. He was really glad to see Jeremy taking interest. Seeing the young man's enthusiasm made Blair feel like he was making an impact on this indifferent campus. It had been a very long time since that had happened, and it was a nice feeling.

Jim turned his key in the door to the loft, but it was already unlocked. He stepped through, and saw Sandburg seated cross-legged on the couch surrounded by books and papers. It was almost like old times.

"Mmm hmm." He'd had a sudden thought and was typing it into the keyboard, half-listening to Jim.

"Whoa! Okay, I'll lock it next time!" Blair was a little stunned at his roommate's ferocity. "Don't freak out," he mumbled, knowing full well Jim could hear it.

"It's just--aw, sorry," Ellison realized that he was being reactionary. "We've just had a lot of burglaries lately, and it's enough to put me on edge, is all." He took off his hat, jacket, and gloves, and meticulously put them away. Something wasn't right... His brow furrowed in confusion, and then he realized what it was.

"Hey, isn't it my turn to cook tonight, Sandburg?" A pot of Blair's famous ostrich chili bubbled softly on the range.

"Yeah, but I want to trade. I've got a thing tomorrow night, and I probably won't be home until eight or nine. That all right?"

"Naw, not yet," he said, with typical Sandburg confidence. "I'm going to a community activism meeting with a student of mine--Century Watch. Have you heard of it?"

Jim frowned. "It sounds familiar, but I can't think exactly where I heard it." He opened the fridge, and rooted around, looking for a can of pop.

"They're some kind of human rights watchdog group, and I'm scoping them out to see if our Amnesty chapter might be able to collaborate. It was actually Jeremy's--he's my student--idea. Some national president or chairman or something is speaking, so I should get a good overview of their ideals." He gently tossed the laptop on the cushion next to him. "It is such a treat to see kids interested."

"Actually, yes." Blair was pleased and surprised that Jim was asking about his new job. "Compared to Rainier, the students' skill sets are more varied. I mean, some of these kids need a lot of help with their writing skills, and others are educated professionals taking part-time courses. But on the whole, the enthusiasm factor seems a lot higher, at least toward classwork." His lips pursed while he thought about it some more. "People seem a lot less concerned with 'image' than when I was at Rainier. And the Dean--she's so supportive. Chancellor Edwards, eat my dust."

"And the getting paid part is nice, too," Blair admitted with a smile. "Man, I was beginning to think that would never happen." He began throwing all the paperwork into the satchel that lay at his feet.

"I think so. Hal Buckman used to teach night classes over there, before he was--before he died." Blair sighed. "Since then, they've had trouble hiring anyone reliable. They were a little unsure about me at first, but I got Dr. Stoddard to write a glowing recommendation."

Blair's vitals revealed that he was bending the truth; they must have been more than a little unsure. Jim didn't push the it, though. What was the point?

"All But Dissertation. All the profound knowledge and incredible power of a Ph.D.," Blair flexed his biceps, "but at the pay rate of an master's. If I can show them I'm worth keeping around, there are a lot of possibilities here."

"So what about you? Give me all the bullpen gossip. I'm out of the loop, here, starving for information, and you're in the know. Dish it out."

So Jim told him about his and Megan's latest caper. Sandburg listened with great interest, but Jim couldn't help wondering if maybe Simon was right. Finally, things were going well for Sandburg. What if Blair didn't want to come back to the police department after all?

Thursday, January 6, 2000

As promised, Jeremy arrived promptly at six. For once in his life, Blair was on time, and they quickly took off in Jeremy's '91 Civic.

They headed north, past the industrial part of town and into the wooded residential neighborhoods. Blair quizzed Jeremy about Century Watch. His responses were mostly incoherent, enthusiastic rhetoric about "changing the world" and "disempowering the establishment." Blair was beginning to have his doubts but resolved to keep an open mind.

At length, they arrived at a small church. The parking lot was full, so Jeremy parked on the side of the road, behind several other cars and trucks.

"Uh, this isn't a religious organization, is it, Jeremy? CCC is a public school, and they can't have--"

"Oh, no, not at all, Mr. Sandburg," soothed the young man. "It's just a meeting place. Last time we had it in the community center up the street, but that's too small."

"Ah." It was dark now, but the church's picturesque stained-glass windows glowed from inside. Some other stragglers joined them, and they all walked through the narthex, entered the sanctuary, and sat down in the back row--the only place there were any seats left. Some were forced to stand behind them.

Blair looked around, trying not to gawk or stare. He wanted to gauge the demographics of Century Watch, to see if they met the criteria of CCC's campus charter. The group was predominantly White, but maybe one in ten was Black. Glancing around further, he saw a few Asian men as well. In fact, he realized, everyone in the room was male.

Well, that was a problem. A big one. There was no way the college--or Blair--wanted to be involved with a men-only organization. Just what kind of human rights group was this, anyway? Blair glared angrily at Jeremy, who was not paying attention. The squirrelly young man was leaning halfway into the aisle, trying to get a view of the first speaker, who was now approaching the pulpit at the front of the room. What had Jeremy been thinking? This whole situation was really beginning to give him a bad feeling.

Ah well. He was here; he would observe and listen to what they had to say and hopefully get home before dinner was too cold. Again, Blair took interest in the group that surrounded him. There were people of all ages, from teens to retirees. Some of the men looked distinctly blue-collar, but up front there were several gentlemen in expensive suits. Sandburg went into "anthropologist" mode, and let himself be fascinated by this strange group.

"Time to call it a day, Jim?" Megan's soft voice asked. Then she started to yawn, too. "Look what you did! It's ca-ca--catching!"

"Yep, I think you're right. This day has gone on long enough." He grabbed his leather jacket from the coat rack behind the desk, and put it on. An unexpected crinkling sound met his ears, and he reached in his pocket. It was a yellow sticky-note, with the words "Century Watch" written on it. He'd completely forgotten about it until now. After dinner last night, he'd written it down, intending to find out what he could about the organization if he had a spare moment.

"Uh-huh," Ellison replied distractedly as he typed the keyword search into the database.

A minutes later, the results were on his screen. He flipped through a few profiles, but none of them rang any bells. He browsed a few more records, and then stopped abruptly.

Jim frantically dialed Blair's cellphone, but received no answer. He tried Blair's office, and then the loft, and then the cellphone again, but it seemed his roommate was unreachable. He pounded across the bullpen and barged into Simon's office without bothering to knock. "Sir, we've got a problem."

Jeremy wiggled nervously, bumping into Blair. They were both trying to view the burly man who approached the lectern. As per Sandburg's usual luck, the man sitting in front of him was tall enough to block the view. When Blair leaned to the right a little, he could see the speaker approach the pulpit. He had a thinning patch of gray hair. Obviously he was some sort of leader, because the sanctuary grew quiet when he adjusted the microphone and cleared his throat.

"He's the president of the local chapter," whispered Jeremy. "I think he was one of the founders, too. Isn't this exciting!"

"Welcome, Century Watchmen," boomed the leader. "For those of you who don't know me, my name is Jack Kent. I'm the president of the Cascade Area chapter, and I'm very pleased with tonight's turnout!" The president was right; Blair was amazed at the number of people in the small sanctuary. There were easily two hundred men crammed into the pews.

"Before we begin with tonight's business," Kent continued, "I'd like to thank Reverend Sanders for hosting us here in this church tonight. Stand up, Reverend!" Blair saw a slender man in the front row rise.

The applause was immediate and deafening. Blair joined in, trying to blend in as best he could. Something about the man's demeanor was bugging him, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it.

After a few moments, the minister sat, and the applause died down. Kent continued, saying, "Now I've been with this group for close to eight years. As you know, we've gone through a lot of changes recently, but I tell you now: Our core principles, our moral center, and our true mission has not changed! Tell me, gentlemen, am I right?" This inspired another round of applause, which died down quickly as the men were eager to hear more.

"Let's have a welcome for our new members! Stand up if you've been with Century Watch for less than a year!" Twenty or so people got to their feet. Blair tried to remain seated, but Jeremy grabbed his elbow and hauled him up proudly while the veteran members clapped again. At the first opportunity, Blair pulled away from the student and quickly sat. Were they going to applaud after every sentence? Blair bit back a nervous sigh. Kent was obviously trying to instill some spirit in the men, but if it kept going like this, the meeting would take all night.

"Now let's welcome back our veteran members! How many of you have been with us from the beginning? Stand up and show your dedication!" Perhaps forty of the men stood up, and the applause began again. Most of them were near the front of the room. This time Kent simply shouted over the clapping, "Whether you call yourself 'Watchman' or whether you call yourself 'Patriot', this new century is our time! Gentlemen, WE ARE THE SONS OF THE NEW MILLENNIUM!"

Blair's heart beat heavily in his chest at the revelation. The crowd was going absolutely crazy. Every man in the room was on his feet, clapping and shouting and cheering as loudly as possible. A number of men waved strips of cloth--white cloth with a red half-starburst, and a golden pair of wings in the center.

Blair clutched Jeremy's arm. "Jeremy, do you know who these guys are?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, don't worry, Mr. Sandburg," Jeremy couldn't stop smiling. "It's okay. Only the old-timers have armbands. We used to be the 'Sunshine Patriots' or something, but like I said, they changed the name last year to Century Watch. They're making new armbands, though..." Blair couldn't hear the rest for all the screaming and shouting around him.

Blair suddenly felt like every eye in the place was looking straight at him. He tried to look excited, and not draw attention to himself. The last thing he needed was to be recognized. Stay calm. Do not panic.

"Gentlemen, please," Kent was trying to speak again, and the din slowly faded. "Gentlemen! I think we can make short work of our business this evening, to leave more time for our guest speaker." The men nodded and murmured with an undercurrent of anticipation. "First, let's go over old business..."

Jim tried Blair's cellphone again, but it was either turned off or out of range. Probably turned off, because he couldn't have gone that far.

He wanted to feel guilty, or angry with himself, but he knew there was no way he could have known, nothing he could have done. He wanted to be angry with Sandburg, but that wasn't right either. So he was left fidgeting at his desk, looking for any connections in the files on his desk. The leads were dried up--all the men who weren't in jail were nowhere to be found.

Ellison didn't do waiting. He didn't sit at a desk making phone calls when a monster was threatening his city--and his friend. He was ready to crawl the walls, and wished for all the world that he could jump in his truck and go roaring off into the city. This time, he'd find Kincaid, and bring him down hard.

