PROMISES TO KEEP

The early morning mist hung like a shroud over the narrow, seemingly neglected trail. Its winding path snaked through the trees in no apparent direction, its original purpose lost in time. Only the recent appearance of rain filled potholes belied the abandonment of the muddy road...that, and the sudden appearance of a padlocked gate on a side road leading to nowhere, in a place where there should be nothing to lock up and no one to lock out.

That was what first caught his attention. It was an area of the mountains familiar to him, although until recently he hadn't been there in years. He knew things change, all things do, but they changed very slowly and with maddening reluctance in this part of the world. In years past, the tranquility of the sloping mountainside was invaded only by the occasional fox hunter or adventurous hiker. Now there was something more, something out of place. It didn't feel right, and he had learned long ago that feelings were sometimes the only real truth there was. Instincts had saved his life and the lives of his friends, more than once. He and his subconscious were on the best of terms, and right now his subconscious was sending out a three-point alarm.

And that was why he was here, crouching behind a pine trunk covered in dew laden vines, as the first rays of dawn filtered through the trees. It wasn't the best of locations, but he knew he wouldn't be seen unless someone was specifically looking for him. And even then, the inexperienced might look right over him and not realize he was there. His survival training skills might be a bit rusty from disuse, but it was a shirt that he could slip back into at any time - one that fit him all too well.

The muted rumble of a truck engine well past its prime carried faintly through the woods as he shifted position to ease the ache in his stiffening knees. Settling down to a prone position behind a half rotted log, he waited for the vehicle to lumber into view.

As the flatbed truck rolled to a shuddering stop by the gate, he could see the driver casually toss a smoldering cigarette butt out the window, oblivious to the silent observer in the shadows. His passenger jumped from the running board and approached the gate, a rifle slung over his shoulder. As he produced a hefty ring of keys and selected one, he glanced nervously around, his gaze sliding over the hidden man's position for one heart stopping moment. Metal grated on metal as the gate swung open and the man disappeared into the cab of the truck once again. The disinterested driver lit another cigarette as he steered the truck through the opening, its gears grinding sluggishly as the vehicle passed through the gate. The click of an automatic lock carried to the mud caked man observing from behind the fallen tree, his camera whirring as the gate swung closed again.

He waited a full ten minutes before slowly rising to his feet, grimacing as frozen joints protested the movement. As he turned to retrace his steps through the entangling vines at his feet, he considered once again how fruitless his early morning excursions had become. Observing from the outside was just not good enough. He needed to get past that gate, beyond the perimeter he had been able to observe from his hiding place. But less than a mile from his current vantage point, the woods suddenly ended, and therefore his cover ended as well. The cleared acreage beyond was enclosed with fencing and clumsily constructed security measures that even the untrained eye could spot with little difficulty. The buildings inside the clearing were nondescript, abandoned barns that would have gone unnoticed by the average person.

It was there that the regular cargos of tarp covered crates were being delivered. And it was there that he needed to go, to see for himself exactly who was there and why. He already had a good idea; the limited pictures and observations he had been able to transmit to his contact were a start. But that wasn't good enough. He had to find a way to get inside.

As he trailed silently through the cool dampness of the mountain wood, he absently fingered the computer disk in his pocket that would relay his newest information to the outside world. He knew that once the digital signals reached their destination, the pictures would be added to the slight, but ever growing file of information he had been able to gather so far. Once again, as he did every time he allowed his mind to drift, he wished that he could deliver the information in person. A sigh escaped him as he was reminded of the futility of his selfish wish.

It saddened him that even here, far removed from any vestiges of the life he had previously led and left behind, even here he could not escape who he was, what he was. It was ingrained in him so deeply that, even in this chosen place of solitude, he had reverted back to that other man. And that was why he would probably never see the fulfillment of his wish. For no matter how hard he tried, it seemed he still had a purpose to serve, a conscience to answer to, a destiny that would forever lead him further and further away from the life he once knew.

He trudged up the wooden steps and onto the rickety front porch of the cabin he now called home. Kicking off his muddy boots, he left them to dry on the rug by the hearth and pulled the disk from his pocket. The laptop computer hummed to life as he settled in behind the scuffed desk and began punching keys.

Several minutes later, he sat back in satisfaction as he received confirmation of the delivery of the disk's contents. Leaning forward again, he erased the contents of the disk and replaced it into the pocket of his brown wool hunting jacket. Glancing around the sparsely furnished room, he once again found himself wishing for something that would make it seem more like a home.

The pictures were what he missed the most. But photographs could be dangerous, both to him and to the people they depicted. In the wrong hands, they could be used to link him to the people he loved more than life itself. And so, there were no sentimental portraits mounted on the walls of the drafty hunting cabin, only empty gun racks and rusted nails where mementoes of previous owners had once hung.

As he slipped the disk into his pocket, his calloused fingertips touched a tattered piece of paper. He drew it out, smoothing out the edges as he had done hundreds of times before. Displaying no clues to his identity around the cabin was not difficult, but disposing of this worn square of photographic paper had been impossible. It had been moved from its normal place in his wallet, to the pocket of his jacket where it now resided permanently. It was the only link to the life he once reveled in, the person he had once pretended to be, that he had not been able to let go.

The smiling faces in the faded photo swam before him as he gazed at their captured expressions on the page. After a long moment, he returned the picture to his pocket and rose wearily to restart the fire that had died in his absence. Tossing dry tinder into the smoldering embers, he gazed into the renewed flames, eyes burning from more than just the plumes of smoke drifting around his head.

"One day," Paul Blaisdell said softly to the crackle of the logs as they surrendered to the flames. "One day I will go home."

~~~~~~~~~~~~"Kermit! Yo, Kermit!" Peter Caine's voice sounded out over the din of the chaotic squadroom. Receiving no answer and expecting none, the detective poked his head into the computer expert's cluttered office.

"I suppose you are here for a reason, and not just taking roll call." Kermit's eyes never left the computer screen as he taunted the younger cop.

"Correct, as usual. I need the background on the Patterson case I asked you for last night."

"In the file, " Kermit replied absently as his printer began a rhythmic staccato across sheets of crisp white printer paper.

"This file?" Peter tapped on a manila folder on the blotter and lifted the cover.

"That file."

"Thanks." Peter's nose was already buried in the printouts Kermit had obtained as he wandered back to his desk and sat down. He barely glanced up as the door to Kermit's office swung shut again, not with a pronounced window-rattling slam, as was his trademark, but with a careful nudge. Settling in with his notepad and a cooling cup of what passed for coffee, the young detective also failed to see the uneasy expression on the face of the man studying him from behind drawn blinds and a pair of opaque green sunglasses.

Kermit leaned back in his chair and rubbed his burning eyes. He glanced at the digital readout on the bottom of his computer screen and sighed. Six-thirty p.m. He had been sitting at his computer for over twelve straight hours now, and his stiff neck and empty stomach were protesting that fact loud and clear. The headache he had been nurturing for the last three hours was grating like ground glass behind his eyes, making focusing on the monitor an unusually unpleasant experience.

A tap sounded on the door, followed by a dark head of hair and a tired smile. "Don't you have a home to go to?"

Kermit glanced up at Peter, who was slipping into his jacket as he stopped in the doorway. "I did this morning. I assume it's still there."

"Then why aren't you? At home, I mean. Whatever you're working on there can surely wait until tomorrow." Peter studied his friend intently. "You look as tired as I feel. Let's call it a day, partner."

"In a bit."

Peter shook his head in defeat and headed for the stairwell leading to the exit. "Go home, Kermit," he called over his shoulder. "There's nothing there that won't be there in the morning."

Kermit listened to his friend's footsteps as they faded away across the near empty squadroom. Finally he switched off the system and rose wearily to his feet. "You're right about one thing, Peter," he said softly to the blue screen as it faded to black. "There's nothing there, and that's what worries me. And it can't wait until tomorrow." He trudged across the office and switched off the lights. "The game's afoot. Time to make the first move."

~~~~~~~~~~~~Peter rubbed his icy hands together in an effort to warm them as he revved the engine on the Stealth. Wisps of exhaust smoke floated by the icy windows as he waited impatiently for the glass to defrost. He gazed back longingly at the warmth of the lights spilling from the entrance of the precinct. Nah, it's too cold to go back in. I'll just sit here and freeze to death.

His attention flickered down to the radio, and then back again as a movement on the front steps caught his eye. Kermit, he thought, as a figure bundled in black descended to the street. Peter leaned forward as the silhouette of his friend turned and walked, not to the parking lot where his Corvair was parked, but in the opposite direction down the near deserted street.

"Where the hell are you going?" Peter mumbled as he tracked Kermit's course into the muted haze of a corner streetlight. Upon reaching the corner, he saw Kermit pause, as if deciding which way to go, then he turned to face a shadowy figure that appeared around the corner.

Peter rolled the window down in order to have a better view of the two men engrossed in what appeared to be a serious conversation. Try as he might, it was impossible to see the face of the man with whom Kermit seemed to be growing more agitated with by the second.

Something's wrong here. Peter's hand automatically checked the weapon at his side as he continued to study the two men. After several minutes, he saw Kermit step forward and place a hand on the visitor's shoulder, nod his head and turn back toward the precinct. As he retraced his steps, the mystery man turned, his face momentarily illuminated in the pale lamplight.

Peter eased his head back into the car and waited. As Kermit stepped off the sidewalk and headed toward his vehicle, he slowed as he spotted Peter sitting a few feet away. Giving no more than a glance in the young detective's direction, he continued on toward the green car parked nearby.

Peter opened his door and stepped out onto the icy pavement. "Nice night for a walk, Kermit."

"If you're a polar bear," Kermit said as he unlocked his car. "I thought you went home."

Peter ignored the obvious change of subject. "What was that all about?"

Kermit climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. "Nothing."

"I didn't know Rykker was in town."

Kermit's head snapped around. "I doubt he announces it in the society pages." His attempt to close the door as well as the conversation was halted by Peter's grip on the icy glass.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing that concerns you, Peter. Go home and forget about it." He snatched the door from Peter's grasp and raced the engine as he roared out of the parking space.

Peter watched as the tail lights of the small car faded into the fog and out of sight. Shivering as the wind howled down the deserted street, Peter retreated to the semi-warmth of the Stealth's interior. He drummed his frozen fingertips on the steering wheel as scattered snowflakes began to sparkle in the headlights. "Forget about it, he says. Sure, okay, I'll forget about it." He pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward home." Sure I will."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The remote control bounced across the sofa cushions as Peter leapt from his seat, pacing the living room for the third time in the last ten minutes. He had tried reading his mail, rearranging his bookshelf, thumbing through articles in a magazine. Even the hockey game on television had not been able to hold his attention for more than a few minutes. Nothing he attempted took his mind off the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And, God, how he hated those feelings. The more adept he became at practicing his father's teachings, the more open and sensitive his psyche seemed to be. He had to admit that the sharpening of his senses, the honing of his instincts, had only improved his performance as cop. But sometimes he fervently wished there was a shut-off switch somewhere in his mind that he could flip occasionally, to give the receptors in his brain a much-needed rest.

How does my father handle this? Peter thought as he wandered over to the elaborate train set adorned with miniature buildings and greenery. If you're so determined to teach me your Shaolin skills, Pop, when do we get to the part where I learn how to control it?

He frowned in irritation as the tiny fabricated tree he held snapped cleanly in two in his clenched fist. "What the hell is wrong with me tonight?" he grumbled out loud as the crumpled decoration landed in a nearby trash can.

And there was something wrong. He could feel it; he could...like it or not...sense it. But that was all, just a feeling. No visions, no dreams, no psychic impressions of a face or a name or a place. Just a gut instinct that left him on edge, waiting for something to happen.

Any other time, he would have stopped by his dad's place for a dose of cryptic insight and perhaps a word or two of much-needed advice. But his father and Lo Si were out of town, gone to visit an ailing distant relative of the Ancient's in a small town several days away. Caine had promised to return within a week; Peter figured it would be more like a month. His father's sense of the passage of time never seemed to be on the same plain with the rest of the world.

A sharp rap on his front door brought Peter out of his reverie. In several quick steps, he was in the entranceway, intuition once again tightening his stomach into knots.

"Good evening, Peter." The nattily dressed, raven haired man in the hallway smiled at the puzzled look on the younger man's face.

Peter recovered his composure and stepped aside to let the mercenary enter. "Rykker. It's been a long time."

"Not that long, actually," the mercenary replied as he stepped past Peter into the apartment and gazed around. "You don't seem surprised to see me."

"That's because I've already seen you once tonight. On the street, talking to Kermit."

Rykker studied him. "Do you make it a habit to spy on your co-workers?"

Peter met his steady gaze. "I do when I think something's wrong and that they might need my help."

"And does Kermit need your help?" Rykker asked casually as he wandered around the apartment, stopping beside the train set.

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

"Could be there's nothing to tell." Rykker made a elaborate show of studying the miniature town, righting a tiny spruce that listed to one side next to the track.

"Then why are you here?" Receiving no response, Peter shook his head impatiently. "What's with all the games and the runaround? If Kermit's in trouble..."

Rykker turned and fixed a pensive gaze on the agitated detective, as if making a decision. After a moment, he paced across the room to face Peter again.

"There's a...situation..." The mercenary's voice remained low pitched and reserved. "It requires a small group of men, no more than three or four at the most. Kermit contacted me, I agreed to help and suggested you as the third man."

"Another dragonswing?" Peter asked with a tight smile.

"Yes. However..."

"What?"

"Kermit vetoed having you on the team."

"He what?" Peter's eyes widened, his expression incredulous. "Why?"

