Inevitable Series 06 The Unavoidable Page 3

"You called and asked me to send Blair down to the garage," he explained, an edge of impatience in his voice. "So I did."

  "How long ago?"

  "Jim, I have to finish this by--"

  "How long!" Jim shouted, already heading back toward the elevator, pulling his weapon as he moved.

  Brown, sensing Jim's sudden fear, was right behind him. "Maybe five minutes. Jim, what's going on?"

  "Sandburg's in trouble." He punched the button for the elevator. "Come on. Come on!" Jim urged the slow moving car. In the end, he took the stairs.

  ########

  Blair walked through the parking garage, his footsteps echoing off the walls around him. During shift change, the garage was filled with activity as black and whites rolled in and out, cops swapped stories of that day's arrests. But most of the time, the garage was as it is now. Silent. Empty. Just a few people coming and going as needed.

  Up ahead, he could see Jim's truck. But his partner was no where in sight. {Maybe he got held up in records.} Behind him, he heard the door to the stairwell open then footsteps coming his way. He turned, squinting through the shadows all around him. "Jim?" he called. Silence answered back.

  A feeling of foreboding crept over Blair. With it came sudden understanding – {Jim would not have sent me down here alone.} "Ah hell." He backed away from the oncoming steps, swallowing hard, his throat suddenly dry. But as the man came into view, he let out a breath of relief. It was a uniformed cop. He shook his head at his own overreaction. "Man, you scared the hell out of me," he said, readjusting the pack on his shoulder.

  The cop advanced toward him, eyes locked on him, silent, determined. Blair's gaze tracked down to his hand, to the billyclub clasped firmly in his grip.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His muscles tensed. {He's not a cop.} The words flashed through his mind, twisting his gut. He looked around, his heart pounding heavily against his ribcage, but the area was deserted. He was on his own. He jerked his attention back to the man. He was only a few feet from him, closing the gap fast. Do something!}

  Grabbing the strap of his backpack, he swung the heavy bag around and threw it at the man. It hit him square in the chest, knocking him off balance. He reeled backward and fell.

  Turning, Blair fled in the opposite direction, knowing there was no exit that way but having no other choice. He just needed to circle back. Make his way to the elevator or the exit.

  "You little prick!" The voice boomed through the garage, bouncing off the concrete walls around him, spurring Blair on.

  He edged between cars, skirted a garbage can, slipped around a corner and came to a dead stop as a wall loomed up before him. {Dammit!} Breath rasping in and out, he looked around desperately. In his haste to circle back, he'd gotten turned around somehow and trapped himself. Pounding footsteps came up behind him. A shadow fell across his back. He spun toward his attacker. The man raised the billyclub high over his head, his face contorted with rage, and swung down hard.

  Blair threw his left arm up to protect himself and felt a sharp snap as the thick wood connected with his wrist. He cried out, cradling his arm against his chest. The club rose again. Blair staggered backward, into the car behind him. The club swung down. He darted to the side. Glass shattered behind his head as the wood connected with the car window. Blair stumbled sideways, gritting his teeth at the pain that radiated through his wrist with each step he took. The club swung again. It caught him low in the stomach, forcing the air from his lungs.

  He gasped and collapsed to his knees. His mind screamed for him to move, knowing if he didn't, the next blow would surely knock him out. But he couldn't move. Couldn't think beyond trying to draw oxygen back into his body.

  "Sandburg!" Jim's voice reached him but he sounded distant...too far away to help.

  "Jim," he tried to yell. But it came out as a croaked whisper, Blair unable to get any strength behind his voice.

  The club came down again. Blair tried desperately to skirt out of its way. It struck a glancing blow to his right shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The man bent down and grabbed at him, trying to pull him to his feet, drag him from the garage. Blair shoved him away with his good arm, rolled to the side, sucked air into his aching lungs and yelled, "Jim!"

  The sound of running footsteps reached them. The man jerked upright. Glanced over his shoulder. "Shit." He made another grab at Blair.

  "Get off me!" He kicked out, hitting his attacker hard on the left kneecap.