During times of high tension, Jim's senses drove him crazy, and this was no exception. He was on high alert, which caused him to jump at the sound of a dripping faucet down the hall. He winced at the salty odor of a half-eaten bologna sandwich. It had been sitting in Rafe's trash bin since lunch. Like a watch spring, Jim could feel himself being wound tighter and tighter.

"Jim." From his office, Simon spoke quietly, but there was steel behind the tone. He wanted Kincaid as badly as Jim did--more so. The criminal and his "Sunrise Patriots" had already threatened his son's life twice, and this time the police captain would see justice. Jim could see the bloodlust in his friend's eyes. For all the years he'd known Simon, Jim had only seen this grim expression twice before: when Cascade's churches were being burnt by terrorists, and the last time they'd arrested Kincaid.

Ellison entered the captain's office and leaned over Banks' shoulder to view the information on his monitor. "According to the FBI," Simon summarized, "Kincaid was last seen heading north, into Canada. Eventually they expected him to show up to one of his compounds in the Southwest sometime this summer. But until now, everyone expected him to lay low in the Yukon somewhere for a while."

"Kincaid laying low. Riiiight." Jim was irritated that nobody had bothered to tell them that a known criminal with a grudge against the Cascade P.D. was at large. "When did he get loose?"

"The 29th. Right before the new year--fitting, hmm? This time it was a real inside job. Apparently four of the prison guards were Kincaid's followers. They were able to spring him and three of his men, and get away themselves, too." Banks scowled. "Joel's on his way in. Kincaid usually has a bomber on his raids, and I'd like to even the odds."

"We're not exactly the most objective team, here," Jim observed wryly. Each of three policemen had a grudge against the terrorist from their previous encounters. Simon's glare caused him to wither a little. "Did you talk to Darryl?"

Both were quiet for a while as Jim continued to study the FBI report on the monitor.

They played the waiting game, knowing that when something happened, it wouldn't be good.

In any other circumstance, Blair would have been bored. He'd endured the treasurer's report, a debate about logos, and a vote about some charter by-law. As far as the format and protocol of the meeting, it could just as well have been a school board. If Blair hadn't experienced some of the Sunrise Patriots' brutal "protests" in the past, he might have been fooled into thinking this was just a men's hobby club. He glanced at Jeremy, who was too busy concentrating on the proceedings to notice Blair's discomfiture. The freckle-faced young man was clearly a fervent believer in the militia's revolutionary culture.

President Kent was true to his word, though. The meeting did pass quickly, and Blair found himself eyeing the exits as the guest speaker was introduced. His heart sank as he saw that every door was guarded by two Watchmen.

"Thank you, Max, for that report. And I believe that concludes all our business for the evening. So now I'd like for you to give a warm welcome to the driving force behind Century Watch. He is the founder of the Watchman movement, a true leader in every sense of the word. Gentlemen, I give you my good friend Garrett Kincaid!"

Blair had thought he was prepared for this moment, but he felt his stomach clench with fear as Kincaid entered the sanctuary through a small door at the front of the room. The handsome soldier smiled and shook Kent's hand with gusto. It was a remarkable change. Blair remembered all too well Kincaid's shouts and snarls as he had threatened his friends.

Kincaid was dressed for stealth--black trousers and boots, a grey shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket. This didn't bode well for later this evening. Obviously the terrorist had a plan, and Garrett Kincaid always thought on a large scale.

He greeted the mob with the affable smile of a longtime politician. "It is always a pleasure to return to Cascade," he began. "Since the beginning, I have always found the soldiers of Cascade to be the most loyal and dedicated in the country. We will need that dedication as we fight against the new wave of government corruption and oppression. Gentlemen, the game is in play. As they've planned all along, the establishment has now truly turned against us in this new century. But when we respond, as true Patriots must, we will play that game to win."

The man's sandy hair had darkened to brown while he'd been in prison. Blair shuddered, thinking of the last time he'd encountered the Sons of the New Millennium. In the name of America, they'd held an entire stadium at gunpoint and called for the murder of a half-dozen hostages. In their first engagement, he'd watched Kincaid shoot the gentle Captain Taggart in the leg. Blair still heard the bomb squad captain's cries in his nightmares. Though Joel didn't like to admit it, the wound still caused him pain. Any kind of strenuous walking would have him limping slightly after about ten minutes. Worse yet, the Patriots had nearly killed Darryl Banks: a fifteen-year-old kid.

"This is the start of a new year, my brothers, and the government has continued to make good on its threats against the common man. With the dawn of this new century, they will only continue to escalate their dark designs." Kincaid leaned forward on the lectern, his pose lending him an air of earnestness. "They are gathering their forces; they are amassing a dark army that will cut through this country like a scythe."

The man had a near-hypnotic speaking ability. The vague accusations wove a spell over the audience, who watched their leader with wide round eyes.

"They are the Congressmen, the Executive Departments, the Police, the Armed Forces. They have bound together in a conspiracy to take from us our families, our possessions, and our liberty." Kincaid changed his attitude again, leaning back and standing taller. "In the year 2000, this legion of evil prepares for the new millennium. And only we can stand against them. My friends, we must herald the dawn of the new millennium, or be forever swallowed in darkness."

As usual, Kincaid was using the setting to his advantage. In keeping with the sacredness of the church environment, he used loaded words like "liberty," "dark army," and "evil." He was painting the battle to come as an event of mythical or religious proportions. In the stadium, the terrorist had interacted with his audience as if it were a pep rally, a time to win converts and celebrate the capture of an enemy. But here, he entreated his flock to act as holy warriors against corruption.

Blair bit back a sigh and wished there were something he could do. His phone was in his backpack, tucked neatly under the pew. He needed to lean forward and turn it on, but doing so now would draw too much attention. He turned his focus back to the speech.

"At the center of the conspiracy is the denial that it is a conspiracy. It is a carefully maintained illusion--there is no central leader, and they constantly twist the threads of truth into a web of denial. They will turn your own neighbors against you. They have infiltrated our workplaces and neighborhoods with spies."

Kincaid paused for a long moment. "They have even sent a spy into our midst this evening."

Blair felt his chest tighten with fear. Quiet murmurs of surprise rumbled throughout the room as the men looked among their neighbors for the infiltrators. Blair looked around, too, but saw that each exit now had three guards. Oh, how would he ever get out of this?

"We have encountered him twice before," he continued casually, "and each time he has escaped. Tonight he has come here in hopes of gathering details on our upcoming campaigns."

Two burly men walked past Jeremy, who sat on the aisle. One was a pale, thick-necked man with a completely shaven head. He looked comfortable with his strength and moved like a veteran. The other man had olive skin, and dark hair; it was difficult to see much else in the dim lighting. To Blair's confusion, they kept moving slowly down the aisle.

Kincaid stepped away from the microphone and shouted directly into the sanctuary, "Drew Granger, STAND UP!" The two stout men reached down and hauled a slender man to his feet. He was dressed in business attire, like the other men in his row.

"What! I've been with you all from the beginning-- Let go of me!" He screamed and squirmed, but the his arms were firmly held behind him. The bald man pulled a set of riot cuffs from his pocket and zipped the plastic loop around Granger's wrists, securing his hands behind his back.

"Who vouches for this man?" Kincaid's voice was pure ice. The man who had been sitting next to Granger, a grey-haired fellow with a red tie, rose and hung his head.

"Soldiers, take this traitor away," Kincaid ordered. "And you," he said to the grey-haired man, "you go too."

Struggling fiercely, Drew Granger was dragged back up the aisle and out the doors. "I'm not a spy, I'm a journalist! Let me go--you can't do this! Help!" The man in the red tie followed penitently and didn't say a word.

All eyes were on the procession, and Blair took advantage of the distraction to reach in his backpack and turn on the cellphone. He navigated the keypad by touch and dialed Jim's mobile phone. Praying the call would get through, he continued rooting around in the knapsack. Eventually, he pulled out a tissue, and made a minor show of blowing his nose for the benefit of Jeremy and his other neighbors.

He could still hear Granger's fading shouts. Then he was struck with horror as the man's shouts turned to muffled screams. A shameful feeling of relief nearly overwhelmed Blair, because it could just as easily have been him.

Simon was in full command mode. Unfortunately, after talking to multiple authorities, they weren't really any closer to finding Kincaid than they had been before. The captain had heard from the state police, the FBI, and also the CIA, since Kincaid constituted a threat to state, national, and international security. But all they'd been offered were vague assurances that the Sunrise Patriots were expected to lie low. Naturally, Simon immediately ordered Dispatch to have all available officers on the alert for Kincaid and his followers.

"Jim! Stop pacing; you're driving me nuts." Actually, he realized, the detective's actions would better be described as prowling.

"Well... no. I called his officemate Maxine, and she didn't know about the meeting. His other officemate hasn't even seen him all week."

A light tap on the door surprised Simon and interrupted their conversation. "Enter," Banks called.

Joel Taggart stepped into the room. "Hi Simon, Jim." Normally he was soft-spoken and sensitive, but tonight his eyes held a hard fire. "Bomb squad's ready. We're on standby, but the second we get the word, it's a go."

Jim opened his mouth to answer, but Simon interrupted. "Don't even get him started. No, Blair's not with the department right now--"

"Just damned unlucky, as usual," Jim interjected. "One of his students told him Century Watch was a human rights group," he explained. "I wish I'd made the connection sooner, though--"

"What is important," Simon said, "is getting Kincaid back in custody as soon as possible."

Jim's phone rang then, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked at the LCD display, and reported, "It's Blair." He opened the line, and the phone made a soft beep. "Ellison." A pause. "Hello? Blair?" With a grimace, he abruptly pulled the phone away from his ear.

He listened more carefully, trying hard to hear over the commotion in the background. He was able to filter out a distant masculine scream. Jim's heart jumped; then he realized it wasn't Sandburg's voice. A moment later the commotion settled down, and the clear voice of Garrett Kincaid sounded fuzzily through the cellphone.

//...as some of us take action tonight, we move to strike the heart of Cascade's government and corporate...//

He covered the phone's mouthpiece, but kept listening. "Kincaid's there," he said quietly. "He's giving them a pep talk for some raid they're planning to later tonight."

"Blair can't talk, there are too many people around. But there's a kind of echo, like they're in a big room."

Jim was having trouble listening to the phone and talking to his colleagues at the same time. He squinted his eyes in concentration. "No, there's not that much echo. The walls are made of something softer, that will absorb some sound--wood or plaster."

"I'm trying!" Jim whispered irritably. It was too big to be a house--there were just too many people. But there was something familiar about it, if only he could figure it out.