Rykker shrugged and took a step toward the door. "Maybe that's something you should ask him yourself."

"And what about you? Or do you think I'm incompetent, too?"

Rykker frowned. "Of course not. I suggested you, didn't I? But that's not the reason Kermit doesn't want you to go." He turned, saw the fire in the younger man's eyes, and took a deep breath.

"I told you it was a mission, a rescue mission if we're lucky."

"And if we're not lucky?"

"There's still a situation to be handled there. Our contact has gone missing; priority one is to find him. After that, the Feds can have the leftovers." Ryker moved toward the door. "We're leaving in a few hours, if you're interested."

Peter studied the unflappable mercenary suspiciously. "What makes you think I would just drop everything and trot off to God-knows-where with you, anyway? There must be something you're not telling me."

The mercenary paused with his hand on the cold metal knob. "Shaolin senses working overtime again?" When Peter remained silent, Rykker continued. "I wish this had come from Kermit, but since we could use your help, I see no reason not to tell you."

He met Peter's suspicious gaze with a resigned one of his own. "Our inside man, the man we've lost contact with...is Paul Blaisdell."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The slush covered asphalt hissed under the tires of the black sedan as its driver followed the exit signs out of the city. Traffic was light; the early evening flurries had kept most responsible drivers home and off the crunch of ice on the roadway was the only sound in the vehicle as Rykker watched the city lights fade in the rear view mirror.

He glanced at his only passenger, who sat huddled in stony silence, staring out into the darkness. Didn't know there was anything that could leave you speechless, Peter.

Rykker turned his attention back to the treacherous road ahead. He knew the uncharacteristic stillness in his companion would be short lived. He wondered how long it would be before the spark he had ignited earlier would light the fuse.

As he pulled the car into the parking lot of a small airstrip on the outskirts of the city, he got his answer. The silhouette of another vehicle parked next to a poorly lit hangar suddenly appeared through the lightly falling snow. Peter reached for the door handle, snatching it open before the car had rolled to a complete stop.

Rykker remained behind the wheel, watching as Peter, his jaw clenched, locked eyes with the familiar figure standing next to the hangar. As Peter turned to pull his bags from the back seat, Rykker felt the steely gaze of the waiting man pierce him through the gloom. Maybe he was right, the older man thought as he climbed out into the biting wind and reached for his own backpack. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

Peter slammed the back door of the vehicle quite a bit harder than necessary and strode across the snow dusted pavement, with Rykker following closely behind.

"Rykker," Kermit Griffin said as he stepped forward to meet them, his trademark sunglasses conspicuously absent. "We need to have a little chat."

Peter stepped between them, eyes blazing. "About what, Kermit? About how you didn't want me to know about any of this?"

"Among other things." Kermit growled.

He turned his attention back to the older mercenary. "I thought we had agreed on this."

"You agreed," Rykker replied, thrusting his gloved hands into his pockets. " I didn't. We needed another man. I trust Peter, and that's not something I say about many people."

"I still say no."

Kermit turned away, only to be pulled back again by Peter's iron grip on his arm. "Don't push me, Peter," Kermit warned as he pulled away, replaced his glasses and began to unload gear from his car.

"Don't push you? What the hell is going on here?" Peter glanced at Rykker, who conveyed his unwillingness to elaborate by turning up his collar against the bitter wind and turning away.

"Kermit, if Paul is in trouble..." Kermit ignored the question in Peter's voice as he continued to lift gear from the trunk. Peter paced around in a circle, only to turn back to his friend, his eyes narrowed.

"How did you know he was in trouble, Kermit?"

Kermit remained silent as he picked up his bags and headed toward the twin engine Cessna already idling near the hangar.

"Damn it, Kermit," Peter yelled into the frost laden wind. "You know I'd do anything to help Paul. If you know something about him, where he is, if he's in trouble, you have to tell me." Running to catch up with the departing mercenary, Peter planted himself in front of him, refusing to budge as Kermit attempted to step around him. Kermit reached up and removed the glasses, fixing an icy cold stare on the furious younger man.

"This may come as a major shock to your system, Caine, but I don't answer to you. Now get the hell out of my way."

Rykker appeared beside the two men. "We need him, Griffin. Unless you think you can do this alone."

"You're making a big mistake, Rykker," Kermit said as he slipped back behind the protection of his shades.

"It wouldn't be the first time."

Rykker observed the standoff between the two men; each one glaring at the other like adversaries instead of friends. Finally Kermit shook his head in reluctant surrender, turning on his heel on the icy pavement toward the waiting plane. As he reached the open doorway, Kermit called over his shoulder. "We're wasting time. Let's go."

Peter blew out a long breath and nodded a silent thank you to the older mercenary, who handed Peter his backpack and gestured him toward the open door of the small aircraft. As they reached the doorway, Peter waited for Kermit to enter, then tossed in his bag.

"By the way," he asked tightly, "Where are we going, anyway?"

Kermit pushed the bags to the rear of the cabin and settled into a seat. "South."

The roar of the plane's engines gave Peter something to focus on besides the city lights fading into the darkness beneath them and the uncomfortable silence of his flying companions around him.

Kermit had settled into the seat next to the pilot, laptop in hand. The pilot, a stone-faced muscular man with a two-day growth of gray-flecked beard and a military buzzcut, had not uttered a word since take-off. He obviously knew where they were going and had no plans to play the friendly captain role on the trip.

Peter shifted in his seat, turning awkwardly in the cramped quarters to scrutinize the one member of their party most likely to enlighten him as to what he had gotten himself into. Rykker had settled into his worn cushioned seat, eyes closed, arms folded loosely across his chest. He appeared to be sleeping, but even in his seemingly relaxed state, there was an air of tension about him, as if he never fully gave in to the vulnerability that the sleep state offered. As if sensing the younger man's appraisal of his level of awareness, Rykker opened his eyes.

" I assume you have a lot of questions," he said, his voice barely carrying over the vibrations resounding through the fuselage.

Peter glanced to his right, where Kermit sat oblivious of his surroundings, hunched over the small keyboard, headphones over his ears, presumably to block out the engine noise. Or anything else that he wants to filter out, just like those damned sunglasses. No, if he wanted any answers, Peter knew he wouldn't be getting them from his bespectacled companion. Kermit was the master of ignoring whatever and whomever he wished, whenever he wished to do so. And right now, Peter was being ignored right into oblivion.

"Don't be so hard on Kermit," Rykker intoned. "He can be rather single minded at times."

"Normally, that wouldn't be a bad thing," Peter said, shaking his head. "I've seen him in mercenary mode before, but never like this."

"This one's important to him."

Peter leaned forward. "It's important to me, too. I would do anything for Paul, you know that." He glanced at their reticent traveling companion in the front seat. "And Kermit should know that, too."

"I'm sure he does."

"Then why was he dead set against me coming along?"

Rykker's eyes revealed nothing. "As I said earlier, you'll have to ask him that yourself."

Peter shook his head in defeat and turned back to the older man. "What kind of trouble is Paul in? I thought he was out of the business, that he left all that behind years ago."

"He did. This is something he just happened to stumble across. He wasn't working for anyone and he certainly wasn't looking for it."

"What is it, exactly?" Peter asked.

Rykker glanced at Kermit before replying. "From the information he's been relaying, it looks like a grassroots band of domestic terrorists. A small group of fanatics with big guns and bigger ideas."

Peter sat back, absorbing this piece of information for a moment. "And Paul just 'stumbled' across it?" Peter shook his head in disbelief. "Come on, Rykker, Paul never just 'stumbled' into anything in his life."

The older man smiled in agreement. "You could be right. It's something that gets in the blood, I guess...that instinct that keeps you alive in the field. He saw something that didn't look right to him and started sniffing around."

"And now?" Peter asked hesitantly. "What happened to him?"

Rykker shrugged. "One day the messages just stopped coming. Back-up methods to reach him failed. And so..."

"And so, here we are," Peter finished the thought. "Just us? Just the four of us?"

"Three," the mercenary corrected him. "The pilot is only responsible for getting us there. We're on our own after that. But, there will be four of us on the mission. The final member of our little dragonswing will be meeting us on our arrival."

Peter frowned. " Do you know we can trust this person?"

Rykker settled back in his seat and closed his eyes again. "As our anti-social companion in the front seat would say...Oh, yeah."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Peter blinked, momentarily disoriented by the popping in his ears and the sickening tilt of the seat in which he had dozed off. It took several seconds for his sleep clouded brain to process that the tilting of his seat was directly connected to the sudden banking of the plane as it began its descent.

He peered out the window to his right, hoping to see the familiar beckoning lights of a well-lit airstrip below. His grasp on the narrow ledge became a white knuckled grip as darkness shrouded shadows flitted by his window, shapes he finally came to recognize as trees lining a mountainside that seemed much too close.

"We're in a valley," came a familiar voice from behind him. "Don't worry, we're not going down."

Peter turned in his seat toward Kermit, who was perched on the seat opposite his own, laptop in hand. "We'll be landing in a few minutes," Kermit said.

"Landing where?"

"Mountains of North Carolina."

"That's where Paul is?"

Kermit hesitated for the briefest of moments, but Peter caught it just the same. " Kermit, don't you think it's time you told me what's going on here?"

"I'm sure Rykker has filled you in already."

"That's not good enough." Peter braced himself for another closemouthed rebuttal, but instead found a folder shoved into his hand.

"Here," Kermit said, reaching up to switch on the dim illumination of an overhead light. "These are transcripts of the intel Paul's been sending." He grabbed for an headrest as the plane dipped once again, then leveled out. "It's wordy, but the bottom line is... there's a compound of some kind, hidden up in these hills, with a lot of traffic in and out. Rental trucks, shipments of crates with no markings, armed guards patrolling roads that supposedly lead nowhere."

Peter flipped through the contents of the bulky folder, balancing pages of computer printouts on his lap as he scanned the text and glanced at the photographs. The contents of the messages were terse, sparsely worded and very detailed accounts of locations, shipments, even license plate numbers . It reminded Peter of military records he had accessed during background checks of suspects; no flowery descriptions, just straight-to-the-point information. It sounded like Paul.

He glanced up from the file to see Kermit studying him, his expression unreadable behind the ever present shades. "There's a hell of a lot of information here."

Kermit nodded. "Definitely something big going on."

"And Paul was able to get all this by himself?"

"No, not all of it." Kermit settled into a seat across the narrow aisle. "The FBI has an inside man in the group. Deep, deep cover. It's my understanding that he's been feeding out what he could to Paul, and Paul has been relaying it on."

"But if they've got all this information," Peter gestured to the file. "Why hasn't the FBI gone in and cleaned this group out by now?"

"Because, technically, they haven't broken any laws yet," Rykker spoke up. "Not any that would make it worthwhile for their man to blow his cover and his connections on the inside. They need evidence of something big being planned, enough proof that they can put these boys and their toys out of commission for good."

"They've got a man who's disappeared while investigating their little group," Peter said tightly. "Why isn't that enough?" He saw Kermit's jaw clench as he held the file out to him. "Surely they don't plan to just pretend nothing's happened to Paul, not after all the information he's been sending to them."

Kermit rose, file in hand, and turned in the cramped space to return to his seat near the pilot. He paused a few steps down the aisle. "They don't know," he said with a resigned sigh.

"They don't know what?"

"They don't know Paul's gone missing. They're not going to be backing us up on this. We're on our own."

Peter sat back in his seat, absorbing this new information. If the government wasn't aware of Paul's disappearance, then they were also not aware of their hastily assembled rescue mission. Which meant, in all likelihood, no one even knew where they were or what they were going to attempt to do. Hell, Peter thought to himself, I don't even know what we're going to do yet.

As Kermit returned to the co-pilot's seat, Peter turned to Rykker. "So, what's the plan? You do have a plan, right?" "Of course," Rykker smiled.

"I certainly hope so," Peter said under his breath as he settled back into his seat and waited impatiently for the plane to touch down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A thin film of frost crackled under their feet as the party strode across the narrow runway, backpacks and laptop in hand.

"I thought you said we were going south, Kermit," Peter said as he pulled up the collar of his jacket. "It's almost as cold here as it was at home."

When Kermit gave no reply, Rykker dropped back a step to match his stride to Peter's. "We are farther south than we were, but we're in a higher elevation now, too. It evens out." He adjusted the strap on the bulky duffle bag he carried in place of the others' backpacks. "It'll be more comfortable during the daytime."

Peter nodded and continuing following Kermit across the uneven pavement. The airstrip was poorly lit and appeared all but abandoned; Peter wondered how the grizzled pilot had found it in the darkness at all. Bug speckled floodlights scattered sporadically around the clearing cast a murky light over the ground they covered as they trooped silently in single file, Kermit in the lead.

As they neared the far end of the runway, a dilapidated hangar emerged from the darkness in front of them. The interior light of a vehicle hidden in its shadow flashed on for a moment, then vanished. Peter slowed, then stopped completely, his instincts on alert as his companions continued their progress toward the car. When the others reached the man standing in the shadows, Peter followed warily, peering through the darkness in a vain attempt to focus on his face.

"Peter, come on," Kermit called impatiently. "We don't have all night."

Peter opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again. What's the point? He thought to himself as he approached the group. He's got a bug up his ass and nothing I do or say is gonna make a difference.

As he stopped beside Rykker, the driver of the car stepped from the shadows, and Peter found himself once again openmouthed and speechless.

"Peter, meet the fourth member of our little dragonswing," Rykker said.

Peter smiled and stepped forward, bowing slightly. The automatic hand-in-fist salute he offered was returned in kind, followed by a crushing handshake that almost paralyzed the young cop's hand.

"It's good to see you, Peter."