  "Goddammit!" the man cried out, falling against the car beside him. Jim's pounding footsteps grew closer. The man glanced over his shoulder, back down to Blair, weighing his options. After one last look over his shoulder, he fled in the direction of the exit, limping slightly.

  Blair let out a rattling breath of relief and fell back against the ground. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart.

  An instant later, Jim was beside him, touching his shoulder, his arm. "Chief? You okay?"

  Blair nodded, still cradling his wrist against his chest. "I am now." He opened his eyes.

  Jim stared at him, his brow furrowed in concern. Brown was behind him, his face lined with worry. "Sandburg, man, I'm sorry. I thought Jim--"

  "It's okay, Henri," Blair said, realizing the detective blamed himself for what had happened. "You couldn't have known."

  Jim nodded toward Blair's arm. "How bad?" He reached out and gently took the limb.

  "I think my wrist is broken." Blair hissed through gritted teeth as Jim's fingers played over the wound.

  "Yeah, sure is," the sentinel muttered. "Are you hurt any where else?" His gaze traveled over Blair, his eyes searching for further injury.

  Blair shook his head. "Just a few bruises," he said, feeling the ache in his gut and across his right shoulder.

  "Come on. Let's get you to the hospital." Jim helped Blair to his feet and then steered him toward the truck, his hand resting at the center of Blair's back as they walked. They reached the truck and Blair waited as Jim opened the passenger door for him. He slid into his seat, holding his breath as the movement jostled his wrist, sending pain up his arm.

  "You okay, Chief?"

  Blair nodded. "Yeah," he breathed. "I just..." {I want to go home. I want this to end. To not be happening.} But as he looked at the tense lines around his partner's eyes, he knew Jim felt the same way and didn't need to hear it said aloud. "I'm fine, Jim. Really. My wrist just hurts." He fumbled for his seatbelt. Jim leaned into the truck and buckled it for him then squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before slamming the door shut.

  "Brown," Jim said as crossed to his own door. "Fill Simon in on what happened."

  Henri nodded, moving to Blair's door. "Sandburg," he began, his voice low, "I'm sorry. I--"

  "It's okay, Henri." He managed a weak smile. "Not your fault, man."

  #####

  Lee Brackett stood and paced his small cell. "Come on!" he yelled at no one in particular. "I've been here three days! Do something!" He'd seen only one man so far. A man he didn't know. He brought him meals twice a day and took him to the bathroom twice a day. Other than that, he was left alone.

  And the waiting was beginning to drive him nuts.

  He studied his surroundings not for the first time. One door in and out stood to his left. High on the opposite wall of the door was a lone window. Dirt encrusted the glass, blocking out most of the sun's rays so that only a small sliver of light slanted across the floor. Even in the dim lighting, he could see the spray painted graffiti that covered the walls, the piles of broken crates and scraps of paper scattered across the floor.

  The only thing in the room that appeared new were the four "cages" that lined one wall. Padlocks hung open on the doors of the three empty cells. Brackett reached through the mesh of his cage and slapped at his own lock. Pacing to the far wall, he kicked the cot he'd spent the last two nights sleeping on. The moldy smelling mattress flipped off the bed and onto the floor, sending up a cloud of dust.

  "Are you trying
to bore me to death?" he shouted. His voice echoed back at him without answer. He closed his eyes and dropped his chin against his chest.

  {What the hell am I doing here?}

  The sound of footsteps reached him. He jerked his head up. Moments later, the door opened. "Finally," he grumbled, crossing back to the front of his cage. Brackett expected it to be his mid-morning meal delivery. But the man who came through the door was not the man he was so used to. The man he'd nicknamed "Jeeves".

  "Drake," he breathed as his old "friend" drew near. The man hadn't changed a bit since he'd last seen him nearly ten years ago. Tall, muscular, his hair cut in a short, almost military style. Brackett frowned. He realized for the first time how much this man looked like Jim Ellison. {Except for his eyes.} Drake's deep brown eyes were nothing like Ellison's. {But it's not just the color.} Drake's eyes were cold, angry while Ellison's held a certain warmth that was unmistakable. {But he hasn't always been that way.} Brackett knew that Ellison's attitude had…mellowed. Softened.