But no further information was forthcoming. This was almost worse than the waiting, Jim decided. He could hear what was happening, but couldn't learn what they wanted to know. It was like listening to a ball game, where all the plays were announced but never the score.

A tense quiet descended in Simon's office. Jim slowly paced around the table. This went on for perhaps five minutes, when suddenly Jim stopped.

"He's in a church-- a church with a pastor named Sanders. And hurry," he added, "Kincaid's speech is almost over. They're getting ready to mobilize."

Simon leaned forward, motioning to Jim for more information. But Ellison shook his head and pointed firmly to the bullpen. Simon left his office, pulling the door closed behind him. "Brown!" he identified the first detective he saw. "There's a local church with a pastor by the name of Sanders. Find me an address!"

Kincaid had resumed his speech, but Blair was only half-listening. He had a theory: Drew Granger's "arrest" had been staged. It was a fake, planted by Kincaid and his men to convince their followers (1) that nobody could get away with betraying the Watchmen, and (2) that loyal members should have faith and confidence in Kincaid's wide intelligence network. After all, who would be better at conspiracy than a paranoid militia?

The trouble with the theory was that Blair was too familiar with Kincaid's tactics. When he made a move, he followed through with it. One way or another, it was unlikely that Granger would ever be seen again.

Meanwhile, Kincaid continued his rhetoric. "...as some of us take action tonight, we move to strike the heart of Cascade's corporate sector. We move against companies that have ruthlessly endangered the safety of their own workers. We are talking about companies who would purchase foreign materials and labor at the price of our children's future. We are talking about companies that will stop at nothing to make a profit." He raised a hand, both inviting response and giving a blessing.

"They would put poison in our wells! Will we stand for it?" The response of the men was unity itself, and Blair was surprised at how easy it was to join in. He could think of three companies in Cascade alone who fit the description.

"They would have our blood be the mortar of their empire! Will we stand for it?"

Blair caught himself as his neighbors once again became fanatic beasts, feral with bloodlust and aching to avenge the wrongs done by these nebulous corporations. Somehow he suspected that the Patriots' solution did not involve gathering documentation and evidence to convict said conspirators in a court of law. With a motto like "no prisoners, no witnesses," Kincaid just wasn't the prosecuting type.

The fugitive was working his men into a froth before leading them to battle. This was Kincaid's personal Crusade now, and the Watchmen were committed devotees, ready to follow him to their deaths if necessary. Something terrible was sure to happen tonight, but what?

He stood before them with both arms raised, asking for quiet. Then the spoke quietly and soothingly, "Some of you will not be able to attend our operation tonight. Perhaps you are new to Century Watch, or perhaps you are not physically able to participate. For whatever reason, you were not chosen." He paused, and the room was silent as his words were considered. "But remember that even though you cannot be there with us, you are still Patriots. We cannot succeed unless you observe and participate. You are our eyes and our ears--in our jobs, in our neighborhoods, in our churches, and in our homes. We who work tonight are the body, and you are the senses. Without its senses, the body has no direction. Without you, our battle will fail."

Blair shivered at the mention of senses. He'd had enough of the religious metaphors: the body, the battle, and the congregation. But talk of senses felt a little too personal. It was a coincidence, surely, but all the same, Kincaid's words evoked images that took Blair's fears and pushed them into the realm of paranoia. Did Kincaid know he was here? Had he heard about the dissertation mess, even from prison? Were the words a challenge, a warning, a mockery?

"Let us take Reverend Sanders as an example. He does not carry a weapon, and he cannot accompany us tonight. Yet the reverend has taken great risks in lending us this space tonight. Reverend Sanders is a soldier for God, and a soldier for freedom! Let's give him a hand, gentlemen!"

The group clapped respectfully, and Blair was sickened to see Jeremy discreetly rub a tear from the corner of his eye.

"We must all continue this work. Like rats in the hold of a ship who work unseen in the night, we too can gnaw at cables, undermining the works of our oppressors. Like a fly on the wall, we will watch the watchers who would invade our privacy and sell our secrets." His eyes glittered with power. Though some called Garrett Kincaid a madman with delusions of grandeur, he knew exactly what he was doing. "We are the observers of corruption--the educators of the public--the executors of justice."

Blair shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Would this over-the-top diatribe never end?

"But be warned," Kincaid said ominously. "The other side has its Watchmen, too, and we must be ready to identify and neutralize them." He cast his gaze across the crowd, giving the illusion of a personal connection. "As we saw earlier, there are those who would pose as Watchmen, to erode the movement and our strength. Granger was not the only one. So use caution in giving out your trust, because unity is our only anchor against their attempts to divide us."

The men reacted as vigilant, firm-jawed caricatures. Soldiers of the new dawn, defenders of the holy-holy. Rather like Jim in full white-knight-on-a-charging-horse mode, actually. Blair mused on the comparison while Kincaid wound his address to a close.

"I'd like to end this evening with another example. Drew Granger is a hack reporter who used his connections to reveal our secrets and spread lies about the Sons of the New Millennium. We have another spy in our midst who not only speaks against us, but has attacked our soldiers physically. He has testified against us in courts of law. He is a model of hypocrisy, and reports directly to the Cascade P.D."

The two strongmen who had dragged Granger off to who-knows-where had returned. They stood in the rear of the sanctuary, behind Blair and Jeremy. And this time it was not Blair's imagination--they were headed directly for him.

Unlike the unfortunate journalist, Blair did not wait for Kincaid to read a list of his infractions against the Watchmen. Considering that he'd attacked these terrorists with more than newspaper articles, Garrett and his followers were not likely to go easy on him. Like all brotherhood organizations, these men tended to be quite vengeful when protecting their own.

Blair leapt over Jeremy into the aisle, landing in a crouch. The two bailiffs stopped and assumed defensive stances: legs shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, arms high--ready to hit or to grab. They guarded the rear exit, obviously expecting Blair to make a dash around or between them.

But the resourceful anthropologist ran toward the front of the room, where Kincaid was droning off his "crimes".

"...has worked with the Cascade Police Department for nearly four years, personally injuring several party members. Now Mr. Sandburg is here tonight, thinking he can learn our plans and supply them to the police for a pre-emptive strike..."

His legs pumped crazily--if he could make it to the small door at the front of the room--the door from which Kincaid had entered--the only door that remained unguarded--

But hands grasped his arms and shoulders, holding him back. He realized belatedly that it wasn't the two goons who had seized him, it was a throng of Patriots. They had flooded the aisles, and now surrounded him. Rough hands grabbed at his arms, chest, and throat. They tugged on his collar, choking him, tearing his jacket and overshirt away. Their hands groped his pockets and took his wallet.

He screamed and kicked, which caught several men by surprise. His foot connected with someone's knee, which buckled sideways with a sickening twist. Another man took a hit to the groin, which served as warning enough that they backed off a little. But in the end his struggles were of no use, because several sets of arms held him from behind. He tried to kick backward, hoping to hit another knee or shin, but instead found one arm twisted painfully behind his back and the other stretched straight out from his shoulder. He felt the pressure increase on the back of the already-straight elbow, as they threatened to overextend the joint.

Now his shouts were of pain and terror, and he forced himself to relax. His captors realized he'd stopped fighting, and the pressure eased slightly. His entire arm was a lightning bolt of pain, and he tried to breathe deeply in an effort not to panic.

Someone--Blair's peripheral vision told him it was the dark-haired strongman--tugged on his ponytail, drawing his head backward. Blair didn't resist as his hands were drawn together at the base of his spine, and someone else (the bald guard, he suspected) tightly looped two sets of riot cuffs around his wrists. Special treatment for the truly dangerous criminals, Blair noted. He twisted his forearms a little, checking for any slack or play in the bindings, but the zippered plastic only pinched and bit harder.

Then the mob parted, and he was dragged to the front of the room until he stood two feet from Garrett Kincaid. He trembled with fear and anger, while the criminal gave Blair a smug, vicious smile. Kincaid then turned to the group.

Still in the back of the sanctuary, Jeremy stood. His sullen face was dark red with shame and betrayal.

A young man, another student from the look of it, stood. He was closer to the front, but sitting off to the side.

Moving clear of the microphone, Kincaid quietly gave instructions to the two soldiers. "Take him downstairs. I'll meet you there shortly, and we will determine our course of action from there." Kincaid pointed angrily at Jeremy and the other young man, indicating they were to follow.

The henchmen responded immediately pushing him back down the long aisle. Blair resisted, firmly planting his feet into the thick carpet, but the men simply stopped and turned him around. Each man clutched a bicep, and they began their march again. Now when he tried to drag his feet, he couldn't gain purchase, and found himself looking upward, heels bouncing along the aisle. He shouted crazily, "I'm not even with the police anymore! Somebody help me!" He looked into the eyes of the Watchmen as their faces passed, but was only met with cold glares, when they bothered to look at him at all. "Somebody help me!"

Kincaid returned to the microphone. "Participants in tonight's action, please report to your leaders at the rendezvous point. Our actions tonight are critical to the campaign, and lateness will not be tolerated." He cleared his throat. "To the Dawn of the New Millennium!" he thundered.

With a salute to the audience, he left the pulpit and exited through the door to his left.

A moment later, Blair was out of the santuary and back in the narthex. But rather than carrying him outside like they had done with Granger, his captors pulled him down a short flight of stairs.

Simon's office door opened just wide enough for Captain Taggart to poke his face out. He peered nervously into the bullpen. "Please tell me you've got an address."

Brown, holding the phone receiver between his shoulder and ear, muttered something. He made eye contact and shook his head, vying for a little more time.

Simon, who was working from the terminal on Jim's desk, looked up at the other captain's tone. Joel Taggart didn't get nervous--even in his most agitated moments, the man had an unshakably placid nature. "What happened, Joel?"

Simon was on his feet instantly. He watched Jim through the half-closed blinds. The detective had stopped pacing. He stood staring off into the distance.

"Joel, don't let him--" Simon almost finished the sentence with 'zone'. "--just keep him focused," he finished disjointedly.

Ellison's hearing was acute enough to put the scene together--obviously Sandburg had run after Kincaid identified him. It sounded like the entire crowd had sprung into action. The phone transmitted stomping and shouting, but the tinny device was much less accurate than his own ears. Shouts were scrambled, transmitted, and unscrambled; his mind tried hard to fill in the gaps, but he wasn't entirely successful. Closing his eyes helped a little, but he just couldn't make sense of the noise.

He felt a hand fall gently on his shoulder. With a start, he remembered he was standing in Simon's office. He blinked hard and found himself looking into Joel's concerned brown eyes. "Jim? Are you okay?"