"Likewise, Master Khan."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter shielded his eyes from the glare of the rising sun as the old sedan lumbered up the narrow mountain road. He shifted on the lumpy seat, his grainy eyes and stiff neck reminding him that he had been up now for almost twenty four hours. No one had bothered to tell him where they were going, or what the plan was once they got there. In any other situation, he would have been in someone's face by now, demanding that he be filled in on all the details of the operation. But patience was a lesson he needed to learn; his father never missed an opportunity to remind him of that fact. I'm working on it, Pop, he thought as he glanced at each of his silent companions in turn. At least he was in, he was here. With any luck, and a little patience, he would find out everything he needed to know.

Peter sat forward as he saw Kermit tap Master Khan's shoulder and point toward a narrow one lane road just ahead. The ponderous car took the turn with a protest of squealing brakes and screeching springs.

"Is this your car, Master?" Peter asked with a mischievous grin.

Khan fought the wheel and finally centered it on the graveled lane. "It gets me where I need to go."

"And just where are we going?" When Peter saw Rykker open his mouth to respond, he held up his hand. "Kermit? Where are we going?"

"There's a cabin about a mile ahead." Griffin replied without turning around.

"And why are we going there?" Peter persisted.

After several long seconds of silence, Peter felt his earnest attempt at patience with the former mercenary slipping away. "Damn it, Kermit, stop treating me like a stowaway and fill me in. I'm part of his little excursion of yours, like it or not. I can't help if you keep on freezing me out like this."

Kermit continued to stare out the windshield in stony silence. Finally, Peter gave up and sat back in disgust. He saw Khan cast a puzzled glance at Kermit, then turn his attention back to the road with a frown. What the hell did I do to piss Kermit off like this? It's almost like he doesn't trust me.

The narrow rutted path that passed for a road suddenly ended, and the car slowly coasted to a stop. Just beyond their position, a small cabin could barely be seen through the trees, perched next to a slope that tapered down to a body of water. Peter reached for the door handle, only to be stopped by Rykker's hand on his shoulder.

"I think we need to talk before we go in." Peter turned around in his seat, realizing that Rykker's comments were directed at Kermit.

"You chitchat, Rykker." Kermit swung his door open and stepped out of the car. "I've got better things to do."

Peter jumped out, stumbling in his haste to catch his uncommunicative friend. He reached out, grabbed a handful of jacket, and swung Kermit around.

"Just tell me what the hell is wrong with you? I'm as worried about Paul as you are, you know."

"Look," Kermit growled, reaching up to roughly detach Peter's hand from his shoulder. "You're here, that's what you wanted, and I can't do anything about it now."

"I don't understand..."

"No, and it's better left that way." Kermit turned on his heel and started once again toward the house.

"You could at least tell me who lives here."

Griffin paused on the bottom step, and turned to face the barely restrained anger of his young friend. "This is Paul's cabin," he said in an emotionless monotone. " This is where he's been living for the past two years."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Kermit slowly pushed open the cabin door and stepped inside, an uncharacteristically silent Peter on his heels. The room was dark; it smelled of wood smoke and pipe tobacco, its dimensions concealed in shadow. As the others crossed the threshold, Kermit switched on a small table lamp near the front window, and everyone froze.

The cabin was in shambles. Heavy oak tables were overturned, sofa cushions lay haphazardly scattered across the scarred plank flooring, their upholstery slashed and the stuffing ripped out. Empty desk drawers protruded from their positions in the bookcase next to the fireplace. In the small kitchen adjoining the living room, the shelves sat empty, their contents broken and dumped carelessly in littered piles of broken pottery on the faded linoleum floor.

Kermit crossed the room, peering briefly into what appeared to be a small bedroom in the back of the cabin. "Same here, everything is trashed." He reappeared, reaching behind an overturned desk to retrieve the remains of a damaged laptop computer. He sat down on the massive stone fireplace, the computer balanced on his lap. It was obvious as soon as Kermit opened the cracked case that the machine had been damaged beyond repair. "Damn," he muttered as he slammed the case shut and shoved it away from him.

"He wouldn't have left anything on that for anyone to find," Rykker said from across the room.

"No, he wouldn't. Guess that why they got their panties all in a wad and trashed the place."

"And just who are they, Kermit?" Peter asked from the bedroom doorway, his hand tightly clenched around what Kermit recognized as a pair of Paul's reading glasses. "What were they looking for?"

"At the risk of sounding like a certain Shaolin of our mutual acquaintance, I do not know."

"That's bullshit, Kermit, and you know it." Peter advanced on the seated man, eyes blazing. "You know a hell of a lot more about what's going here than you're letting on."

Kermit rose and stood toe to toe with the angry cop. "I don't know what happened here, or where Paul is. That's what we're here to find out."

"But you knew where to come to look for him." Peter took a step backward and paced across the room. "You knew it, as soon as he stopped transmitting messages, you knew it." He stopped and stared back at his friend.

" You knew because YOU were the one he was sending the information to...right? Right?"

The room fell deathly silent. Khan and Rykker exchanged looks, wisely held their tongues and waited for Peter to continue. Kermit stood silently for a moment, then inclined his head.

"What if I was? Paul trusted me..."

"He trusted you to lie? To keep his family in the dark for over two years about whether he was alive or dead?" Peter 's voice rose hoarsely as he advanced on Kermit again. Khan stepped forward, his hand outstretched to grasp Peter's shoulder, but Kermit shook his head and Khan stepped back.

"You play your little spy games...you pretend to be such a good friend to our family, to Annie..." Peter hissed. "And all the while, you knew exactly where Paul was. You could have saved a lot of grief for Mom, if you had just told her..."

"What was I supposed to tell her?" Kermit took a step toward Peter. "That Paul was well and happy? He definitely wasn't happy." He took another step. "That he was miserable? What good would that do?" The two cops now stood face to face.

"If I had told her anything about where he was or what he was doing, he would kill me himself. That was why he left...to protect her. To protect all of you. But she knew he was okay, and she was satisfied with that."

"Unlike me."

Kermit turned back to the ruined computer. "Your words, not mine."

Peter leaned back against the sofa, drained and weary. He didn't want to fight with Kermit; he knew his friend's first and only concerns were for Paul. Kermit was in mercenary mode now, single minded and focused, as was the rest of their party. If he couldn't center himself and focus on the job at hand, Peter knew he would only be a liability to the rest of the team.

"You really don't know where he is now?"

Kermit glanced up at the sudden conciliatory tone in Peter's voice. "No, not yet."

"So he could be okay, just unable to contact you?"

"It's possible."

"But you don't think so."

Kermit sighed and slowly shook his head. "I just don't know, Peter. I wish I did."

"So what's the plan?"

"I'm sure it won't be long before someone notices our arrival." Kermit turned his attention back to the ruined laptop. "We wait, and let them come to us."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It took the remainder of the day to clean up the cabin; by early evening, Peter realized he was running on adrenaline alone. Bone tired, he stepped out on the small porch and gazed out toward the inviting tranquility of the river.

Dropping the last of the debris-filled garbage bags next to the steps, he trudged wearily across the grassy slope that led to the water. A small pier he hadn't noticed upon their arrival jutted out into the river. He cautiously tested each board before stepping out onto the next; the beams creaked in protest but held firm. Finally, he reached the end and eased himself down, his booted feet dangling over the green glass of the water below.

There was something about water...something that spoke to him of calmness, serenity...peace. It had always been a place he could retreat to; sometimes in the real world, sometimes in the world he created in his mind when life became too unpleasant to deal with at the moment. He was drawn to it, the way some people were drawn to drugs or alcohol to banish their demons, at least for a short while.

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Peter could envision Paul sitting in the same place, dressed in rumpled camping clothes, pipe clenched firmly between his teeth and fishing rod in hand. The mental picture was so strong that Peter's eyes snapped open, his heart hammering in his chest. He knew he had a long way to go to even come close to sensing things the way his father did. But this image was so clear and vivid; it was all he could do to resist the urge to turn and see if his foster father was really there on the pier with him.

The creak of a plank behind him brought Peter back to the present. He looked up into the afternoon sun to see the imposing figure of Master Khan gazing down at him.

"I wondered where you went," Khan said as he eased his large frame down beside Peter.

"Just admiring the view."

"This is a lovely place," Khan agreed. "Very peaceful." The two men sat in silence for a moment. The gentle lap of the water against the shore, combined with the comfortable warmth of the setting sun, reminded Peter of how long he had gone without sleep. At that moment, even the rough slats of the pier looked inviting enough for a long nap.

Khan glanced at the young man and seemed to guess his thoughts. "Why don't you come in and get some sleep? I think Kermit has plans for us tomorrow."

"Oh, really?" Peter wearily pushed himself to his feet and cast one more glance at the tranquil stream. " And did he happen to share those plans with you?"

Khan stopped the younger man's trek back across the pier with a hand on his shoulder. "Do you not trust Kermit?"

"Trust? Oh, yeah, I trust him. I just don't think he trusts me anymore, and I don't understand why."

"It's not a matter of trust, Peter. I think..." Khan paused, then turned toward the shore. " I think he's just weighing all the possibilities."

"What possibilities?"

Khan merely shrugged and stepped off the pier, the frost singed grass crackling under his feet.

"Oh, come on, Master...don't go cryptic on me," Peter called to the retreating figure. "You sound like my father now."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Khan smiled as he began the steep climb back to the cabin. With ease, the Shaolin priest climbed the hill without looking back.

I must have skipped the class at the temple on how to translate basic cryptonese. Peter signed and dutifully trudged up the slope to follow Khan back to his foster father's cabin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The pungent scent of burning pine filtered through the fog of exhaustion in Peter's brain as he blinked himself awake. He had finally fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep on the reconstructed sofa cushions within seconds of lying down. As he stretched the kinks from his cramped neck, he noticed the faint slivers of early morning sunlight filtering through the weather streaked windowpanes.

Through the frosted glass, he could see Master Khan's silhouette on the front porch, his head bowed in morning meditations. The soft sounds of muted voices in the kitchen area brought him to his senses; he rose stiffly from the sofa and tossed a splintered length of wood into the open fireplace before entering the kitchen.

Stepping through the doorway, Peter blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes and gingerly touched the side of the aluminum coffee pot on the stove. "Is this hot?"

Rykker nodded. "Help yourself."

Peter reached for one of the few unbroken cups on the low shelf and poured himself a cup of the strong, dark brew. He leaned back against the counter and wrapped his hands around the warmth of the cup, watching Kermit as he zipped shut a small knapsack and tightened the straps.

"Taking a trip?"

Kermit lifted the bag and slipped it over his shoulders, testing its balance. "Thought I'd take a walking tour of the countryside. I love the mountains this time of year."

Seeing an identical bag at Rykker's feet, Peter drummed his fingers against the sides of the cup. "Just the two of you?"

"For now," Rykker replied. "We had something else in mind for you."

"And what would that be?" Peter bristled, irritated at once again being left out of the loop. "Stay here and do the dishes?"

Kermit ignored the sarcastic comment as he headed toward the back door. "Go into town, get some supplies. Make sure you're noticed by as many people as possible." He paused with his hand on the rusted knob. "In fact, play it out all the way. If anyone asks, tell them you were supposed to meet your foster father here, but when you arrived, the cabin had been vandalized. If there's a local sheriff, file a report. Just don't go into what Paul may or may not have stumbled into up here. We don't know which way local law enforcement is leaning on this little group."

"Do I tell them I'm a cop?"

"I wouldn't. We need to draw them out, not send them into hiding. And,by the way, Paul was going by the name of Paul Baker here, not Blaisdell." With a nod, Kermit slipped out the back door with Rykker following closely behind.

Peter crossed the kitchen and watched the two men disappear into the woods, relieved to finally be contributing something to the mission. He heard the front door open; a few seconds later, Master Khan crossed the room silently and joined Peter at the window.

"Well, young Caine," Khan intoned in a conspiratorial tone. "Shall we go into the village and spook the natives?"

Peter glanced up at the imposing countenance of the priest who loomed over him. "You really think you need me for that?"

Khan clamped one hand on Peter's shoulder in a bone crushing grip. "Oh yeah."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter braced himself against the sun faded dashboard as the battered sedan rolled to a stop in front of what appeared to be the local town offices. Good thing Kermit wanted us to be noticed, he thought grimly as he shouldered the door open and climbed out. The Batmobile would get less attention than this thing.

Shielding his eyes from the mid morning glare, he scanned the narrow street. Lined with dusty pickup trucks and older model cars with flaking paint and faded bumper stickers, it looked like every small town he had ever seen. Life moved a step or two slower here, as if by ignoring the world outside, it could hold it at bay for just a while longer.

"Welcome to Mayberry," Khan's voice sounded in his ear.

"Looks like a peaceful little town, doesn't it?"

"So did Braniff," Khan replied. "Don't let appearances fool you. Every town has its secrets and its prejudices. I'm sure, if we dig deep enough, we'll find them here, too."

Peter turned on the older priest with a look of amazement. "I take back what I said yesterday," he said. "That didn't sound anything like my father."

"I know,' Khan sighed. "I should try not to be so cynical."

Peter reached for the door and peered inside the building. "You've been hanging around Kermit too long."

"Perhaps I have."

The two men entered the building and pushed open a glass paneled door labeled with a faded gold star stenciled in chipped gold paint. Three cumbersome oak desks filled most of the room, two of the desks unoccupied. The third desk sat behind a small divider and was manned by a slender middle aged woman in her late 40's, the clatter of her lacquered nails on a computer keyboard the only sound in the drafty, high ceilinged room.

"Yes, gentlemen, may I help you?" She glanced up from her monitor, her watery eyes flickering from Khan to Peter and then back to Khan again.