  {Sandburg changed him.}

  {Just like he changed me.}

  Brackett pushed that thought away. He hadn't changed. Not that much.

  Thomas Drake strolled toward him. "Well, Brackett. How're you doing? You like my little hotel?" He indicated the row of cages. "I have several of these places scattered about. They come in handy."

  "What's going on, Drake? Why am I here?"

  "You know, I expected you to be harder to catch," Drake went on, ignoring the questions. "I had feelers out all over Europe, South American. Imagine my surprise at finding you so close to Cascade." He tilted his head to one side, his gaze studying the man before him. "Why Canada?"

  Brackett glared at him. "I liked the scenery," he said dryly. In his mind, he could still see the small cabin he had called home for the last two months. It lay nestled in a thick stand of trees within walking istance of a great fishing lake. A small piece of heaven. He had only planned to lay low there for a few days, just to see what kind of fallout would come down on him for the deaths of Therman and Grahm.

  But as the days turned into weeks, he realized that he liked the quiet life he had fallen into. Hell, he had enough money stashed away to live comfortably on for the rest of his life. Why keep risking his neck on jobs that meant nothing to him. For people who would just as soon kill him as pay him off.

  One morning while fishing, he'd actually been toying with the idea of just staying at the cabin when a tranquilizer dart hit him in the chest.

  He turned his attention back to Drake, to the man who was responsible for his current captivity. "Who hired you?"

  A smile pulled up the corners of Drake's mouth. "Now that would be telling and what's the fun of that. But don't worry. You'll get all your answers as soon as my other 'guest' arrives."

  "What other guest?"

  The smile increased. "Blair Sandburg."

  Brackett's stomach clenched. His hands fisted at his sides. But he kept his gaze even, cool. "Sandburg?" he repeated, shaking his head. "Don't know the name."

  The grin disappeared. "Don't insult my intelligence."

  Brackett's eyes narrowed as a new thought struck him. "You're having trouble catching him, aren't you?" He laughed. "Probably figured the kid would be an easy target, right? I mean how hard can it be to pick up an anthropologist?" His laughter increased.

  Drake glared at him. "I'll have him soon enough."

  "Not if Ellison has anything to say about it. You have seen Detective Ellison? Seen how closely he watches out for that kid? If you've let on that you're after Sandburg, well Ellison's not going to let him out of his sight for five minutes. You'll never get at him."

  "Trust me. I'll get him." Drake crossed back to the door and left.

  As soon as he was alone, Brackett slapped his open palm against the mesh. Dammit! He paced the short length of his cell, trying to make sense out of what little information Drake had shared. {Well, here's your fallout }, he thought bitterly. He had expected it to come sooner than this but he was sure that his current predicament was linked directly to the deaths of Therman and Grahm. {It's the only thing that makes sense. It's the last time we were all together and....} He stopped pacing, his thoughts trailing off as a new realization struck him. {They don't want us all. They just want me and Sandburg.} He ran a hand across his forehead. {Why is Ellison being left out of this equation? And why haven't they just killed us? It would be a hell of a lot easier than catching us and holding us.}

  Not for the first time, he wished he had never taken the job offered to him by Spenser Therman and Caleb Grahm. {Why the hell did I ever get mixed up with those maniacs?} But he knew why. The money had been good and the job fairly simple. All he had to do was deliver Sandburg to them and walk way. And he had done it. Almost. {If Sandburg hadn't trusted me. Hadn't made it so damn impossible to just walk away. } He shook his head. He didn't have time for regrets. He needed to figure out who the hell Drake was working for and what they wanted. But until he did, only one thing mattered.

  "Ellison, you had better keep an eye on that kid," he muttered because he had a feeling the minute Sandburg was picked up, they were both dead.

  ####

  Blair fumbled with his shirt, trying to pull it over the new cast that covered part of his hand and forearm. Jim stepped toward him, shifting it over his shoulder and guiding his arm into the sleeve. Next came his jacket, Jim helping him with that as well.

  "Thanks," he muttered as he settled his arm into the sling that hung around his neck. When he glanced back up at Jim, he could see the muscles in his jaw working overtime. "Jim, man, you have got to relax."

  "I'm fine, Sandburg."