"Got it!" Brown shouted, interrupting Jim's description. "27668 Briarwood Drive."

Simon passed the word on to Dispatch, then grabbed both his and Jim's "Cascade P.D." windbreakers. "Let's go!"

Brown and Joel were only a few steps behind. "Jim, do you want me to listen for a while instead?" Joel offered, noting the detective's sweaty brow and distant gaze.

Joel physically backed off. "Sorry! I know he's your partner and all, but I thought--"

"Henri, I need you to drive," Simon ordered, cutting off the explanation before it turned into one of Taggart's typical novel-length apologies. Brown took the lead, and Simon was back on his own cellphone barking out orders and coordinating the different divisions, so that they didn't choke the streets with emergency traffic.

Two minutes later, they were all seated in Brown's Chevrolet, blasting northward toward the quiet Briarwood neighborhood.

Despite the speed and the sirens, Jim sat in the back seat like a zombie, with the phone pressed hard against his ear.

They pulled Blair down a set of stairs, and his heels bounced off the worn linoleum. Jeremy and his sponsor followed close behind, but they kept their eyes on the floor, except to exchange occasional worried glances at one another.

The basement of the church was apparently set aside as a children's area, because bright, finger-painted banners hung on each wall of the hallway. Cheerful messages whizzed past his eyes in a streak of primary and secondary colors. He didn't have time to consider the surrealism, though, because Kincaid's men dragged him through the first door on the left--a bathroom.

Blair tried to catch his foot on the doorframe, but the guards were strong, and he didn't have the leverage to twist away from them. They pulled him upright, and he found himself leaning against a yellow tiled wall. Behind his knees, lukewarm air blew from a radiator. A nervous sweat dripped down his spine, but he found that the semi-heated breeze only made him feel colder. The mob had taken his jacket and warm overshirt, leaving him only with the worn-out grey thermal undershirt, now half-untucked from his jeans.

"Now, this is all a big misunderstanding," he began, turning his head to look into the soldiers' impassive faces. "I don't even work with the police anymore, and I had no idea that Century Watch was associated with the Sunrise Patriots." The men who held him looked nonplussed, but Blair could tell that Jeremy and his friend were listening. Despite their distracted frowns, he used his teaching experience to see that his words were making an impact. "In fact--trust me on this one--I would never try to spy on Garrett Kincaid; we really seem to have the bad luck of running into one another whenever he breaks out of prison.

"Look, nothing has really happened yet. I'd be happy to forget the whole thing if you'd just let me go." He licked his lips nervously, trying to feign ignorance. "You've got your protest to attend, and I don't want to get in the way of that. I don't know anything that could possibly help you, and none of you has told me anything that could possibly help the police. So we're even, really, and if you just wanted to let me go--no harm, no foul, right?"

The man on his left, who seemed to be in charge, tilted his bald head a little to catch the other's attention. Maybe they were listening! "I give you my honor--cause' honor's what we're all trying to get back to, here, right? Just let me go and I won't make any trouble for--"

The two men slammed him backward into the wall. It was only a few inches, but the impact jarred his upper back. Blair was unable to stop the momentum, and his head smacked into the tiles hard enough that he saw stars.

Blair nodded, and they pulled him upright again. In an effort not to panic, he took another look at his surroundings. Being a good witness was pretty much all he had left, noted a morbid little corner of his mind.

Like the hallway, the bathroom was also designed for children. They all towered like giants over the extra-low sinks and paper-towel holders. Jeremy and his mentor tried to stand strong like the two older men, but couldn't seem to keep from fidgeting. Their gaze flitted everywhere, but they always carefully avoided looking directly at Blair.

Kincaid burst into the room then, startling all of them. He wasted no time, but simply demanded, "Names."

Kincaid paused for a beat, apparently committing the names to memory. "Hold him." The two young men scrambled to obey. The older men released Blair; Jeremy and Allen took their places. They gripped him tightly, but they were smaller and weaker. With luck, Blair might be able to pull free. They were also scared and easily distractible; Blair hoped he could work that to his advantage.

"Gentlemen, a conference, please." Kincaid walked out of the room again, and his bouncers followed.

Blair craned his neck around to look Jeremy in the eye. "How could you do this! What kind of a sicko would do this here?"

Blair ignored the command, but kept his voice low--he didn't want Kincaid's attention drawn back into the room anytime soon. "Jeremy, Allen, you can stop this."

"Jer, shut up! He's going to hear you." MacDavid dealt Blair a sharp blow to the ear, hoping to intimidate him.

MacDavid's grip had loosened, since he'd been concentrating on hitting Blair instead of holding on to him. Blair twisted his body hard and wrenched his arm from the young man's hand. He continued the movement, and his body slammed into Jeremy's. Taken by surprise, Jeremy's grip loosened, and Blair jerked free. He ran full-force for the door, opening it with his shoulder without stopping.

PleaseOhPleaseOhPlease he hoped that Kincaid would be far enough from the door to give him a fair shot for the exit. First, shouts followed him, then footsteps. Running with his arms bound was difficult, but panic lent him strength. He was halfway up the staircase when a hand caught his ankle, mid-stride. Unable to catch himself, he pitched forward and felt his cheekbone impact on the flat of the top step.

For a split-second, it didn't hurt--he felt dazed and disconnected as the dark-haired guard roughly picked him up. Then the pain hit: Cheekbone to jaw, electric-hot. He tasted salt and wasn't surprised to feel a warm trickle of blood run down his chin. He tried to move his mouth, and was relieved that his teeth felt intact.

"Where are your pig friends? Where's Banks? Where are they now? How much do you know about our plans?" Kincaid demanded.

Moving only his eyes, Kincaid looked at the bald patriot. The thick-necked man responded by punching Blair in the stomach, putting all of his weight behind the blow. With a shout, Blair doubled over in pain--he'd have fallen to his knees if it weren't for the recruits pulling him upright again. It hurt, but even worse, it had been a hit to the solar plexus. For several long seconds he tried to draw air into his lungs, but the stunned nerves couldn't respond. Finally he succeeded, and he managed a quick gasp--

--which was forced out of him as the man struck him again, in the same tender spot. This time, tears of pain leaked involuntarily from his eyes. He lost his balance again, seeing spots as he desperately tried to suck in air. Kincaid's angular face grinned evilly at him, and Blair glared straight into the terrorist's eyes.

With a lurch, Blair's nerves recovered. His abdomen tingled with pain, and he panted, still trying to wiggle away from Jeremy and Allen. "Please!--"

The plea bought him nothing, and the fist connected for the third time. He still kept his eyes on Kincaid's face, which swam blurrily in front of him. His vision faded at the edges, making everything in the room look like it was at the end of a tunnel, and he began to wonder if they'd damaged the nerve permanently.

"You," Kincaid sneered, "are the worst kind of traitor." Blair coughed and winced as he prepared for a fourth blow, but this time none came. "You studied them, worked for them, even moved in with Ellison," he continued. "Don't look so surprised; we've been keeping tabs on you ever since the siege at the police station."

Kincaid moved closer until his face was a handlength away from Blair's. "And when they show their true faces; when the bastards kicked you out of their department, what did you do?" He punctuated his question with a sharp tug on one of Blair's earrings. "They turned on you, Sandburg, and you stayed loyal, following your masters like the broken cur that you are."

Kincaid's little speech had given Blair enough time to catch his breath. He turned his head away and whispered hoarsely, "Jeremy... you can stop... don't do this..."

Kincaid's hand cracked against Blair's face. He'd seen the blow coming and tried to roll with it, but Kincaid was an experienced fighter, and knew to use the side of his hand to land a solid hit. "You talk to ME!" he raged.

Blood dripped slowly from Blair's nose, and also from a newly split lip. "Go t' hell," he protested softly. Then the anthropologist's eyes rolled back, and he went limp. Jeremy and his friend struggled to hold the dead weight.

"Shit." Kincaid stood with his hands on his hips, pondering his next move. "We're not done here, 'Mr. Natural.'" He aimed a sharp kick at Blair's unprotected chest. His foot connected with a dull thud, but the unconscious man only twitched. "Not done here by a long shot. By the time we're done with you, you'll be begging to tell us everything." He paused, then decisively sprang into action. "Lieutenants," he addressed the bald man and his quiet partner, "go get the van and pull it around back. I'll see you at the rendezvous." They saluted and left.

"Clean up this mess," he snapped, pointing to the blood-spattered tiles beneath Blair's head. Secure him in the van when they pull around. Then report to your commanding officers. I'll see you at the refinery tonight. Maybe you can start redeeming yourselves." He started to leave the room, then threw them a menacing glare over his shoulder. "You have... exactly seven minutes."

"Um--the van-- 'no prisoners, no witnesses'?" He quoted Kincaid's battle-mantra.

The commander gave a tight-lipped, satisfied smile. "He's not a prisoner. He's a resource." Kincaid cast a hungry glance at Sandburg's inert form.

Allen whipped a hand up in hasty salute, and Jeremy nervously followed suit. Kincaid left, and the door closed loudly behind him.

Blair, semi-aware of what was happening, concentrated on keeping his features and body slack. He clung to reality with the thought that he could still win this round--he finally knew where the Sunrise Patriots were going to strike tonight. The refinery. If only he could stay conscious long enough to escape and warn someone. But he felt like he was sinking in a cold, black sea, and after a few painful breaths he succumbed and lost consciousness altogether.

With Kincaid gone, Allen MacDavid turned to face his friend. "You dumb-ass! Why did you bring him here?"

"He--at the college--I thought he'd understand," Jeremy stuttered. He looked down at his teacher, wondering what he'd really gotten himself into.

"Don't just stand there talking," MacDavid said irritably. "Get some of those paper towels." The redhead scrambled to comply, while Allen pulled Blair into a semi-seated position in the corner.

The two young men swiped at the floor, but were dismayed to find that the dry towels only smeared the blood around, and absorbed little. There wasn't that much of it, but it had spattered everywhere, and they didn't have much time. The clock was ticking, and they only had four minutes to pull the traitor into the van.

"Maybe it would help if the towels were damp," said Jeremy, turning on one of the faucets.

Blair moaned again and half-consciously pulled at the plastic bands that bound his wrists behind him.

"He's going to be sick." Sandburg had leaned forward and pulled his knees up, nearly in a fetal position.

"I raised four brothers, and I know what it sounds like when someone's about to be sick!" Allen stared at his friend whose face had gone pale. "And he's your problem," he said, shoving Jeremy toward the long-haired man. "There is no fucking way I'm cleaning up after him."