"Yes, I need to see the chief of police," Peter stated.

"The chief? We...we..." Her stutter increased as she unabashedly stared at the Shaolin's imposing bulk in the doorway. "... don't have a police chief...town's not big enough. This is the sheriff's office...maybe.. maybe, he can help you."

"And where is he?" Peter asked, his patience already growing thin with the flustered woman.

"Don't rightly know," she replied, recovering her composure as she turned back to her computer screen. "Have a seat and wait. I'm sure he'll be in soon."

"I don't have time to wait," Peter snapped. "Something has happened to my father..." He hesitated slightly at the term, then continued. "I need to talk to the sheriff right now."

"Who is your father?"

"Paul...Baker, " Peter tried not to falter on the unfamiliar name. "He lives in the cabin on the river."

The woman seems unmoved. "Did he have an accident?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know something has happened to him?"

"Because I can't find him and his cabin is wrecked to hell," Peter leaned over the Plexiglas divider for emphasis, his voice growing louder. "Get him on the radio. You do have radios in this piss-ant little town, don't you?"

The woman stiffened indignantly. "Yes, young man, we do...for emergencies only."

Khan stepped forward. The woman's eyes widened as his shadow darkened her desk. "We consider this an emergency," he intoned.

In any other circumstance, Peter would have found Khan's exaggerated intimidation act amusing. But the anger building in him at the woman's obvious indifference was genuine. If his foster father had truly lived nearby for the last two years, some of the townspeople had to know him, be acquainted with him to some degree. Now Paul had vanished, and life went on as usual. Something wasn't right here.

"Won't be necessary," the woman huffed as she gestured to the grimy window facing the street. "There he is now."

Peter blinked as a uniformed man unfolded himself from behind the wheel of a cruiser parked behind their car. He was at least as large as Khan, in build as well as musculature, and appeared to be just as well developed. Peter watched through the smudged glass as the sheriff paused behind their car, inclined his head to read the license plate, then continued into the building.

"This should be interesting," Khan muttered under his breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Twenty minutes later, the sheriff watched with hooded eyes as the impatient young man and his enigmatic Oriental companion got into their car and drove away. His secretary in turn watched him as he continued to stare out the window for a full minute after the vehicle was out of sight.

"Anything I can do for you, Sheriff?" she asked.

"No, Florence," he replied as he turned from the window and headed for his office. "Just free up line two and hold my calls for a while." He turned on his heel, entered his office, and was already reaching for the telephone before the heavy oak door shut behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Slanted rays of late afternoon sun glinted off the river's surface as Kermit and Rykker trudged out of the forest and into the back door of the cabin. Kermit passed his backpack to the older man and immediately headed for the now cold coffeepot. Hearing a sound in the other room, he paused at the sink, set down the pot and stepped to the living room doorway.

The sight was a familiar one. Peter was pacing the room, his stride heavy and his expression dour. Khan sat silently on a windowsill near the corner, hands folded serenely, his demeanor cloaked in impassive calm. It was a scene Kermit has witnessed many times with Peter and his father; the angry surf battering the impervious shore. Things had obviously not gone well in town.

"How was your shopping trip?" Kermit asked as he returned to the sink and filled the pot with cold water.

"Very enlightening," Peter snapped as he strode into the kitchen. " Like a scene out of 'The Land that Time Forgot'."

"Small town life, nothing like it," Kermit smirked as he placed the silver pot on the stove. "Did you talk to the local police?"

"Yeah, for all the good it did." Peter dropped into a chair and shook his head."He acted as if we were looking for a lost puppy. Didn't show the least bit interested that a man from his jurisdiction had vanished."

"Same thing with the rest of the town," Khan offered from the doorway. "Went to the drugstore, the local hardware, post office. No one we talked to would admit they had even heard of a Paul Baker in these parts."

"Even the police?" Rykker asked.

"Oh, the sheriff said he recognized the name...said he hadn't seen him for months." Peter jumped up and started pacing again. "The whole town can't be that closemouthed."

"Oh, sure they can," Kermit said. "If they're intimidated by something big enough. And they don't know you from Adam. If they started talking to outsiders, well...anyone could be listening."

"So, it looks like we're not going to get any help from the locals," Peter said, slamming his hand on the doorframe in frustration.

"I never expected we would." Kermit said as he lifted several chipped coffee cups from the drainer next to the sink. "But they know you're here now, so let's see where that takes us."

"What did you and Rykker find on your little 'walkabout'?" Peter asked as he accepted a cup of steaming brew from Kermit and sat back down again.

"Exactly what Paul said we would find. A compound, small but well guarded, minimal security but enough to keep out the wandering hunter or curious neighbor."

"How close did you get?" Peter asked.

"Not close enough." Rykker reached for his own cup and warmed his hands around the sides. "But we will."

"When?" Peter asked, leaning forward, his cooling coffee forgotten.

"Soon."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Fireflies glittered like stardust fairies against the blanket of darkness that surrounded the isolated cabin. The crackle of a roaring fire carried to Peter's ears as he sat on the cabin's front steps, oblivious to the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the night.

Nightfall had come quickly, stealing away what little warmth the autumn sunshine could provide. With the sunset had come the disheartening knowledge that a second day had now gone by, and they were no closer to finding out what had happened to Paul Blaisdell than they were on their arrival.

His restlessness had led him to explore the cabin again, even though the four of them had searched every nook and cranny the day before. Peter didn't know exactly what he was looking for; he just knew he needed to do something to vent the frustration that was growing stronger by the hour. After prowling around the cabin for more than an hour, seeing what remained of his foster father's possessions and clothing scattered about became more than he could handle. He had felt the gazes of each of his companions on his retreating back as he had finally stalked out of the cabin, headed for the river and the solitude it provided.

The advancing darkness and plummeting temperatures soon sent him back up the steep bank to the inviting warmth of the cabin. But he settled instead on the rickety wooden steps outside, his emotions still too inflamed to return to the company of his friends.

The small house reminded him too much of another cabin, in another place, another lifetime. A larger, more comfortable structure that smelled of wood smoke and wild flowers. The flowers were a tradition with Annie. Even though she couldn't see them, she always applauded his sisters' efforts to forage the nearby woods for the makings of a bouquet that would make the family cabin feel more like home. She always knew when he and Paul neglected to shed their muddy boots at the door after a day of fishing on the lake. She always sensed the changes in the weather that signaled the approach of a sudden summer thunderstorm, and made sure her family was safe and dry inside the cabin long before its arrival.

She always knew, Peter thought to himself with a wistful smile as a dragonfly whispered around his ear. Kermit said she knows Paul is all right. So why don't I feel that way? A sudden gust of frigid air whistled across the narrow porch, sending a shiver through the young man's bones. I hope she's right...I hope she doesn't know what's happening now. He leaned his head against the railing and stared out into the night. "If he's here, Mom," he whispered into the wind, "I'm gonna find him. I promise you that. I'm not going home without him...not this time...not ever."

He closed his eyes in a silent prayer to the One to watch out over the soul of the man he loved more than anyone except his own flesh and blood father. Then he climbed slowly to his feet, opened the cabin door and accepted its invitation of warmth as he stepped inside and quietly shut the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The four men agreed to rotate 90-minute shifts of sentry duty throughout the night, with Kermit scheduled to relieve Peter just before dawn. As he sat huddled under a frayed woolen blanket near the front door, Peter could hear the constant clatter of the computer expert's keys inside the cabin as he alternated typing and softly swearing at the minuscule screen.

Leaning back against the rough boards of the cabin's front wall, he stared out into the darkness, shivering in the predawn chill. A moment later, Peter realized the keyboard had fallen silent; only a rhythmic chorus of frogs and crickets broke the stillness of the crisp mountain air. He sensed his friend's approach a second before the front door swung open and Kermit stepped out into the darkness.

"Changing of the guard," Kermit announced as he wearily settled down on the other side of Peter's position by the door. "Go get some sleep."

"Turn up anything on your computer?"

"Nope."

Peter shifted under the blanket, but made no move to go inside. "Would you share it with me if you did?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You tell me, Kermit. You've been treating me like the imbecile stepchild ever since I showed up at the airport back home."

"You're imagining things," Kermit replied tersely as he removed the Desert Eagle from his waistband and laid it carefully across his lap.

"Expecting trouble?"

Kermit turned his head toward the gentle wash of the river against the pier. "You can never be too careful."

"Is that why you didn't want me along? Being careful?" When he received no reply, Peter suddenly pushed himself to his feet, the blanket dropping to the rough plank floor. "What happened to him, Kermit?"

Kermit continued staring out toward the black shadow of the river just beyond the cabin's muted circle of light. "If I knew, do you think I'd be sitting here discussing it with you?"

"Then what do you think happened?"

Kermit slowly rose to his feet, his weapon gripped tightly in his gloved hand. "Keep your voice down. There's..."

"Someone out there," Peter finished for him, his voice almost a whisper. "I feel it, too."

Both men stepped back into the shadows of the cabin's front wall, barely breathing. Kermit slid closer to Peter, their shoulders barely touching. "I don't know what you feel, but I heard something near the water...and listen. What do you hear?"

"Nothing," Peter answered after a pause, reaching under his jacket for his own weapon.

"Exactly. No crickets, no frogs...just things that go bump in the night."

"I'll go around back and come up on the riverbank that way," Peter whispered to where Kermit had been standing a moment before. But in the time it had taken him to glance down at his coat and retrieve his gun, Kermit had slipped off the porch and into the murky darkness beyond. Damn, he's good, Peter thought as he lowered himself down to the ground on the opposite end of the front porch and slipped into the cover of the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The predawn darkness enveloped Peter like a shroud as he crept silently around the cabin, keeping his back to the wall as he approached the rear corner. A heavy fog had rolled in from the river, lowering a curtain of opaque mist between his crouched position and the woods beyond.

Peter paused, temporarily disoriented. It was not the environment a city cop was accustomed to...no street lights or familiar landmarks, only total darkness and an unnatural silence. He listened intently for anything that might give away the location of the intruder. He heard nothing.

Two options here, Caine, he told himself as he attempted to peer through the darkness without can stay here and wait, or you can step out from cover and see what happens. He tightened his grip on the familiar Beretta, took a deep breath and made his decision.

Just as he moved to step away from the building, a movement in his peripheral vision froze Peter in his tracks. A shadow, its form hidden by both distance and darkness, moved from one vaguely outlined tree to the next, in the general vicinity where Kermit had disappeared minutes before. Peter moved back against the rough wood of the cabin, sliding the weapon into the waistband of his jeans as he did so. He couldn't see well enough to use the gun; for all he knew, the wraithlike form moving through the shadows could have been Kermit. Or it could have been his imagination.

Leaning back against the rough hewn wall. Peter took a deep breath, closed his eyes and let his senses drift. In his mind's eye, he could see Kermit, hidden behind a massive tree trunk, glaring into the dark curtain of fog that surrounded him. And then he saw the other man, dressed in black, creeping silently along the tree line toward his friend's position.

Peter opened his eyes and searched the mist for the towering oak he had seen in his mind. He could barely see it through the billowing fog, its trunk no more than a vague shadow as it towered over the neighboring pines. Leaning into a crouch, he took off at a half run toward the location of the intruder as he had seen it in his vision.

Unable to disguise the sound of his approach across the deep carpet of the forest's floor, Peter decided that surprise was a better weapon in this situation than stealth. He reached the tree line and never slowed down. Within seconds, he saw his target as the man began to turn, a startled look of surprise crossing his features a split second before Peter tackled him and slammed him down face-first onto the cold, soggy ground.

"Don't move," Peter growled as the man struggled underneath him. He twisted one arm behind the man's back and pinned him down with his knee. "I said, don't move."

Kermit's silhouette appeared out of the fog as he slowly surveyed the area for other prowlers, then turned his attention to the man in the dirt at his feet. "And who do we have here?" He nudged the prone figure with one mud encrusted boot.

"I need...need to...talk to...you," the man gasped between grimaces as he tried to catch his breath.

Kermit knelt down on one knee and studied their captive's face intently. "I think that can be arranged," he replied as he reached down, helped Peter drag the muddied man to his feet and unceremoniously dragged him toward the back door of the cabin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Kermit kicked a wooden chair out from underneath the kitchen table, and none too delicately pushed their unannounced visitor into it. Rykker watched without comment from the far wall, while Master Khan filled the doorway with his imposing presence. Peter closed the back door, leaning against it to block any possible avenue of escape.

Kermit circled the chair and glared down at the man. "Why don't we introduce ourselves?" he growled. "You first."

"Campbell," the man snapped as he brushed mud caked leaves from his hair."Eric Campbell. Your turn."

"I suppose you have I.D."

"Sure." He reached into his rear pocket, pulled out a faded wallet and tossed it upon the table. Kermit picked it up, opened it and quickly compared the picture on the driver's license to the man seated in front of him.

"It doesn't do me justice," Campbell said, his eyes casually scanning the room and the men whose eyes were fixed on him with varying expressions of curiosity. He extended his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Kermit snapped the wallet shut and returned it to him.

"You want to tell us why you were sneaking around outside in the middle of the night?" Peter asked.

"Well, I couldn't very well drive up to your front door during the day, could I, Griffin?" He met the mercenary's stony gaze with a rock steady one of his own. "You are Kermit Griffin, aren't you? Your description fits you perfectly, right down to the shades."

Kermit's expression was unreadable behind his ever present green glasses. Only the slight tilt of his head gave any indication that the man's words had carried to Kermit's ears at all. Finally, he turned away from the man's position, shucking his overcoat as he reached for the now lukewarm coffeepot.