  "Yeah and you always clench your jaw like that when you're happy." He put a hand on the Sentinel's arm, squeezing lightly. "Listen man, I know what you're thinking and you can just forget it."

  "You a mind reader now?"

  "I don't have to be a mind reader. It's written all over your face." He stared into Jim's eyes. Cold rage burned behind them. "You cannot go after the guy at the station," he said softly.

  Jim's eyes narrowed. "Sandburg--"

  "Jim, if you do, you'll go to jail. It's assault, man, pure and simple. So just forget it. Besides, you go to jail and who's going to watch my back the next time these guys try something." He released Jim and readjusted his arm, trying to find the most comfortable position.

  Jim stared at the broken limb. "Yeah, because I'm doing such a great job so far." He rubbed his eyes. "Are you sure you don't want to look for a better Blessed Protector? I seem to be falling down on the job lately."

  Blair smiled. "You wanna find a new Guide who's not quite so gullible?" He shifted his arm forward slightly, extending it toward Jim. "{This} is not your fault any more than it's Henri's. Hell, it's not even really mine. These guys are bold, Jim. They came to the loft and the station. I didn't expect either of those moves. No one could have."

  Jim nodded, some of the tension leaving his body. "You still feel like seeing Jack?"

  "More now than before." Blair headed toward the exit. Jim scooped up his backpack and followed.

  ######

  "Why did Blair Sandburg have to make a trip to the emergency room today?"

  Timmons tensed at the sound of the angry voice spilling through the phone at him. He leaned against the side of the phone booth he was in, letting his gaze sweep the empty parking lot around him. "Listen, Drake, I have my own methods--"

  "You were told not to hurt him. That's why I gave you the fucking tranquilizer gun. Use it!"

  The line disconnected. Timmons slammed down the pay phone and crossed back to his car. Slipping behind the wheel, he glanced at the duffel bag that rested in the passenger seat beside him. The tranquilizer gun was zipped within the bag. He hated the idea of taking the kid with the gun. He much preferred his own methods. He liked seeing his targets close up. Watching the fear in their eyes when they realized that he was there to hurt them, possibly even kill them.

  But Sandburg h
ad surprised him. He had marked the long-haired kid as an easy target. Expected him to fold after the first blow. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd fought back and even managed to cause a few bruises of his own.

  Reaching in his shirt pocket, Timmons withdrew a cigarette and slipped it between his lips. Before lighting it, he grabbed the duffel bag and pulled out the gun. He ran his fingers over the stock of the weapon, sighing heavily. He was hired to do a job. He would do it as he was told.

  #####

  Jack Kelso nodded toward the fresh cast on Blair's arm. "Getting clumsy?" he asked.

  Blair gave a lopsided grin. "Something like that."

  Jack shook his head. He liked Blair. Had since the first time he met him. But it puzzled him to no end why the anthropologist spent so much time with Jim Ellison. He liked the big detective but the man was not exactly Mr. Warmth. And on top of that, Blair seemed to get injured a lot as a result of their....association. Jack wondered, not for the first time, what it was that drew the two men together. Because their deep friendship was unmistakable to anyone who knew them. They seemed to understand each other perfectly. Compliment each other he realized with sudden clarity. {It's like they're one entity instead of two.} The thought startled him in its intensity.

  "So do you have anything on this guy?" Blair asked, drawing him away from his thoughts.

  Jack looked down at the open file on his desk. "I think so." He punched a few keys on the computer, bringing up his personal data base. It took him only a few minutes to find what he needed. "He's a mercenary named Lantry, Wayne Lantry."

  Blair moved around the desk so he could look directly at the computer screen. Jack wheeled away from the desk, giving his friend free access. Blair fumbled in his pocket for his glasses. Ellison moved up beside him, pulled the glasses out of Blair's pocket and handed them to the grad student. Blair smiled up at him as he slipped them on. "Thanks, man."

  As the two men turned their attention back to the computer screen, Ellison slid a chair over and Blair sat down at the desk. Ellison remained behind him, one hand resting comfortably on Blair's shoulder. They read through the information, discussing each point, Blair looking up and back at Jim as he spoke.