Jeremy managed to drag the anthropologist across the floor into the nearest stall.

"We should have expected it," commented MacDavid, who continued to dab at the floor. "It always happens after you gut-punch someone like that."

"Well, I've seen it once," admitted Allen. "I was there when he took over the stadium downtown. Now that was a smooth operation. One minute everyone's watching the game, and the next there's a hundred armed patriots running the show." He smirked at the memory. "It was awesome."

"Jeez." Jeremy was overwhelmed. He knew that being a Century Watchman sometimes meant taking extreme measures. But it was one thing to talk about fighting for America, and another thing to see a mob attack your friend--well, acquaintance. And yet another thing altogether to stand by--participate, even--and watch him beaten. It was true what Kincaid said: Freedom held a high price.

Blair was half-awake, alternately heaving and groaning in pain. It had to be hell on the man's stomach, considering the beating he'd taken. Jeremy kept back as far away as he could, but held on to Blair's ponytail so that he didn't fall forward.

"I think so," said Jeremy. The anthropologist was gasping for breath. Again, Jeremy was seized with doubt. Sandburg had seemed like such a great guy, helping him out with his classwork last semester and all. Now it turned out he was working for the enemy. Just when you think you know someone, he chided himself.

"Let's go." Allen grabbed one of Sandburg's biceps, and together they hauled the trembling man to his feet. It made things easier that Sandburg was only half-aware. He shuffled along and didn't fight them much as they pulled him up the stairs, through the narthex, and out of the church.

The black van was waiting, with a very impatient-looking Garrett Kincaid glaring at them from the front passenger window. On seeing the open cargo doors, Blair exploded with a burst of energy, fighting them and trying to run again.

Jeremy had learned his lesson earlier and kept his grip strong. Blair continued to twist and struggle. Allen finally solved the problem by pulling their prisoner into a headlock. Sandburg then had no real way to resist as they led him into the idling vehicle. The dark-haired lieutenant reached out and helped lift the shouting man into the van.

Jeremy knelt on one side of the cargo area, holding down Sandburg's shoulders. Allen and the lieutenant each took a leg. They were home free. Before the doors were closed, the van started moving. Jeremy reached toward the cargo doors, trying to pull them shut, and saw the reason for the sudden departure.

An unmarked police car had arrived at the other end of the parking lot, and a square-jawed man leaped out and started running. He had his gun drawn, and was heading stright for them. Sandburg took advantage of Jeremy's distraction to make one last bid for freedom. He simultaneously kicked and rolled to the side. Allen and the other patriot each gained a sneaker to the forehead, as Sandburg propelled himself from the van.

The vehicle stopped abruptly with a screech of rubber against asphalt. "Get him back!" growled Kincaid. Jeremy and Allen stared at their commander in mute disbelief. The lieutenant responded more quickly and bodily tossed the boys out the doors.

A short moment later, Jeremy found himself sprawled on the pavement staring into the blue eyes of the square-jawed man. "FREEZE!" The short-haired man wore an armored vest emblazoned with the words POLICE. His gun was about an inch from Jeremy's nose, and the redhead nearly wet himself in fear. The guy--Ellison, according to his name tag--had an angry stare. He could clearly see the officer's finger relax and tense on the trigger.

The van took off with a squeal. It was the right move--if they stayed to collect himself, Allen, and Sandburg, they'd all be caught. Jeremy hoped that Kincaid escaped. Because despite his reservations, Jeremy knew that Kincaid was America's only hope.

The van roared off. Jim considered following for a moment, but he knew it was no use.

Jim listened carefully, but the only people in the area that he could hear were the two kids and his partner. Blair was obviously in some distress, but Jim couldn't tell how much. He seemed subdued but somewhat aware; Blair's pupils were wide beneath half-closed lids.

He focused his full attention on the criminals. "Now, you're going to set him down--slowly--right there," he said to the skinny dark-haired kid who had Blair. Jim jerked his head to indicate the an area near the edge of the parking lot. Obediently, he shuffled over to the spot and gently set down the anthropologist.

Taking one hand off the gun, Jim touched the radio that was clipped to his shoulder. "This is Ellison; I've located Sandburg. Also I have two suspects in custody. Requesting assistance and medical support." The radio crackled and squawked a response. "Roger that."

Jim watched the redhead's legs tense as he stood up again, so he was ready when the kid tried to run past him. The young man was fast, but not that fast. Jim tucked his gun into its holster at the small of his back, and tackled the running boy before he'd gone ten steps. His companion had tried to bolt also, but two officers arrived on the scene, cutting off his escape.

Jim noted belatedly that the officers were Brown and Taggart. He let Henri and Joel arrest the two punks and turned his attention to Blair. He knelt next to his roommate, trying to assess his condition. Sandburg's breaths were shallow and a little too rapid. "Blair, can you hear me?"

Blair's long curls bobbed slightly as he nodded. "Jim--" he started to talk, but was interrupted by a cough. His face screwed up at the pain. "Kincaid," Blair whispered.

Jim, searched the pockets of his Kevlar vest for a knife to cut Blair's bonds. "Shh, buddy, it's okay," he soothed in his matter-of-fact way. "We think he's still on the grounds, and there's an army of cops on the way. We'll catch him this time." Jim wished he felt as confident as he'd sounded.

"No! I know where he's going--black van--" Jim stopped rummaging through his pockets and focused on Blair's words.

Oh, no. Jim tensed and unconsciously looked toward the road, in the direction the fleeing van had gone. He didn't want to think about the kind of damage Kincaid's followers could do at Cyclops Oil's main refinery. It was ten minutes away, at the docks on the east side of town. He looked at Blair again.

Jim was sprinting for the car as soon as Sandburg had spoken. "Henri, stay with him until the paramedics get here! Joel, call your team and come with me!" And just like that, Jim Ellison was gone, with Joel huffing along behind.

Detective Henri Brown rolled his eyes. Actually, I've got my hands full arresting these punks, thanks for asking, Jim. Oh, and while you're at it, take my car. Really, I insist. The dark-haired criminal squirmed as Brown applied cuffs to the boy's right wrist. "You want to add resisting arrest to the list?" he asked as the metal ring clicked shut.

"Fuck you, pig!" shouted the slender young man. Henri ignored him and applied the other ring of the cuffs to the redhead, effectively binding them together. The second boy, whose freckled face alternated with expressions of anger and shame, did not resist or speak.

With only one set of cuffs, Brown didn't have many options. He needed to cuff the perps to something so that he could see to Sandburg. Henri was starting to worry. The kid was still in the parking lot and hadn't moved much since falling from the van. The detective looked around, taking in his bare surroundings. The church was surrounded by its parking lot, which was in turn surrounded by a wooded area. Normally he'd fasten them to a car, but Jim had taken his Chevy, and backup was still on the way. Simon's help would be appreciated, but the captain was inside the building, checking for any remaining stragglers.

Finally his gaze landed on the church door. It was old-fashioned enough to have a handle, not a knob. He half-dragged the boys up the short steps to the door. Before either of them had a chance to react, Henri swiftly unfastened the cuff on the redhead, threaded the cuff and chain through the door's handle, and refastened the metal ring. The boys were now attached to each other through the handle.

"You are both under arrest for assault and battery, attempted kidnapping, and aiding and abetting a known fugitive. For starters."

"Hairboy?" The detective spared a glance toward the anthropologist. Sandburg lay more or less on his back, his bound hands beneath him. "You okay over there?"

"What's that, Blair?" Brown finished frisking the dark-haired kid--Allen MacDavid, according to the ID in his wallet--and started on the other.

Henri grunted noncommittally in response and continued going patting the kid down. Blair was right; they needed to do this completely by the book. But he had to admit he was tempted to ignore the advice.

"You sound a little concussed," said Brown, making his way over to the fallen man. "Can you roll onto your side? I don't want you to hurt yourself if you get sick." He knelt down next to Blair.

"Uh," groaned Blair. But he managed to get onto his side and curl his body into a loose ball. "Don't worry," Blair assured the harried detective. His swollen mouth turned up slightly in a wry not-quite-smile, "I've had much worse."

Henri gave a disbelieving snort at Blair's attitude. He pulled a small knife from his pockets, unfolded it, and sawed through Blair's riot cuffs as gently as possible. Sandburg hissed with pain as full circulation returned, and Henri rubbed some warmth back into Blair's cold hands. Nobody spoke for a minute or so, except for an occasional epithet from MacDavid. Finally Brown sighed with relief as he heard sirens approaching.

Joel picked up the mouthpiece of Brown's radio, and asked the control operator to patch him through to Captain Banks.

Joel heard a streak of garbled shouting, then Simon was back. "I'm sending for backup now--you wait for them to arrive."

"Negative, Simon. Ellison and I are en route now, following a black Ford conversion van, no plates." Or at least, we WERE following it, Joel thought, peering into the darkness. Now I can hardly see a thing.

"Joel, damn it!" Simon sputtered. "Wait for backup! I'm calling right now, and they'll meet you there--"

"God, Jim! Watch out!" Joel cringed as Jim sped through a red light and barely dodged being sideswiped by an SUV. Brown's Chevrolet swerved and skidded, and Jim turned sharply to avoid oncoming traffic. Taggart braced one hand against the dash and sent up a frantic, curse-laden prayer. How did Blair put up with this for so long? Joel had a whole new respect for the former observer.

"Who cares about Garrett Kincaid?" mumbled Taggart. "I'll be happy if I get there in one piece!"

"Jim! Slow down! Snap out of it!" Joel reached out to shake Jim's shoulder, but hesitated at the last second. Belatedly, he remembered the radio. "Simon!" he shouted, hoping that the other captain was still monitoring the channel. "It's like Jim's not even there! He's driving like a maniac, and--"

"Just hang on and keep talking to him," sounded Banks' voice through the tinny speaker. "Ellison! Jim! Are you listening to me!?"

East Cascade was quiet and eerie. The empty streets were lit by yellow lights, which revealed row after row of run-down warehouses. Jim sped past them, uncaring. Brown's car was wide and low--he felt like he was creeping on the ground, slithering around corners in pursuit of his prey. Some part of his mind knew where he was, knew that Joel was next to him, saying something. Some tiny corner of his mind knew that he should should answer, but Joel seemed so very far away. And nothing really mattered but the hunt.