"You know this man, Kermit?" Rykker's voice sounded from across the room.

"No. But Paul did...does," he corrected himself as he put on a fresh pot of coffee. "Campbell is the undercover agent Paul was working with." He turned and fixed Campbell with a look that left no room for argument. "And he's the man that's going to help us find him."

"Finding him isn't the problem," Campbell replied. "I know where he is. Getting him out, now that's going to be the problem."

Khan stepped into the room and approached the man's chair. "You know where he is?"

"Yes. He's inside the camp where I've been living for the past three months."

"A prisoner?" Peter asked.

"Yes."

"Why? Why are they holding him?"

Campbell wiped away a trickle of muddy water that trailed down his temple. He rose and motioned to the sink. "May I?"

Kermit stepped back with an exaggerated bow and allowed the muddied man to approach the deep porcelain sink. The occupants of the room waited patiently for him to rinse the dirt from his hands and face before continuing.

"The head honcho of this little 'group' I'm working with is a guy named Gregory Dawson." He turned from the sink, wiping his hands as he glanced at each of them in turn. "Real anti-government extremist, a card carrying member of the lunatic fringe. Thinks Timothy McVeigh should be nominated for sainthood."

Kermit leaned against the counter, armed crossed against his chest. "Is this Dawson guy following in his hero's footsteps?"

"He's trying to. His operation started out small, but he's beginning to build a reputation around the mountains. This is a perfect area for clusters of extremist groups to base their operations; it's isolated, rugged country, and the natives usually keep to themselves."

"Hence the lack of any real security around the camp." Rykker smiled at the surprised expression on the young agent's face. "We've already checked it out."

"Don't let appearances fool you. What they lack in modern security equipment, they more than make up for in firepower and muscle. That's how Paul got caught."

"What do they plan to do with him?" Peter asked, his question echoing the thoughts of each of his companions.

"At first, they planned to kill him." Campbell saw Peter's anxious expression, and quickly continued. "Then Dawson decided to sit on him for a while, see if anyone came looking for him. That was the only way he would know for sure if any sensitive information had been leaked out. If so, he could just pull up stakes and set up business in another remote area. That's why they came here and tore up this place. They were looking for evidence that Paul was spying on them."

"Did they find anything?"

"Not a damn thing. Frustrated the hell out of Dawson, too."

"And where were you when all this was going on?" Kermit asked.

"Had to make a run to the coast to pick up some equipment that Dawson's been trying to score for months. I got back yesterday, and heard some of the men crowing about their first 'prisoner of war.'"

"Conveniently absent when an innocent bystander needed your help. Campbell...or whoever you are...you weave a delightful story," Kermit said as he pushed away from the counter and began pacing the room. "But you've gotta do better than that. You sneak up here in the middle of the night...and you knew we were here, so this wasn't your first trip to spy on us. How am I doing so far?"

"I did know you were here," Campbell admitted.

"The picture on the driver's license is worthless, as far as I.D. goes. My twelve year old niece can get a fake I.D. any day of the week in her junior high gym class." The mercenary stopped directly in front of the man's position by the sink. "For all we know, you could be Dawson's right-hand man, sent here to check us out. The real Campbell could be lying at the bottom of a canyon somewhere. Why should we believe any of this? Why should we believe that you've even met our mutual friend?"

Campbell returned his stony glare for a moment, then turned and stepped over to Peter. "Because I recognize you. You're his son, aren't you?"

Before Peter could respond, Kermit stepped up beside him. "How'd you know? Family resemblance, perhaps?"

"No," Campbell smiled at Kermit's obvious attempt to snare him in a lie, then turned his attention back to Peter. "Because you're his foster son. He showed me a picture once...said it was the family he left behind. Never could get him to open up about why he was living up here alone. But he always liked to talk about all of you. I gathered that he wasn't living up here in the middle of nowhere because he preferred it."

"No, he wasn't," Peter said softly. "So, when do we get him out?"

"Sorry," the young agent replied. "Can't help you there."

"What?" Peter asked incredulously.

"You guys are on your own. I took a big enough chance just coming here tonight." He moved to Peter's left as if to push past him on his way to the back door. Before his hand could close around the knob, Campbell suddenly found himself propelled backward. His back crashed against the unforgiving plaster of the kitchen wall where he remained helplessly pinned by Peter's arm across his throat.

"I suggest you reconsider," Kermit emphasized his statement by pressing the barrel of the Desert Eagle into the soft space just below the gasping man's right ear. "Your playmates are not the only ones with a little firepower, but I'd prefer a neat and clean retrieval if at all possible. Besides, you owe him. He risked his life on your assignment. The least you can do is help us get him out of it."

Campbell's eyes grew larger as he struggled for breath. "I can't," he wheezed. "Not without blowing my cover,months of work..."

"You're not paying attention," Peter hissed, tightening his grip on the man's throat ever so slightly. "We couldn't care less about your cover, or your mission, or the tight asses in suits that you work for back in D.C. You just find us a way in, we'll get Paul out and you can carry on with your little game."

"Not going to be that easy," Campbell said, refusing to meet Peter's eyes.

"Sure it is, "Kermit said. "I've already recon'd the place. Security is laughable at best."

"It's not that."

Kermit and Peter exchanged uneasy glances. Kermit removed the weapon from Campbell's neck; after a long moment, Peter released his grip on the agent's throat as well.

"Explain, " Kermit said, the gun still cradled in his right hand.

"I want to get him out, I swear to God I do." The young man was obviously sweating now, despite the cool environment of the cabin. "That's why I came here tonight. I wanted you to know where he was, so you could get him out. But..."

Peter was beginning to feel an ominous sense of dread that he couldn't explain. "But what?"

"Something big is about to go down. The men are antsy, real antsy. I keep hearing talk about 'the mission', that they're all ready to go with it. Security is tight and every man's got his finger on the trigger right now. A stray bunny couldn't get in there unnoticed."

"Do you know what they plan to do with Blaisdell?" Kermit asked.

"I don't think they know what to do with him. But they're gonna have to decide soon. They know he's seen and heard too much; they can't afford to let him go now."

"And you just left him there?"

"Yes, dammit, I left him there." Campbell shoved Peter away and stepped away from the wall. "I knew I couldn't get him out alone. I knew I had to take a chance that you people really were here to help him. So back off; you wouldn't even know where to look if it wasn't for me."

Peter shook off Kermit's hand on his shoulder as he advanced on the agent. "And he wouldn't be in this mess to begin with, if it wasn't for you." The two men now stood toe-to-toe, the agent's composure now firmly back in place while Peter's was rapidly falling apart. "Paul is not in the business anymore. You put his life in danger when you dragged him into this little mission of yours."

Campbell held Peter's furious gaze for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder at Kermit. "I see you didn't tell him everything, did you?"

Peter turned and fixed his gaze on the now silent mercenary, his expression shifting from surprise to accusation. "Tell me what, Kermit?"

"I told you everything you need to know."

"The hell you have." Peter's eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger. "You've been playing your little secret agent games ever since this whole thing started, and you've done everything you could to keep me out of the loop." He took a step toward Kermit. "And I want to know why."

"And like I told you before, you're imagining things. The only thing that's important right is getting into that camp and getting Paul out." He pushed past Peter, reached into his backpack and retrieved a legal pad. Tossing it onto the table, he shoved a pen into Campbell's hand.

"We've seen the camp from the outside. What we need is a map of the layout on the inside."

"Yeah, okay." The agent cast an uneasy glance at Peter before pulling out a chair and sitting down. After a long moment, Peter relaxed his clenched fists, glaring first at Kermit's profile, then at the agent in undisguised distrust.

"The property is an old, abandoned home place that Dawson picked up at a tax auction for a song." Campbell said as he sketched a rudimentary map of the countryside. "The river is here...and here..." he penciled in a large rectangular box, "Here are the property boundaries. They're enclosed with barbed wire and regular farm-style fencing, nothing more. The outbuildings and barns were structurally pretty sound, so all he had to do was reinforce a roof here, a wall there."

Rykker and Khan joined Peter and Kermit as they watched the agent's crude pencil drawing begin to take shape. "This," he pointed to a small box inside the larger one, "This is the main building. Sleeping quarters for Dawson and his lieutenants, for want of a better term. The rest of the men sleep here," he drew a smaller rectangle just behind the main building.

'How many men does Dawson have?" Rykker asked.

"Varies. At any given time, there may be as few as eight or as many as twenty. Some guys live there full-time and work for Dawson. The others have jobs outside the group and only come in on weekends. Tonight I counted sixteen, including myself."

"Security?" Peter asked.

"Pretty lax, actually." Campbell continued to detail the crude map as he spoke. "No surveillance cameras or electrified fences, no booby-traps. Just good old, all American firepower, and he's got a hell of a lot of that. Every man in the place is armed to the teeth."

"He's pretty cocky, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he is. He grew up in this part of the mountains, he knows the people around here keep to themselves and mind their own business. Hell, half the county knows what Dawson's doing up there, but no one is about to get involved. A little intimidation goes a long way when you've got the muscle to back it up."

"And just what is he doing up there?" Rykker asked.

"I'm sorry, that's classified." Campbell glanced around the room, then held up a hand in explanation. "Dawson's operation is my problem, not yours. I'll do whatever I can to help you get Blaisdell out, short of blowing my cover. The only reason he's still alive is that he was carrying a camera when he got caught, and Dawson wants to know who he's working for. Of course, Paul's not saying anything, so Dawson's men came up here and tossed this place. Trouble was, they couldn't find one shred of evidence that Paul was anything more than what he claimed to be, just an older man who lived alone in this cabin and who had stumbled onto their camp by accident. Now they can't let him go, not until they finish whatever it is they're planning."

He looked at each man in turn. "I have a feeling that things are about to come to a head as far as their plans go. Dawson's wound tighter than a cheap watch spring right now, and nobody's saying anything...very closemouthed."

"Would it be safe to say," Peter ventured, "that this Dawson fellow is the type that would park rental trucks full of certain explosive chemicals in front of certain government buildings?"

"It would be a very safe bet," Campbell said, meeting Peter's eyes. "He's a very dangerous man."

Kermit peered over his shades at the young agent. "You've been with this group for months now, and you still don't know what's going down?"

Campbell shook his head. "This guy is textbook paranoid schizophrenic. He trusts absolutely no one; even his right hand men don't know what's what from one day to the next. Dawson carries it all..." he tapped his own head, "... right here."

Pushing the notepad across the vinyl tablecloth, he circled a small box near the northern perimeter of the map. "This building, directly behind the largest out-building, is where Blaisdell is being held. There's one guard on the door, but he's there to keep Blaisdell in, not to keep anyone else out. If you come in over the north fence, you'll be within sight of the building. You can't miss it; it's the only two-story barn out there."

Campbell leaned back in the ladderback chair with a sigh. "And,just in case you haven't figured it out already, don't count on local law enforcement for help. The sheriff and Dawson are old hunting and fishing buddies; I'm pretty sure he lives very comfortably in Dawson's back pocket."

Kermit studied the map, running his fingers over the penciled lines as if committing them to memory. "We're going to need a diversion."

Campbell stood suddenly, the wooden chair crashing unheeded to the floor. "Have you heard a word I said? If I help you, and they find out..."

"If you don't help us, I'll make sure they find out. I can reach every newspaper and television station within a hundred miles in less than an hour. I'm sure there's plenty of headline-hungry reporters out there who would love a piece of this story."

The agent stared at Kermit, then at the other three men in turn. "You can't do this, Griffin. You're interfering in a federal investigation."

"I don't answer to your federal flyboys; I have my own code. Of course, there is another choice here." The Desert Eagle suddenly reappeared in Kermit's hand. "Terminate your mission."

"I can't..."

Kermit strode forward and jammed the barrel into the man's chest. "I can't tell you how tired I am of hearing you say that." He punctuated each sentence with another sharp jab to the younger man's breastbone. "Here's your chance to be a real hero. You know that compound up close and personal. You can show us where we need to go, take us to the building where Blaisdell's being held. He's running out of time and I'm running out of patience."

"If you think you've been compromised, then we'll get you out safely as well," Rykker offered in his usual implacable tone. "Your cover might already be blown; you can't be sure you weren't followed here tonight."

Campbell considered Rykker's suggestion as well as the weapon still leveled at his chest. "What's to keep me from leaving here tonight and forgetting I ever saw any of you?"

"Your conscience," Peter replied.

"And what about your conscience, Griffin?"

"I don't have one."

Campbell blew out a long breath and leaned against the counter. "Oh, hell, I've had enough of those swaggering bastards, anyway. And besides, my wife would love to have me home for Thanksgiving. One phone call and I can have the ATF team down here to back us up."

"Nope, not going to work that way," Kermit said.

"Why not? We're going to be outnumbered at least three to one."

Griffin placed the weapon away with a loud sigh. "I've seen how those adrenaline junkies work. They'll roll into that camp with all the finesse of a dying bull. First we get Blaisdell out, then you can call in the cavalry."

Campbell slowly nodded. "Okay. But I hope you've got more than that elephant gun if you're going against these guys."

"What, you don't think I could hold them off with this?" Kermit patted the gun under his jacket. "Don't worry, we came prepared."

"We did?" Peter asked with a sidelong glance at the others.

Master Khan draped an arm around Peter's shoulder and gave him an affectionate shake. "You didn't think they brought me along for my stunning good looks, did you?" When Peter wisely chose not to answer, Khan squeezed the detective's arm in a nerve deadening grip. "You can't stage a proper dragonswing without proper preparation, young Caine."