A stiff breeze came in from the northwest, a strong cold one that blew litter down the alleys and whistled against the grille of the car. Jim's brow furrowed, and he inhaled deeply. The wind was messing up the trail, but he could still smell the bitter odor of the van's exhaust. It needed a tune-up, not badly, but enough to tickle Jim's nose. He was getting closer.

Every once in a while he caught a glimpse of the vehicle, but would lose it again in the darkness as it turned a corner. It took immense concentration, and he would surely pay for it later with a spectacular headache.

Then it was there again, and a mumble to his right told him that this time even Joel could see it. The black van turned left, into a huge lot. The sign outside the driveway was the logo of Cyclops Oil--a blue eye on a red background. Just as Sandburg had said, the refinery. Jim turned off his lights, and drove more slowly as they approached the rendezvous. He stopped short of the actual driveway and parked on the street.

This was an older wing of the refinery; it was hidden behind a rusty chain-link fence, topped with remnants of barbed wire. The gate, which should have been secured, had been left open to swing in the wind, and its hinges creaked noisily. Jim looked carefully across the dark space and saw the place where they had cut through the gate's padlock. The inside of the lock had been protected from the elements. Shiny planes of metal winked in contrast to sharp, rusted edges.

Some blurry corner of his mind acknowledged that Sandburg was on the radio, calling in their position--no, not Sandburg, but Taggart. Joel was here, and they were going to stop Garrett Kincaid before he blew half the waterfront into Cascade Bay. Jim realized he'd been concentrating too intently on the chase. He shook his head to clear it. Now was not the time for this zoning crap.

Motioning for Joel to follow, he exited the Chevrolet, careful to close the door gently. Joel shut his door more firmly, and Jim winced at the noise. But he knew that the sound was loud to his ears only. He could hear the coarse edges of his Kevlar vest scrape against the jacket he wore beneath it. Jim belatedly realized that Joel wasn't wearing a vest. He only had the his bomb squad jacket, which was no protection at all. But it was too late for that--Joel's vest was either back at the station or back at the church, and there was no time to do anything about it.

He and Joel jogged up to the gate and paused. The van was at the other end of the lot, and both men watched as the van's doors opened.

Jim watched as two men exited the van. One was a dark-haired man. He was chewing gum, Jim noted absently. The other man was shorter, with a leather jacket and sandy brown hair: Kincaid! "Two--no, wait..." He squinted and tried to see through the dark windows of the van. Slowly the image resolved, and he made out the round shape of another man's head.

"Three," Jim asserted. Keeping low, he sprinted into the shadow cast by a nearby warehouse. Joel followed about five steps behind. As Jim approached the criminals, he watched them unload equipment from the back of the van.

"And that other one looks like plastique--probably C4," Joel noted. Good. They were close enough that Jim's enhanced vision was no longer required. Joel could use his demolitions expertise, and Jim could concentrate on a strategy to apprehend Kincaid.

The three terrorists had unloaded all the equipment, and Jim watched Kincaid open the warehouse's huge sliding door. It was dark inside, but Jim could see that the refinery was filled with pipes, hoses, and vats. Those pipes connected with the oil and gas lines outside. If Kincaid knew what he was doing, any fires caused by the initial explosion could spread throughout the entire complex, which covered several hundred acres along the coastline. And in Jim's experience, Kincaid knew what he was doing when it came to bombs.

The "soldiers" entered the building to configure the explosives. Jim took advantage of the their absence to come out of hiding. "We'll flank them," he said to Joel. You go to the left." Taggart, who was sweating nervously, nodded. Then they ran for all they were worth.

Jim was halfway across the lot when Kincaid exited the warehouse. The militia leader saw him immediately, and he regarded Ellison with a smug sneer. He smiled briefly at the detective, as if he'd already gotten away with it.

Then he was all business again. "Let's go, let's go!" shouted Kincaid, running for the van. The two thugs followed closely. Doors slammed; the engine turned twice, then roared to life.

"Go for the warehouse!" Jim shouted to Taggart, but it was unnecessary. The stout captain was barreling full speed into the open building.

Ellison was running, too, and he placed himself between Kincaid's van and the street. He stood in a textbook firing stance--feet braced shoulder width apart, knees and elbows slightly bent, arms at shoulder level, handgun perfectly centered at eye level.

The van did not stop, did not swerve. The glaring headlights were so bright they felt like lasers cutting into his brain.

Jim fired. The bullet shredded the front driver's-side tire. The speeding van swerved counterclockwise, spinning in a half-circle before tipping onto one side.

Everything was still. It was one of those adrenaline-filled moments where time slowed. He heard Joel's muffled cursing as the captain struggled to understand and disarm the bomb. He smelled gasoline dripping from the tank of the disabled van. From inside the vehicle, he heard the clack-clack of semi-automatic rifles.

Then time lurched back to its normal speed, and two men leaped out of the van. They each had a gun trained on him before he even had time to aim. One of them was Kincaid, and the other was the thick-necked goon who had been driving earlier. Jim could see other one, the man with dark hair. He was unconscious in the front seat of the van.

"Ellison." The word sounded more like a curse than a greeting. "Guess what, detective?" Kincaid smiled, but his eyes were hooded. "I want you to kneel, slowly set your gun down, and push it away."

Jim glanced into the warehouse and could see Joel continue to work with the complicated mechanism. Hoping to buy time, Jim knelt and complied with the commands. Kincaid's silent accomplice stepped closer, keeping his weapon pointed at Jim's head. Kincaid stepped purposefully behind Ellison. "Hands behind your head!"

Jim complied slowly, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. Kincaid pulled the cuffs from Jim's belt and applied them tightly to the detective's wrists. He did it professionally, first applying a cuff to one wrist, then drawing both of Jim's hands down to the small of his back, then applying the other cuff. Jim winced as the metal pulled at his sensitive skin. In the distance he heard sirens approaching. He needed to keep Kincaid distracted just a little longer, so that Taggart could disarm the bomb and backup could arrive.

Jim met Kincaid's gaze as the two criminals switched places. The revolutionary stared back at him for a moment. "I'll be honest, detective," he stated. "Unlike you, I'm not just here for some petty misguided revenge. But you've caused the true patriots a lot of pain, so--just this once--I think I'll indulge." Kincaid stepped in and threw a strong right hook to Jim's jaw.

Jim turned his head to lessen the impact of the blow, but he was still left stunned and reeling.

"Strange that you're standing at ground zero, wasting time with me," Jim retorted. He was rewarded with a something cold and hard pressing up against the back of his neck.

"Someone ask for your opinion?" growled a voice behind him. Jim swallowed and kept his focus on Kincaid.

Kincaid tersely waved the henchman back, and the pressure of the gun receded. Kincaid lowered himself to one knee, and leaned forward until his face was inches from Jim's. "He's either going to disarm the thing--though I doubt it--or he's not. Fifty-fifty chance. And I know," he checked his watch, and returned his glare to Ellison's face, "I know that either way, we've got just enough time for a little chat."

The phrase must have been a code to the other man, because Jim heard the semi-automatic clatter to the ground behind him. A half-second later, the bald man's strong forearms squeezed Jim's neck like a vise. Jim struggled for air. But worse, the pressure was restricting blood flow to his carotid artery. Even though he knew it was useless, Jim turned his head from side to side in an effort to get away. He ground his teeth in frustration. It was the world's easiest hold to break. But he needed his hands. Or his feet. And right now, kneeling and restrained, he had neither. The world shimmered, and Jim knew he would lose consciousness soon.

"You naive son of a bitch," Kincaid said over Jim's grunts. "I know all about you."

Jim's eyes went wide. His senses? He knew about the sentinel thing? But he realized that Kincaid was still talking.

"...hung you out to dry. After all the government's taken from you, I'd have expected you to be fighting them, right along with me."

"Oh, come on, Ellison. Peru. Eighteen months of your life, gone. Ring any bells?"

Jim sucked in another half-breath and tried to shake his head. "They came back for me--"

"Sure, they came for you. When the public satellites found the 'copter, and they couldn't cover it up anymore." His voice became an impassioned whisper. "I've seen the files, Ellison. Seen them with my own eyes. They knew you were alive seven days after you crashed."

It couldn't be true. But Jim found he was blinking tears. The arm around his throat loosened slightly, and he choked out an answer. "Three... and me."

"Do the research yourself, Ellison. See if I'm right. If I could find out, I'm sure you could, too."

No. No. Jim envisioned the faces of his comrades, who had hung on so bravely, in so much pain. No! He cast the images from his mind. He wouldn't go back there! He wouldn't listen to Kincaid's voice. His thoughts were muzzy, and his hold on reality wavered. There was an odd click, though, and it distracted him as the world began to fade to red, and then to grey.

A click? The bomb. Disarmed? "Yesss!" he heard Joel's victorious hiss. Yes. Disarmed.

"Listen to that. It's almost time for me to go, Detective." Kincaid's face was a complete blur now. "But I don't have time to take you with me. I should kill you, but instead, I want you to I want you to answer a question for me. I want to give you something to think about until we meet again."

The arm loosened, and Jim dropped sideways onto the pavement. Circulation returned, and oh did it hurt...

"...You hear me?" Kincaid's voice echoed, as if from a tunnel. "Answer the question!"

Jim knew he couldn't let Kincaid leave. He had to keep him talking just one minute more, until the backup arrived. Answer the question. Think like Kincaid. "Kill him," he answered.

Kincaid grinned. "I like your style, Ellison. But say you don't have time. Come on, Hero. What else?"

The world was slowly coming into focus, but Jim couldn't figure out what Kincaid was getting at. What was with the strategics quiz? "Uh, feed him false intelligence?"

"Bingo." Then the sound of footsteps reached his ears. Jim blinked again, and this time the world came into focus. He watched Kincaid's form retreating.

Spy... Kincaid thought Blair was a spy... false intelligence? Suddenly two and two added up to four. "Taggart!" he shouted. "It's a decoy! It's not here! The bomb's somewhere else!" He sat up, trying to launch himself after the two fleeing men. But the move was too much for his weakened body, and he found himself back on the ground.

Then the world flashed and went strangely dim. Right before darkness descended altogether, he could have sworn he heard faraway thunder, coming from all directions.

Blair awoke with a start, and winced at the bright fluorescent lighting that greeted him. He was still in the E.R., lying on the cot. Had he fallen asleep? It seemed a lot busier than when he'd been brought in. There weren't more patients, but the staff were bustling around in preparation. To his right, he watched a nurse give a trainee a pop-quiz on the symptoms and effects of hypothermia.

Cool fingers touched his left hand, startling him. "Hi, Sandy," said a familiar voice. "It's okay."