"Two hours until daylight," Kermit muttered as he headed for the living room. "Time to rock and roll."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Frost crackled beneath their feet as the five men exited the cabin an hour later. The first faint rays of sunrise had yet to penetrate the icy mist that hovered just below the treetops, so they had to depend on carefully shielded flashlights to light the way. Khan took the lead, keys jingling in his hand, with Kermit and Campbell following closely behind. Peter matched his stride to Rykker's as they approached the car.

"This is a bad idea." Peter hissed. " Bringing Campbell along, I mean. We don't even know him. I'm still not entirely sure we can trust him."

"I suppose we have to trust him," Rykker replied. "To a point." He slowed and placed a hand on Peter's coat sleeve. " One lesson I learned in this business is never to trust someone else more than you trust yourself."

Peter nodded. "My father told me once that if you trust yourself, any choice you make will be the correct one."

"A valuable bit of wisdom," Rykker said as he and Peter fell back in step behind the rest of the party. "Trust your feelings, Peter. Keep your eyes open and watch your back."

The group halted as Khan reached the car, unlocked the trunk and popped the latch. He effortlessly lifted out the spare tire with one beefy hand and tossed it on the frozen ground. Hooking two fingers into notches on either side of the trunk, he lifted out what appeared to be a false floor. Peter let out a suppressed whistle and stepped forward to examine the contents of the compartment hidden inside the body of the car.

"You weren't kidding when you said you came prepared," Campbell's voice sounded behind him. An assortment of semi-automatic pistols, M-16's and other assorted and most probably highly illegal armature, along with a healthy supply of ammunition, filled the well. Peter cast an astonished look in Master Khan's direction.

Khan shrugged in a Caine-like gesture. "I know...not very Shaolin of me, is it?"

"These boys aren't your average Chinatown street slugs," Kermit said as he checked the clip on a rifle, then handed it to Rykker. "We're invading their sandbox, so we better bring our own toys." He held out a rifle to Khan, who shook his head.

"Take it."

"I won't use it," Khan stated. "My skills lie in other areas."

Kermit glowered at the obstinate priest. "I appreciate your kung fu skills, I really do. But unless you're the Shaolin equivalent of Superman, you better be able to defend yourself. And you damn well better be able to watch my back."

Khan returned his stare, then reached into the trunk and retrieved a oversized hunting knife. He slipped the sheathed weapon under his jacket, then turned back to Kermit. "Satisfied?"

"Immensely."

"You said you've already recon'd the camp?" Campbell asked as he slipped a pistol into his waistband and pocketed several clips of extra ammo. "How did you get there? Through the woods?"

"Trekked northeast about two miles, maybe a bit more."

"There's a faster way."

"The river?" Rykker asked.

Campbell nodded. "Taking the land route meant you had to follow the shoreline until you found a place shallow enough to cross, right? If you cross right here," he pointed to the black water just beyond where they stood, "You can get there and back in half the time."

"For that, we'd need a boat," Peter stated.

"I have a boat. That's how I got here tonight. I told the guys back at the camp I was going night fishing; I do that a lot. That's how Paul and I would rendevous to exchange information."

"How big?"

"Not big enough for all of us, I'm afraid."

"So what are you suggesting?" Peter took a step toward the agent. "Splitting up? Not a good idea. Forget it."

"Maybe that's not a bad idea." Kermit said as he passed out the last of the weapons and ammunition. Closing the trunk firmly, he leaned against it. "Two groups go in; one to divert attention and one to get to Paul." Kermit saw the involuntarily tightening of Peter's jaw. "That is, unless you have a better idea."

Peter fixed his gaze on the young agent, but directed his words to Griffin. "Okay. But he stays with me. We take the boat across the river, meet the three of you on the other side. He gets us in, takes me to Paul, we get him out. And you..." he took another step toward Campbell, emphasizing his words. "You do not leave my sight."

"What the hell is wrong with you, Caine? I came here tonight of my own free will, didn't I? I most likely blew my own cover, terminated a three month assignment, to help you get Blaisdell back."

"Whaddya want, a bouquet of flowers?" Peter replied through clenched teeth. "If you hadn't dragged Paul into this in the first place..."

Campbell's reply was cut short by the figure of the imposing figure of Master Khan, as he stepped between the two men and glared at each of them in turn. "Enough. It doesn't matter who did what to whom. We have a job to do, and the sun is coming up."

"Fine. Then let's do it." Peter slung the strap of his weapon across his shoulder and stalked away toward the haze shrouded bank of the black river.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Campbell asked again, to no one in particular.

"He doesn't trust you." Kermit hefted his own rifle and started off toward the cover of the woods in the distance. "He thinks you're responsible for putting Paul's life in danger."

"But we both know that's not true, don't we, Griffin?"

Kermit stopped and slowly turned to face Campbell, his expression as blank as the lenses that hid his eyes. "Here's what I know. I know that you better stay close to Peter, you better watch his back, and you damn well better get him and his foster father out of that camp in one piece. Anything less than that, and I won't be responsible for what happens to you. Is that understood?" He turned on his heel without waiting for a response, Rykker and Khan close on his heels.

Campbell stared after them in the darkness until their forms vanished into the mist. With a sigh, he checked the clip on his weapon and quickly followed Peter's tracks down the incline toward the river beyond.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ By the time the agent reached the cypress root where he had secured the boat's mooring line, Peter was already there, pacing impatiently near the water's edge. "How did you know where I hid the boat?"

"I..." Peter hesitated, then shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," Campbell replied as the two of them climbed in and pushed away from the shore.

" I saw it. The same way I saw you coming through the woods tonight."

"Not possible. You couldn't have seen me. It was pitch black and the fog was so thick I couldn't see two feet in front of me." Campbell moved to the rear of the small boat and gave several tugs on a cord connected to a small outboard engine. After the third pull, the motor coughed to life, sputtered, then settled into a sporadic drone.

"Sometimes you have to see with more than your eyes," Peter replied as he eased himself down onto the damp floor of the fishing boat behind the driver's seat, out of sight.

"Excuse me?"

"Forget it." Peter replied as he watched the cabin slowly fade into the shadows still blanketing the shoreline. A sudden chill sent icy shivers down his neck; pulling his jacket tightly around him, he stared into the mist that hovered over the murky waters.

Something didn't feel right, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what that something was. Kermit's reluctance to have him come along on the rescue attempt, his uncharacteristic change of attitude toward Peter in general...and Campbell's obvious familiarity with Griffin, which Kermit still denied. When added to the anxiety over Paul's safety and the questionable loyalties of their new teammate...All of it tallied up to a nagging question mark in the young detective's mind.

Kermit's about-face in attitude bothered Peter more than he liked to admit. They had been through more than one unusual experience together, standing side by side against men that could morph into serpents, madmen out to rule the world, spirits searching for peace in their own unearthly world. Kermit, albeit reluctantly, had accepted Peter's Shaolin heritage and the strange phenomena often attached to it. And Peter in turn felt he had accepted Kermit's past life as part of who the man was now, just as he knew Paul had shared that secretive life at one time as well. There had never been a time when he had felt anything less than total trust and support from the inscrutable man known as Kermit Griffin...until now. Something had changed, some piece in the puzzle was missing, and try as he might, Peter could not fathom what it was.

The boat lurched as Campbell throttled the engine down to a slow crawl. Peter fought the urge to peer over his shoulder at their destination, choosing instead to hunch down further into the hull of the boat to avoid being seen by anyone watching from the shore.

"We're still about a half mile from the camp," the agent said as he cut the engine. "There's no way we can be seen from here."

"Unless there's someone watching from the woods."

"Well, you're the one with night vision," Campbell hissed back at him. "Is anyone watching us?"

Peter concentrated for a moment, not bothering to turn toward the shoreline. "No, no one's there."

"You didn't even turn around and look."

"I didn't have to," Peter shot back. He waited impatiently until Campbell had secured the boat to a small pier similar to the one they had just left on the other side of the river, then he leapt from the bow and strode onto the weathered planks. "How long will it take the others to get here?"

"Another...oh, ten minutes, probably."

"The sun will be up by then," Peter grumbled.

"Can't be helped."

"And then a half mile walk through the woods to the camp?"

"That's what I said." Campbell turned his back to Peter, his gaze flickering nervously from the river to the woods and back again. Finally he sat down heavily on the front seat, steadying himself against the gentle rocking of the current against the small boat. "You really think you can pull this off?"

Peter stopped his measured pacing and turned to glare at him. "I know we can."

"You've done this kind of thing before, then?"

"As Kermit would say, oh yeah."

Campbell picked up a strand of broken fishing line from the hull and twisted it in his hands. "You and Griffin, you're friends?"

Peter turned his attention back to the line of trees near the shore. "Yes."

"Could have fooled me."

Peter stopped in front of Campbell again. "You know Kermit, don't you?"

"Nope," the agent shook his head. "We've never met."

"I don't believe you. You knew who he was back at the cabin. You called him by name."

Campbell tossed the tattered wire into the water and climbed out of the boat. "Chalk that up to Paul's vivid description." He checked the mooring line once more, then straightened. "Paul told me that, if he ever needed someone, Kermit would be the one who would come. He described him to me perfectly. That's how I knew who he was."

Peter turned away and walked slowly to the end of the pier. "Kermit's known all along where he was."

"And you didn't?"

"No."

"I'm sorry..."

Peter whirled and advanced on the agent. "Look, I don't want to hear how sorry you are. I just want to get in there and get Paul out of this mess you've gotten him into."

"It isn't like that, Peter..." The remainder of his attempted explanation was interrupted by the arrival of the rest of their party, soaked to the skin to mid-chest level and looking none too happy about it. Peter strode away from Campbell without a word and joined the others at the treeline, while the agent once again found himself playing catch-up and wondering what the hell was going on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Gregory Dawson was not a patient man. Indecisiveness had never been one of his faults; he had always prided himself on knowing what he wanted and doing whatever it took to get it. It had served him well growing up in the shadow of the Appalachian Mountains, where life was hard and opportunities were few. It had enabled him to survive two tours of duty in Vietnam. Those harrowing years had taught him that, to get what you wanted from people, first you had to get their attention. Words could be ignored; rhetoric and empty promises turned his stomach. He preferred action, the kind of action that demanded a reaction, that turned people's heads.

The group of men that looked to him for leadership now were both his crowning achievement and his cross to bear. He had plans...plans that one man, no matter how ambitious, simply could not carry out alone. There were simply too many wrongs to right. Word of mouth had led this handpicked group of disenchanted men to him; he knew without a doubt it was his destiny to lead them into history. All of his plans had progressed without a hitch; the money had been there when he needed it, his followers were loyal and their location was isolated and secure. Or it had been, up until a few days ago.

Now, as he stood at the frost veiled window and stared out across the dimly lit compound, he knew he had made a mistake. It came in the form of one man, one solitary man with a camera and an unshakable explanation of who he was and why he was where he shouldn't have been...the one loose thread that could unravel all of his plans. Just one man...A man with a totally believable story. That is, until you looked into his eyes, and saw no fear, no weakness, no emotion. Those were not the eyes of a harmless recluse, wandering aimlessly around the woods.

Those eyes were the eyes of a thousand men he had seen on battlefields, both foreign and spiritual. Life's vacuum had a way of suctioning the life out of the best of men, and the eyes were the last portal to whatever spark might remain. This man had run the gauntlet, had seen too much of the world ,and the spark was gone. The first time Dawson had looked into this man's eyes, he knew that he was facing the source of his own undoing.

Dawson turned away from the window and lit a cigarette. In the jungle, he wouldn't have thought twice about eliminating any threat immediately. Survival meant you or them, and no one questioned your actions. Here, however, it was different. Local law enforcement was not a problem, but stepping on the wrong toes could draw unwanted attention, and that seemed to be what his temporary indecision about the fate of their visitor had brought upon him. The sheriff had alerted him to the group of men that had arrived in search of their missing friend. One new arrival would not have concerned him, but these four appeared to be more of a search and rescue unit than merely a group of concerned city bumpkins searching for a lost uncle.

The forgotten cigarette trailed a blue film of smoke into the air as Dawson snatched his overcoat from the back of his chair and headed toward the door. He inhaled the sharp cold draft of air that greeted him as he stepped out onto the narrow porch and gestured to his Arabic second in command.

"Hakkim, we have less than twelve hours to complete our plans. Where do we stand?"

"We are on schedule," the dark skinned man replied, his thick accent accentuating the preciseness of his reply. "There is one detail which only you can take care of. You know this."

Dawson bristled, but bit back his intended reply. The men had already begun to remove all traces of their months spent on the abandoned farm. Upon their departure in the next twelve hours, nothing would remain that would connect him or anyone associated with him to the explosion, and subsequent loss of life, that would take place in Memphis a week from now. But a murder...that had not been included in his meticulously executed strategy. The deaths of scores of nameless, faceless victims in the weeks to come were a necessity; this unplanned intruder was a hitch in his plans. He should have disposed of the intruder days ago. A carefully staged accident, investigated and quickly signed off by the local sheriff's department, would have taken care of everything...but maybe it wasn't too late.

"I realize that," he snapped at the Muslim who towered several inches over him and seemed impervious to the early morning cold. " He's my responsibility. Supervise the loading of the explosives; I'll take care of our visitor." Hakkim bowed slightly and headed off toward the barn. Dawson lit another cigarette, then stalked across the frozen ground toward the building that housed the last obstacle between himself and immortality.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter and Campbell huddled behind the trunk of a massive pine tree, watching the activity in the clearing just beyond their position. A eight foot fence, rusted and sagging with age and topped with a single strand of barbed wire, separated the compound from the overgrown field that edged the woods. Muted voices could be heard as camouflage-uniformed men scurried between the buildings, obviously rushing to perform their duties.

"What's going on?" Peter whispered to his companion.

"They're packing up." Campbell lifted a compact pair of field glasses and surveyed the interior of the enclosure. "Dawson must have accelerated his schedule. He's moving the explosives today."

"And then what?"

Campbell lowered the binoculars and faced Peter. "They disperse. Everyone goes their own way, and no one is within a hundred miles of either here, or Memphis, when that bomb goes off. Then in three months, they regroup in another area."

"And start all over again," Peter said softly under his breath.

"Yeah."

"How long before your strike group gets here?"

Campbell glanced at his watch. "They're assembling now. With travel time, I'd say we have about an hour, maybe less, before all hell breaks loose here."

"Which building is Paul in?"

"That one." He gestured to a small outbuilding about fifty yards from their hiding place. "There's only one guard on the door, and he's probably half asleep. I shouldn't have any trouble with him. The guys guarding Blaisdell have all been pissed about being put on babysitting duty; they want to be where the action is."

Peter nodded, then reached into his backpack for a set of wirecutters retrieved from the cabin's storage shed. "Kermit and Rykker should be in place by now in the woods near the front gate. Let's go."

The agent grabbed Peter's sleeve. "Wait a minute, what about...about...the big guy? Where is he?"

"You mean Khan?" Peter offered a thin smile. "I never know where he is. I only know he's always where he needs to be. Believe me, Master Khan can take care of himself."

Peter dropped into a crouch and silently slipped from behind the cover of the trees and into the overgrown field. He sensed rather than saw the young agent's presence behind him as they reached the barrier. The thin wiring of the fence snapped quickly under the blades of the wirecutters; in seconds, Peter had created an opening large enough for a man to slip through without difficulty. He paused, listening for indications that anyone inside had been alerted. He gestured silently for Campbell to crawl through the opening first, then tossed the bulky tool into the underbrush before following.

The dry brush crackled under their feet as they sprinted across the trampled ground separating the perimeter fence from the shabby outbuildings. The two men reached the rear of the shack Campbell had pointed out earlier, pressing their backs against the weathered wood as they paused to catch their breath. Campbell watched Peter close his eyes in concentration, as if listening for sounds that only he could hear.

"Are we okay?" he whispered.

Peter glanced at him sharply, then relaxed as he detected no derision in the young man's tone this time, only concerned sincerity. "So far."

"Stay here," Campbell said softly. "I'll take care of the guard." He took a deep breath, then stepped casually out from the corner and walked nonchalantly around the building, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"What's up, man?" Peter held his breath as he heard Campbell address someone just out of his line of sight.

"Nothin', man," a thick Southern drawl replied. "It's cold as shit out here, man. My ass has been froze to this spot since 4 o'clock."

"I heard that," Campbell replied. "It was cold out on the river this morning, too. Didn't catch a thing. Why don't you go get some hot coffee? I'll watch your post for a while."

"Yeah, man, that sounds real good." Peter heard the creak of a metal folding chair as the unseen man gratefully accepted the offer. "You want some?"

"Nah," Campbell replied. " Go get warmed up. I'm fine." The crunch of gravel as the guard walked away faded into the background sounds coming from the men working in the barn nearby. Peter heard the protest of the chair again as his companion settled into it. "Stay put for a minute, Peter," he heard the man mutter under his breath. "I'll tell you when."

Thirty seconds passed before the sound of a rusted hinge moving against itself carried to his ears. "Come on, move it, now," Campbell hissed, but Peter was already through the doorway and inside before the words had left his lips.

Peter blinked against the sudden absence of light and the oppressive scent of old animal droppings and dried hay. The room appeared to be the decrepit remains of a tack room, with only one tiny window near the open-beamed ceiling for ventilation. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Peter saw what passed for a cot in the far corner, and on that cot, huddled under a tattered wool blanket, lay the form of a man, his back to the door.

Peter's heart beat so loudly in his chest that he was sure it would echo off the walls of the shabby room. He stepped closer, noticed the constant shivering of the shape under the blanket. Peter glanced back at the door, then approached the sleeping man. He knelt by the low bed and reached out one trembling hand to touch the shoulder of the sleeping figure.

"Paul?" he whispered. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself, then called louder. "Paul? It's me. It's Peter."

Several long seconds passed before the man, his face still in shadow, stirred. Peter tightened his grip on the man's shoulder and shook him gently. "Come on, Paul. Let's get out of here."

With a lethargic slowness, Paul Blaisdell sluggishly rolled away from the wall and looked into the face of his son. Peter's hand automatically reached up to cradle the beard roughened face of his foster father as he waited for the clouds to clear from the older man's eyes and for recognition to set in.

"Peter..." the slurred words fought their way past dried, cracked lips. "Not...not Peter..." He closed his eyes and started to turn away again. "Dreaming..."

"No!" Peter grabbed a handful of Paul's grimy shirt and gave him a shake. "You're not dreaming. I'm here...Kermit is here, and Rykker, even Master Khan. We're going to get you out of here." Peter eased his arm under Paul's shoulder and attempted to pull him into a sitting position. "Come on, you can sleep later," Peter glanced at the door again. " We don't have much time."

Paul blinked in an effort to focus on Peter's face again. Finally, he sat up on the bunk, swung his feet to the floor and shakily rose to his feet. "You shouldn't be here," Blaisdell mumbled as he took one unsteady step, then another.

Peter felt his control begin to crumble as he returned his foster father's embrace. "You should know you can't get rid of me," he replied shakily. "But we're not home free yet." He stepped back and took a long look at the surrogate father he hadn't seen in over two years, and was shocked by what he saw.

Paul Blaisdell had aged. Not just the expected amount of aging a middle aged man would experience over a two-year span, but more like twenty years. His thinning hair was mostly silver, his sunken eyes were lined and his sallow cheeks were hollow. He appeared to have lost at least twenty pounds, maybe more, and his hands shook with more than just the all pervading cold of the mountain air. Peter desperately hoped as he guided the older man toward the door, that once he was back home where he belonged, with the family that loved and cared about him, he would return to the stalwart,resilient man he had once been. It frightened him to see Paul as he looked now.

"Peter, we've got a problem," Campbell's voice hissed through the crack in the door. "Dawson's headed this way and he doesn't look happy."

Peter frantically glanced around the room for another way out. Unfortunately, there was only one door and the only window was much too high and too small for a man to pass through. Keeping one arm looped around Blaisdell's waist, Peter thumbed the send button on a small radio hidden in the breast pocket of his heavy overcoat. "Okay, guys," he whispered into the receiver. "We could use some fireworks right about now."

"One light show, coming up," came the static-filled reply.

"Peter..." Campbell's anxious voice sounded outside the door again.

"Just watch," Peter replied as he pressed himself against the door. "Watch, and when the noise starts, we make a run for it." He turned to face Blaisdell, who had moved behind the door and now stood with one arm braced against the wall for support. "You up to making a run for the woods?"

Paul straightened and pushed away from the wall. " Just keep up with me, kid, okay?"

Peter smiled, relieved to hear the Paul he knew finally emerge. "Okay. But maybe you better let me lead this time. I know the way."

Paul's intended reply was cut off by the sound of a muttered curse from the young agent outside the door. Peter cracked the door and peered out. "What is it?"

"Smoke...something's on fire near the front gate."

"Thanks, Kermit," Peter whispered as he opened the door and waited for Campbell's signal. "What's going on now? Where's Dawson?"

"He's running back toward the gate; everyone is." Campbell pushed the door open the rest of the way. "Let's go."

The three men slipped away from the building and took off at a dead run toward the opening in the fence. The agent reached it first, going down on one knee to squeeze through the opening, scraping his hands on the rusted wire as he dived through.

Peter soon realized that Paul was having trouble keeping up with him, and he slowed his pace. He was rewarded by a shove from behind, as a gasping Blaisdell pushed him forward. "Go, go...don't wait for me."

Peter ignored his command and dropped back to grasp Paul's elbow as he guided him toward the fence. As Paul clambered through the opening, Peter suddenly whirled to look back toward the compound.

"They're coming."

Campbell slipped the rifle strap from his shoulder and hefted the gun. "I don't see anyone," he argued.

"Go, Peter. I'll watch your back."

"No, you're coming with us." Peter tried to grasp his arm, but Campbell stepped out of his reach.

"I'll be right behind you. Just get your father out of here. Go!"

Peter's gaze flickered between the steadily increasing sounds of men approaching their position, and the inviting security offered by the woods only yards away. He realized that a gunfight in their exposed location would be suicide; their only hope lay in gaining the cover of the woods and then making their way back to the river. Finally, he nodded, looped one arm around Paul's waist and took off at a measured run toward the treeline.

The first shot whistled overhead before the report reached Peter's ears, sizzling through the foliage in front of them as he dived behind a massive spruce, pulling Blaisdell down with him. Answering fire from Campbell's rifle rang out from the field. Peter scrambled to his feet, his own weapon held low against his ribcage, as he let go with a barrage of bullets aimed toward the armed men inside the enclosure. Campbell whirled, using the young cop's covering fire to take off at a dead run toward Peter and Paul's position.

Campbell drew to within twenty feet of Peter's location and suddenly froze. His head snapped back and his features distorted a split second before the report of the high-powered rifle that splintered his skull reached the horrified men's ears. The agent dropped to the frozen earth like a discarded rag doll, eyes fixed and unseeing as he fell.

Paul stopped his son's instinctive move to assist the man with an iron grip on Peter's thigh. "He's dead, son. There's nothing you can do for him."

Peter stared at the masklike face of the man who had given his own life to save theirs, and realized Paul was right. This life had come to an end for Eric Campbell; he fervently hoped his selfless act of sacrifice would be rewarded in the next life. No one deserved it more.

Extending a hand to pull his foster father out of the thick bed of leaves, Peter anxiously glanced over his shoulder at the armed men who had begun to push their way through the opening in the perimeter fencing. With a final glance of gratitude toward their fallen companion, the two men took off at a hurried pace deeper into the cover of the woods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Twenty minutes into the temporary sanctuary of the trees, Peter realized they were lost. He had led Paul through a winding maze of towering pines and tangled undergrowth, weaving in no apparent direction in an effort to throw their pursuers off their trail. As he stopped, leaning against the truck of a massive oak, he realized the woods behind them had fallen silent, at least temporarily. Paul sagged against a nearby tree, sweating profusely and breathing with difficulty. "Did we lose them?"

"For the moment."

"How much farther?" Paul asked, wiping the perspiration from his face as he straightened. He saw the hesitant expression on his son's face. "Peter?"

"I...I don't know." He glanced around, then turned his face to the sky. "I should have paid better attention when Campbell was leading me in here. I...I didn't stop to think he might not be coming back with us."

"Son," Paul placed a reassuring hand on Peter's shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. He knew the risks when he went in. So did you. That could have been you lying back there."

"I just...I just keep seeing his face when he talked about being back home with his family for the holidays."

"You're a cop, son. You know the risks of undercover work." Paul leaned back against the tree again, suddenly breathless. "But I understand. I wish we could have helped him, too. He was a good man."

Peter stepped closer, concern etched clearly in his features. "Paul, are you all right? What did they do to you back there?"

"Nothing," Paul answered, removing his grip from Peter's arm. "Let's get going."

"Wait." Peter shrugged the quilted parka from his shoulders and wrapped it around the older man's shoulders. "Didn't Mom ever teach you not to go outside without your coat?"

A faint smile touched Paul's lips as he allowed Peter to fuss over him, standing quietly while his son zipped up the jacket. "How is Annie?" he asked softly.

"She's good." Peter pulled the collar up around Paul's neck before meeting his eyes. "She misses you. We've all missed you."

"I know." Paul held Peter's gaze for a moment, then looked away. "Staying away was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"Well, when we get home, you can tell us all about it, right?"

Paul placed his hand against Peter's cold cheek. "If I can."

"Just having you back home will be good enough," Peter said. "You ready?"

Peter nodded silently and fell back into step beside his foster father, straining his ears and any other senses he could muster for signs of the river in the distance. Despite the danger of their situation, he was finding it extremely difficult to concentrate on finding the boat and crossing the river to safety.

His instincts were screaming that something was wrong...very, very wrong. He felt it the first time he had touched Paul, back in his dingy cell. A torrent of emotions had flooded his being, like electricity flowing through a wire. At first, he assumed it was the sheer overpowering relief at finding his foster father alive and well. Now he realized it was something much more sinister, something he didn't want to recognize for what it was. But those suspicions would have to wait for another time, another place, to be dealt with. Right now they were literally running for their lives...and it was his responsibility to ensure their survival.

By the time the faint sounds of rushing water met their ears, Paul was barely on his feet, leaning heavily on Peter as they staggered toward the shore. Both men breathed a sigh of relief as the woods met the narrow beach, with the small fishing boat secured only twenty yards away. Peter tightened his grip around Blaisdell's waist as he stumbled in the deep sand. After several voiced concerns about his ability to keep running earlier, each one gruffly rebuffed by the older man, Peter had finally fallen silent. He didn't need Paul to confirm what he could see and feel...his foster father was exerting a supreme effort to keep up what had felt like a snail's pace to his much younger son.

"This way." Peter led Blaisdell to the boat, wading out into the murky water to untie the mooring rope. Blaisdell followed, refusing Peter's offer of assistance to climb over the side as he swung one leg over and levered himself inside.

"You know how to drive this thing?" Paul asked as Peter started the engine.

"You taught me how to drive your boat, remember?"

"I tried to teach you," Paul replied. "That was a long time ago."