"Megan!" He sat up to give her a hug--or tried to, anyway. His abused stomach protested the motion and he flopped back down.

"Shhh, just lie there a bit longer," she admonished. "We've almost got your check-out papers ready, and then I'll give you a ride home."

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," he apologized. He rubbed his eyes and tried to shake away the groggy feeling. "They finally let me get dressed," he continued, embarrassed at how random he sounded.

"It's normal for you to fall asleep, Sandy. They have you on a mild painkiller, and you've been through a lot tonight."

"What happened to Henri?" he said, evading the subject of Kincaid. He was not up to thinking about that right now.

Blair tried not to be alarmed at her careful phrasing, but failed. "Megan, what are you hiding from me? Is Jim all right?" He struggled to sit up again, and the pain woke him up a little more.

Megan gently supported his back, helping him to turn and dangle his legs over the edge of the cot. "Jim's fine. He's waiting for you at home." She would have said more, but found herself interrupted by the brisk arrival of Dr. Harrison.

"Yes, ma'am." Blair applied his most charming persona for the plump doctor. She gave him a few painkillers to get him through the next morning, and a prescription for some more. He nodded and kept his opinions about the environmental and political practices of major pharmaceutical companies to himself. Dr. Harrison then went over the procedures that he was to follow because of the head and abdominal trauma he'd received earlier. Again, he nodded agreeably.

"You don't fool me for a minute, Mr. Sandburg," the dark-haired doctor regarded him over her reading glasses. "Normally I'd keep you here for observation overnight, but there's no evidence of subdural hematoma or other permanent injuries. And I know we'll have a lot worse coming in here tonight."

Just what did that mean? Blair took the bundle of papers she handed him, and signed for his official discharge on a clipboard. Megan offered him a hand down from the cot, which he accepted. They walked slowly toward the exit.

"Oh, and Ms. Connor?" They both turned. "See to it that he follows the instructions, and bring him back if he gets any worse."

Megan smiled at the thought of being "in charge" of Blair for the evening. "Absolutely, scout's honor." Dr. Harrison, apparently satisfied, left Blair in Megan's hands.

The trip to the parking garage was a blur, and he found himself in the passenger seat of Megan's silver Honda. Megan paid the attendant and they exited the garage. Blair was suddenly struck with a sense of wrongness about the city, but he couldn't quite place it.

He could see the harbor from their vantage point, but there were no fires. "Jim stopped the bombing at the refinery?" he asked, looking for reassurance from Megan.

"Mmm, well, yes. There was a bomb at the refinery, and Joel was able to diffuse it with Jim's help," she explained.

Thank goodness. But that didn't explain the continued nagging feeling that something was just off. He peered around at the dark streets and tried to see what it might be.

"Man, it's dark tonight." Grimacing at the crick in his neck, he looked up at the cloudy sky. In fact, it wasn't just the sky that was dark, it was everything. The streetlights, the traffic signals, the buildings they passed were all unlit. He whispered, "Megan, what happened?"

The inspector looked uncomfortable, but met Blair's eyes briefly. "Kincaid's 'patriots' bombed seven of the area's electrical transformers tonight. The entire city's without power, and most of the suburban areas as well."

"At least eleven, but they really damaged some of the critical ones. It's going to be at least a week before everyone has their power restored."

"Oh, man." No wonder Simon needed Henri working tonight. "But the hospital had their own power," he mused.

"Hospitals have their own generators, against just such an occurrence." At the next intersection, they had to wait for quite a while, as a uniformed officer was directing traffic. "And before you ask," said Megan, "the reason Jim's not working is because Simon wants him to rest tonight so he'll be fresh in the morning. He's going to need the energy."

Blair didn't quite buy it, but he trusted her enough not to push the issue. They continued the rest of the drive in silence.

When they arrived at the loft, Jim had the fireplace going. The flickering light illuminated Megan, and Blair noticed for the first time how bedraggled she looked. Probably Simon or Jim had called her out of bed to take over for Henri at the hospital. Her long red hair was slightly tangled, and her usual smart wardrobe had been replaced with jeans and an old college sweatshirt. Blair invited Megan inside.

Jim steered a wobbly Blair over to the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable, Connor. I heard your car and started the teapot on the stove."

"Thanks, Jim, that sounds great." Megan seated herself on the sofa next to Blair, who leaned his head on her shoulder. She smiled at the affectionate gesture, and wondered whether he'd remember it tomorrow when the painkillers wore off. She rubbed his forearm, hoping he'd close his eyes and go to sleep, but the hyperactive anthropologist keenly watched his roommate instead. She watched as Jim, too, as he seated himself on the other sofa, facing the windows. Something about his manner was making her nervous.

Jim sighed and frowned. "I don't know if he's in custody, but at least we were able to stop the refinery from blowing." He related the details of what had happened. "Don't look so down, Chief. Kincaid gave you incomplete information, but it was a real bomb at the refinery. If you hadn't been alert, we'd be dealing with ruptured gas lines, oil fires..." He looked nervously out the window. "People would be without heat and gas, as well as electricity. Believe me, Sandburg, you saved lives tonight."

Blair cleared his throat self-consciously, embarrassed for once at being the center of attention. "But Jim, you zoned while driving?"

"Yeah," Jim grimaced at the admission and ran his hand over his close-cropped hair. "I'm not sure what I'm going to say to Joel."

Megan chuckled. "Don't say anything, Jim. Everyone just thinks you're a bad driver."

"Wait--" Blair's eyes grew wide. "Wait! You mean that when you drive like that, you're zoning in on the chase??"

"Well, yes!" Jim retorted irritably. "What, you think I just drive like that intentionally? You think I'd willingly wreck all those trucks?"

Blair gulped. "Uh, of course not. Well, sometimes I thought you might be--zoning, that is--but in general I just thought you were just, um, an aggressive driver..." But it was hopeless, and there wasn't any way to take back what he'd said.

Megan couldn't help it. Her eyes filled with tears and she started laughing in earnest. Jim looked so mad, veins were raised out of his forehead. And Blair just sat there looking stunned.

"Hey, ow, Megan, you're shaking me," Sandburg complained. But then he was laughing, too, doing his best to stop as his abused stomach protested. Eventually, even Jim rolled his eyes and smiled.

After a moment, they all recovered. The tea was done brewing, so Jim went to the kitchen.

Blair let Jim play host and turned to face Megan. "Listen, Connor," he said with intensity. "All kidding aside, this is really significant. Now that we know this driving behavior is sentinel-related, maybe we can help prevent it by providing stimuli and verbal encouragement whenever he starts to exhibit it." Blair continued to outline his countermeasures. They were a little repetitive, but Megan attributed that to the medication and his state of mind. She thought about interrupting him, but stopped herself as she realized that focussing on this might be the only thing keeping him sane at the moment. Then again, maybe she might settle for insane, if he'd just stop talking.

Finally, she got a word in edgewise. "We? What's this 'we,' Sandy?" She wanted to tread very carefully on this guide stuff. Whenever she even mentioned Jim's senses, the detective became stubborn and defensive. This was the last thing she wanted to get into tonight.

Jim returned from the kitchen, balancing three mugs. He set them down on the coffee table with more force than was necessary. Of course he'd overheard the whole conversation--he was only half a room over.

Megan took one of the mugs. "Thank you, Jim." The detective grunted in response, but didn't look at her. He was staring blankly out the window again.

They all sipped their drinks, except for Blair, who merely wrapped his arms around his aching stomach.

Connor continued to watch the detective, whose expression made her shiver. Finally she realized why Jim's behavior was putting her on edge. She'd seen that look before, when Jim stood on the balcony outside an empty loft. That had been over a year ago, during the dreadful business with Alex. His expression was clearly a sentinel thing, and Megan suspected that Jim was feeling insecure about Blair's future as his guide. Of course, their earlier conversation and Sandburg's injuries didn't help matters much.

Though she had only finished half of her tea, Megan stood up. "I think I'm going to get going," she announced, walking over to the coat rack. "With the power out, the ride home's going to be long, and it's already late."

"Then why don't you stay here?" Blair started to get up, but sat back as his sore gut prevented it. He tried again and managed to launch himself off the sofa with his arms, like a pregnant woman. "You could sleep on the couch."

The look in Jim's eye forebode any such ideas. "Another time, Sandy." She opened the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jim."

She slipped into the hall, but Blair's hand landed on her arm, gently holding her back.

"Megan." His eyes were wide and earnest. "About what we were saying before. You've got to be his backup."

"Good night, Sandy. We'll talk later." She pulled free and left, unable to look at him.

"She's going back to Australia in six months! And now you're working against me, too!"

Ellison took a step closer, invading Blair's personal space. "I am in Simon's face every day," he said harshly, "trying to get your observer's credentials back." Jim's voice grew louder as he continued, "And maybe if you'd spend more time working with this sentinel stuff, it wouldn't be so damned hard to convince him!"

Blair stood his ground, and did his best to remain calm, but Jim could see the veins in his hands and forearms stand out a little as his roommate's blood pressure rose.

"I know you're frustrated with the way things have turned out," replied Blair in a quiet, sharp tone. "But trying to blame me is not helping. I have been talking with Megan, trying to work around our little situation. And if you want us to help you manage your senses, a little co-operation would be nice!"

"Look, Chief. If you really want that observer pass back, then maybe you should stop wasting your time obsessing with this temporary job and all your--" Jim groped for a word, "tree-hugging clubs, and show Simon that you're serious about the position!"

"Oh, yes, your royal Sentinelness," Blair said sarcastically. "Your wish is my command."

"It means that you think the world revolves around you. Well, SURPRISE, Jim--it doesn't."

The argument had unlocked something in Blair, though, and the anthropologist's eyes flashed with anger. "I don't know where you've been the last six months, man, but it took me a long, LONG time to find a job."

"This can't possibly be about the money, Chief. If it is, you know that you have a home here as long as you want it."

Blair winced. "It's not about the money, Jim, it's about dignity and security. And it might not mean anything to you, but for the first time in my life I have a steady paycheck, and co-workers who like me, and a boss who listens to me." He counted off each point on his fingers. "And if you think I'm going to give all that up for the promise of an unpaid, dangerous, thankless position that doesn't even exist, then-- then--" He paused, mid-tirade, unable to think of an appropriate consequence.

"Aaigh! We are a team!" Blair ran his hands through his hair in agitation, trying to think of a way to make Jim understand. "Okay, think of it this way: Who are you, Jim?"

It sounded like one of his visions, where Incacha or his Enqueri self would manifest, asking the same question again and again until he got it right. Shaking off the deja vu, he gave the expected answer, "A sentinel--uh, Sentinel of Cascade."

This wasn't making things any clearer, and he grew irritated. "Detective James Ellison of the Cascade PD!" he burst out.

"Blair Jacob Sandburg." He turned his palm upward, and wiggled his fingers in an "again" gesture.

Jim had expected that, but Blair was motioning for him to ask yet again. What else could the kid say? He wasn't a student or an observer anymore. Despite his self-consciousness, Jim found himself intrigued. "Who are you?"

"That asking me to stop teaching and research would be like me asking you to give up being a cop." Sandburg still looked amazed, as if the words were a revelation to himself. "That maybe my social and environmental advising is a way of establishing myself on campus!" The words hit Jim like a smack in the face. This wasn't like waiting tables, this was Sandburg's life.

"If I got a grant," Blair challenged, "and asked you to become a full-time test subject in the study of enhanced senses, what would you say?"

Sandburg's face changed then, slowly transforming from surprise to anger to incredulity. "God, Jim. You didn't really think it could ever be the way it was, did you? The best we're going to be able to do is have me partnered with you as a consultant from time to time."

"Just forget it!" Jim snapped. He took a step toward the door, forcing Blair to move out of the way. Then he realized with a start that his truck was still at the station. More frustrated than ever, he stalked out to the balcony, slamming the glass doors closed behind him.

The air was a shock to his sensitive skin. He watched as his breath turned to ice crystals in the January air, drifting off into the city. It was cold, but Jim's face was still hot with anger and shame.

Way to go, Ellison, Jim derided himself. Real smooth. He hadn't meant to hurt Blair like that. "I'm trying to hang on to you, Chief," he whispered to the darkened city. "I'm trying to hang on so tight that I'm just pushing you away."

Jim Ellison stood a silent vigil over Cascade. Then something touched his shoulder. Something soft, but blazingly hot. He spun to face the attacker, landing instinctively in a defensive stance. Jim's eyes were still dilated from staring off into the darkness, so the attacker was a shadow against the impossibly bright lights in the loft.

"Jim, hey, it's okay," said the shadow. "I know you're still mad at me, but you've been out here an hour."

Blair. It was only Blair. Just Blair's hand on his shoulder, feeling hot as fire. Jim shook his head, as if the motion would reorient him. A shiver rippled through him, and he realized that he was chilled to the bone. He shuddered again as his body recovered from the zone and subsequent sensory spike.

"God, you're freezing! Are you okay?" How long would he have stood out here if his partner hadn't come after him? "Jim?"

"I'm--sorry." Now that his pupils had contracted a little, he saw that Blair was wrapped in a worn quilt. Underneath the quilt, Sandburg was sock-footed and wore a pair of old grey sweats--complete with a worn-out sweatshirt that declared "RA NI R UNI ERS T " in cracked red letters. His roommate had taken a shower, and Jim could see the damp ends of his curls freezing where they poked out over the quilt. "I'm not mad anymore. I don't expect you to give up everything. It's just that-- I was-- You made me--" Jim sighed, unable to wrap his thoughts into words. "Are you feeling better?"

"Worse, actually. I ache from the knees up." Blair shuffled forward and tried to lean on the railing next to Jim. But as usual, the balcony was too much for his acrophobic partner, and Blair backed up again. He leaned against the apartment's outer wall instead, well away from the balcony's edge. "Whatever they gave me in the E.R. is just about worn off."

Jim didn't know where to start. He turned away from Sandburg, letting his gaze traverse the black streets again. "You did good tonight, Chief. Turning on the cellphone was really smart."

There was a shocked silence as Blair processed the compliment. "I got the idea from a news article a few years ago. A woman had been carjacked, and her baby was in the car, too. So she was in the back seat and called 911 on her cell phone. She kept giving off clues, like saying 'Turn left on Wilson Street,' and 'Can't you just drop us off at that Burger King?'" The explanation had left Blair a little winded, and he paused to take a few shallow breaths.

"But I couldn't talk to leave you any clues," Blair's voice trembled. "It's so cold out here," whispered the shivering anthropologist. Jim didn't challenge the comment, letting the half-truth give Blair some dignity.

"What do you see out there, Jim?" With a start, Jim realized that he had started staring at the city again. In fact, he couldn't look away.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and leaned on the balcony railing. "I can hear them. I can hear screams and sirens and broken glass. They're looting." Jim stopped abruptly and tilted his head. He took a deep breath, and then another. "And fires."

"It's the New Year's thing, isn't it?" asked Blair quietly. "They think the world is coming to an end."

Jim opened his eyes, and resumed his surveillance, eyes darting from one trouble zone to the next.

"At least they did it now, when everyone still has their bottled water and Y2K candles and generators and canned goods," Blair mused.

Blair blocked the door with his body, and Jim stopped impatiently. "What, in a cab?" said Blair. "On foot? You want to borrow my bicycle, maybe?"

"Hey, now. In the morning, Simon is going to need someone to co-ordinate major crimes. He wanted it to be you, right? That was the plan, wasn't it?" How did he do that? Blair hadn't seen Simon in weeks, but somehow he knew--or, more likely, had guessed--what was going on.

"Stop for a second! Think!" Blair's agitated tone started to get past his instincts, and Jim waited for him to continue. "You can do a lot more good tomorrow, coordinating everyone's efforts and doing your own work to find Kincaid."

Jim considered it for a moment, but it seemed so silly. Here he was, adrenaline pumping, ready to go. Kincaid was still out there--he just knew it. Staying here was unacceptable, and there was no way that Sandburg was going to hold him prisoner here on his own balcony. "Get out of my way, Chief."

"Stop arguing with me and just move!" Jim laid a hand on Blair's shoulder and gently pushed him away from the door. But Blair hissed and flinched slightly at the contact.

At his cry, Jim jerked his hand away. His instinct to leave the loft had vanished. "Are you all right?"

The anthropologist stepped out of the way, protecting his sore shoulder. "Just don't touch me right now, okay?"

Jim opened the door, and ushered Blair through, not quite touching the small of his back. "I'm sorry; I don't know what I was thinking." He guided his partner to the couch, and Blair gingerly lowered himself onto the cushions.

"That's what I'm saying, you're not thinking." Blair exhaled in a burst, blowing his hair out of his face. "Can we both calm down here?" Then Blair's eyes glinted in a strangely familiar way. "And can you get me some ice? Everything hurts." Jim recognized, too late, that his guilt had been leveraged.

He filled a dishtowel with ice and came back into the living room area. Sandburg had flung the sweatshirt on the coffee table. He accepted the towel with a quiet thanks and held it against a swollen welt on his chest.

Jim finally had a good look at his partner's injuries. The anthropologist was mottled with bruises from head to waist. Most of them were just starting to change color, and if he concentrated, he could see the dark purple areas growing as damaged capillaries leaked. It made him feel ill, and he turned away, leaving the room.

"Oh." Blair reached over and downed the pills. "So does this mean you're done with your snit?"

"I can't--" Jim tore his gaze away from Blair and stared out across the balcony again.

"Yes, you can. I don't care if you sleep or not, but at least lie down--just until dawn, okay? It's only a few hours, and staring out the window isn't helping anyone. We'll need it if we're going out there tomorrow."

"Assuming I can move in the morning--and that's a big assumption," Blair said with a pained smirk, "I'll ride with you. The college is obviously going to call off classes until the electricity's back on. And I doubt anyone will be willing to give you grief about your ride-along partner if you're in charge of the operation." He gestured with the towel, unintentionally spattering both of them with water. "And technically I have to go into the station tomorrow and make a statement anyway."

Getting his partner's gist, Jim completed the thought, "And technically since I'll be volunteering--off duty--there's no reason you couldn't ride with me." He cast an arm around Blair's shoulder, helped his roommate onto the futon, and then headed upstairs.

He put on his sleep mask, which blocked out most of the light, and took a few deep breaths to relax.

"Jim?" He heard a whisper snake up the staircase. "Even if I'm not up to riding along tomorrow, I'm not going anywhere, okay? We'll work it out somehow."

Epilogue

The phone rang, shrill and loud. Jim cursed, then sat up, swung his legs onto the floor and grabbed his robe. It was still dark, though the haze outside showed that the sun would rise in a few minutes. He was still padding down the stairs when he heard Sandburg stir. The anthropologist pulled himself from the bedroom with a groan and picked up the cordless phone just as Jim reached the landing. Please don't let it be Simon, he thought, fearing bad news.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Natural." Blair made a small gasp that was cut off by a strangled-sounding swallow. "They let you out of the hospital already?" Jim heard Kincaid's voice over the hiss of the phone. The connection wasn't good, and he suspected that the call was coming from a cell phone that was nearly out of range.

"We have a lot to talk about, you and I," Kincaid drawled. "The next time we meet, I'm sure you and I will have a nice, long, intimate conversation... about justice--and retribution."

Jim now stood behind Blair, and he laid a hand on the smaller man's shoulder, steadying the trembling form. "You stay away from Cascade, you son of a bitch!" shouted Blair hoarsely.

"And you tell your pig roommate," continued the terrorist, "that he is enemy number-fucking-one. This battle may have been a draw, but I think we made our point. Cascade may not be entirely shut down, but I think most citizens will realize how impotent their government is--how vulnerable they are." Kincaid laughed. "I'm sure you understand exactly how they feel."

And even Jim never quite saw how it happened, but suddenly the phone was clattering against the wall, smashing into black plastic shards. And an instant after that, he heard a soft tap-tap as two of Sandburg's tears hit the floor.

End

Thanks for reading. Feedback is always welcome, so please to tell me what you liked, or what could have been better.
--techgrrl@pobox.com

Disclaimer: The organization name "Century Watch" is completely fictional; it is not associated with or based on any real organization. Also the author does not necessarily advocate Kincaid's opinions or actions in real life. It's just a story.

Garrett Kincaid and the Sons of the New Millennium/Sunrise Patriots are property of Pet Fly Productions and Paramount Studios, as are Jim Ellison, Blair Sandburg, Simon Banks, Joel Taggart, Megan Connor, Henri Brown, Cyclops Oil, the city of Cascade, WA, and all other canon aspects of "The Sentinel".

The rest of the characters (who are not based on any actual persons, living or dead) and the story itself are copyright 2000. Do not reproduce this story or any part of it without express permission of the author techgrrl@pobox.com. This story is provided without payment, solely for the entertainment of fans; no infringement is intended.

Whew!