Peter glanced at the ashen face of his foster father, sitting on the floor of the boat in the same spot he had vacated earlier. He revved the engine and backed away from the shore. "Some things you never forget," Peter said softly as the engine drowned out any hope of his reply being heard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The small boat glided over the glassy stream as Peter pushed the small engine to its limits. There was no need for stealth, so there was no need to worry about the roar of their retreat back to the cabin. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed that Paul had turned his back to the icy wind, huddled under the parka that Peter had relinquished earlier. Then he realized there was another reason Paul was staring back across the river. They were being followed.

The sleek vessel rapidly gaining on them was twice the size of their tiny fishing boat. He could see at least four men on board, ominous weapons slung across their chests. Peter slammed his hand against the throttle, but the sputtering outboard motor was already at full speed, and was no match for the pursuing craft.

Peter reached for the Beretta in his pocket, then remembered that Paul now wore his coat. He swore softly as they rounded a bend in the river, the pursuing boat rapidly closing the distance between them. Somewhere during their frantic race for freedom, he had lost the radio, their only link to Kermit and the other members of their party. He could only hope, if they were lucky enough to reach the cabin before Dawson's men caught up with them, that Kermit, Rykker and Master Khan would have a welcoming party ready.

The boat suddenly gave a sickening lurch as the engine faltered. An ominous plume of blue smoke coughed from the rear of the boat; Peter reversed the throttle, then slammed it home again, to no avail. After several half hearted attempts to regain power, the dying motor finally stalled completely, and the boat drifted to a stop, circling lazily in the strong downstream current.

"Damn it!" Peter swore, as he turned to watch their pursuers rapidly approach their position. He crouched down and started back toward the rear of the boat toward the rifle he had tossed into the hull earlier. As his fingers closed around the stock of the weapon, he felt Paul's fingers bite into his wrist. "What the hell..." he heard Blaisdell say as he stared out across the water.

The boat carrying Dawson's men had not slowed, even though their prey was obviously stranded dead in the water only a short distance away. Peter's breath caught in his chest as he heard the powerful inboard engine's roar as it picked up power, bearing down on them at a sickening speed. He glanced over his shoulder; their intended destination, Paul's cabin, was in sight less than a hundred yards away. But they weren't going to make it.

The realization of what was about to happen struck both men at the same time as Peter grabbed a handful of Paul's jacket and yanked him roughly to his feet.

"Jump!" he yelled, dragging Paul over the side with him at the same instant. He felt Paul's feeble effort to hang on to his shirt as they tumbled over the side, before the icy water stole his sight and breath and the frigid waters swallowed them both.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Kermit cursed softly as he kicked at the snarled vines that seemed to ensnare his boots with every step. The filtered rays of early morning sun illuminating their trail through the trees had done little to brighten his spirits. He would have been much happier as the point man on the rescue end of this excursion; smoke and mirrors had never been his forte. Peter, however, had been insistent about being the one who went over the wall...or in this case, through the wall...to locate Blaisdell and bring him to safety. It wasn't the way Kermit wanted it, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

So, while Campbell and Caine had been busy infiltrating the terrorists' camp, it had fallen to him, Rykker and Khan to provide the diversion necessary to give them the time they needed. That had been the easy part. A few smoke bombs with simple timers attached, hidden in the brush near the front gate, set to go off after the three of them were well on their way back to the river, had worked like a charm.

The hard part was listening to the gunfire in the distance as they headed back to the narrowest part of the river, where they could cross without a boat in chest deep water. At least they're still alive, Kermit thought as he quickened his need to keep shooting at targets that stop moving. That was small consolation, considering he had not been able to reach Peter on his hand held radio since the fireworks had begun.

Griffin paused as the crunch of leaves underfoot gave way to the shoreline, and the soft gurgling sound of the icy current as it slithered over slippery green rocks submerged just beneath the surface. Bracing himself for the expected shock of the frigid water, he paused, listening. The gunfire had stopped; the mountain was suddenly too large and much too silent. Either Peter and Paul's pursuers had given up, which wasn't likely...or they had caught up with them. That scenario was even less reassuring than the rifle echoes that still rang in his ears and edged his nerves like a finely sharpened razor.

Twisting on one heel, he turned to his two companions, only to find that one third of their party was no longer present. "Where's Khan?" he hissed to a uncharacteristically surprised Rykker.

"I don't know. He was behind me a few minutes ago."

"Well, he's not here now." Kermit scanned the treeline and then turned back to the river. "Damn those Shaolin monks and their disappearing acts." He waded into the stream, inhaling involuntarily as the icy water lapped against his exposed skin. "I suppose he'll turn up sooner or later. Let's go."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Panic...pure, unadulterated panic filled Peter's mind as the frigid water surrounded him and pulled him under. His limbs felt weighted and frozen; he couldn't see or think or breathe as the terrifying prospect of imminent suffocation bore him down. His kicks felt weak and ineffectual as he fought to reach the surface, his widely flailing hands touching nothing on which to grab hold.

Just as his lungs reached the bursting point, Peter's head broke the surface. He gratefully gulped in as much air as his oxygen-starved body could hold, willing his frozen muscles to keep him afloat long enough for him to reach the shore.

Treading water, he almost lost his breath again as he attempted to make his way across the river. There, only a few yards away, lay the overturned hull of the small boat he had commandeered earlier. And floating beside it was the partially submerged form of his foster father, slowly sinking into the river's murky depths as the quilted parka his son had loaned him earlier weighted him down and pulled him toward a certain and horrible death.

"Oh, God," Peter whispered hoarsely as he pushed his frozen muscles into nothing that remotely resembled swimming. They responded by locking in cold-induced spasms that sent his head dipping under the bone chilling water once again. He surfaced, choking on the foul liquid as he continued to slowly approach Blaisdell's inert figure. It occurred to Peter as he frantically paddled that their surroundings had fallen silent, save for his erratic splashing and the gentle lapping of the current against the overturned vessel. Hopefully, the men who had sent them plunging into the river had either been diverted or assumed the two men had drowned. Sudden gunfire from a point nearby answered that question for Peter, who immediately sent another silent thank you to his mercenary friends as his frozen fingers closed around the sodden material of Paul's jacket.

With all the strength he could muster from his failing muscles, he pulled Paul over onto his back and supported his weight in his arms. The two men immediately began to slip under the water; Peter kicked in a vain effort to touch bottom, then pushed them back to the surface again.

Paul was limp and unresponsive; his face ghastly white and his thin lips tinged with blue. His dead weight was too much for Peter to keep afloat in his own weakened condition; in addition to the cold which was rapidly sapping the remaining strength from his limbs, Peter recognized the steady stream of warm fluid that flowed into his eyes as being much too warm to be river water. His furiously pounding head and blurred vision told him he must have struck something hard, probably the side of the boat, when he dragged Paul over the side during the attack.

"Come on, Paul," Peter urged as he maintained his position by treading water and kicking frantically. "Breathe for me, please breathe." He was rewarded by a slow, shallow breath, followed by one strangled cough, then another. "That's it...You gotta help me here... I can't do this by myself."

Peter's relief was short-lived as he realized that Blaisdell was alive, but still unconscious and growing heavier in his trembling arms with every passing moment. It was becoming more difficult by the second to keep their heads above the surface of the murky water as exhaustion wrapped around Peter's limbs like chains of iron, pulling him under again and again. Tears of frustration burned his eyes as he felt his limbs succumb to the irresistible pull of the river's depths. He clung to the water logged jacket and held his foster father's face above the surface until his strength finally gave out and they both slipped silently into the beckoning darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Peter! Peter, answer me, damn it!" Kermit Griffin's voice echoed from the trees and bounced hollowly against the rear wall of the empty cabin as he and Rykker emerged from the woods at a full run. They had just navigated the shallow breach of the riverbed when they heard the roar of a large boat in the river just ahead. Kermit quickly pulled out his field glasses in time to see Peter and Blaisdell tumble from their small craft as the larger one passed dangerously close by and submerged the smaller one in the process.

The sleek craft had turned gracefully, preparing to make another run at the imperiled men, when the two mercenaries on shore emptied several clips from their automatic weapons in the assailants' direction. With surprise and the shoreline as cover working in their favor, Kermit and Rykker were able to dispatch two of the four men in the boat to a watery grave before the boat finally sped off and out of range of their weapons.

Kermit had been unable to spot either man in the river as he and the older mercenary had been forced to make their way back into the woods to find a passable trail back to the cabin. As they ran across the clearing and approached the river's edge, the two men slowed to a halt as they absorbed the scene that greeted them.

Two unmoving forms lay side by side in the grass a few feet from the water's edge. Kneeling between the two waterlogged forms was the massive silhouette of Master Khan, passing his outstretched hands, palm down, over each of the men in turn in a fashion that Kermit had seen Peter's father use many times in the past.

"Get blankets, as many as you can find," Khan called without turning around. "They're freezing to death."

Kermit dropped his rifle and backpack to the ground and ran toward the cabin, with Rykker close behind. He realized as he snatched up a pile of blankets from the sofa that Khan knew they were there without actually seeing their approach. Somehow he had gotten back to the clearing before them and had pulled the drowning men from the river. Thank God for Shaolin magic, he thought as he ran back across the clearing and dropped down to his knees next to his friends.

Rykker piled several blankets across Blaisdell's unconscious form, while Kermit did the same for Peter. Master Khan had turned the younger cop on his side, keeping his airway open as a violently shivering Peter coughed up mouthfuls of foul river water with every shuddering exhalation. Khan massaged Peter's back in an effort to soothe the spasms; after several minutes the choking sounds settled into a erratic but steady series of gasping breaths.

Khan then turned his attention to the older cop, massaging his frozen limbs in a repetitive and sometimes rigorous pattern. Kermit breathed a sigh of relief as color slowly began to return to the ghastly pallor of each man's skin.

Peter's unfocused eyes began to clear as Kermit tucked another blanket over his sodden form. He tried to speak, but Khan laid one hand across his blood streaked forehead and Peter's eyes immediately closed.

"I really want you to teach me that," Kermit said as he turned to check on his older friend. "It would come in handy around the precinct sometimes."

"I'm sure it would," Khan replied as he bent over and effortlessly lifted the sleeping Peter, blankets and all, and headed toward the cabin. "Can you carry the Captain in, or shall I come back for him?"

Kermit watched the display of the priest's strength with more than a little awe. "I think we can manage," he said as Rykker moved toward Blaisdell's head. Kermit took his feet, and with considerably more effort than the Shaolin had exhibited, the two men lifted the unconscious Paul Blaisdell into the air and carried him toward the warmth and safety of the cabin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter shifted under the cumbersome layers of blankets piled on top of him, wondering sleepily how he could be so cold with so many quilts weighing him down. He blinked against the glare of a roaring fire on the hearth nearby. God, he was tired...and what a horrible nightmare he had had. He shifted again, and the sudden cramping of abused muscles, combined with a flash of white pain streaking across his forehead, brought him to a sudden and full awakening. It had not been a dream...none of it. The pain had done more than shake the cobwebs from his brain; it had brought back all the recent events in one breathtaking instant.

Feebly pushing the covers away, he attempted to rise from the lumpy sofa, only to feel two strong hands pressing him back down. "Slow down, son," Rykker's voice registered in Peter's pain hazed brain. "Take it nice and slow."

Peter tried to speak, but his throat burned as if he had scalded it with Blake's vicious excuse for coffee. He swallowed several times and tried again. "Where's Paul?" he finally croaked.

"He's in the bedroom, resting, which is what you should be doing," Rykker replied, although he made no attempt to hold Peter down again. "He damn near drowned; you both did."

Peter slowly swung his feet down to touch the cold planked floor, nodding as he did so. "I know, I remember. Some of it, anyway." He tried to take a deep breath, grimacing when his ravaged lungs protested the movement. "How did we get out of the river?"

"Master Khan pulled you out. Don't ask me how."

"I stopped asking how Pop does things a long time ago, so I suppose the same goes for Master Khan." Peter rose shakily to his feet, noticing that he was now wearing dry clothing that hung a bit too large for him. He recognized the faint scent of Kermit's cigars in the rough material as he attempted the short walk from the sofa to Paul's door.

As the room tilted, he felt Rykker's presence at his elbow, supporting him as he leaned against the hewn doorframe for support. "I want to see Paul."

"I assumed you would. Master Khan is with him now." Rykker reached around Peter and opened the door for him. "He's been asking for you."

"Wait a minute," Peter turned and faced the older mercenary. "Why is Paul still here? Why isn't he in a hospital?"

Rykker hesitated, then blew out a long breath. "Because he refused to go. We tried, believe me, Peter, but Blaisdell can be a stubborn bastard sometimes."

"I know." Peter said as he stepped through the doorway and approached his foster father's bedside.

"No, you don't know," Rykker said as he closed the door behind him. "But you will know, very soon."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter quietly entered the small bedroom, giving his eyes time to adjust to its dimly lit interior. Heavy burlap draperies were drawn across the windows, leaving the bedroom in darkness save for an antique lamp on a table under the window. The only sounds in the hushed room were the soft hiss of the small gas heater in the corner, and the slow, labored breathing of the man sleeping fitfully in the bed.

Master Khan rose from his meditations as Peter entered the room. He glanced down at Blaisdell's sleeping figure, then studied the younger man as he paused by the foot of the bed.

"How's your head?" Khan asked.

Peter automatically touched the thick bandage on his temple. "It's okay."

"You probably need a couple of stitches."

"Maybe later," Peter replied absently, his eyes never leaving the ashen features of his foster father. "How's he doing?"

"He's resting."

"That's not what I asked."

"I know." He moved to the bedside, touching the older man's forehead lightly before placing his other hand on Blaisdell's chest. Peter watched as Khan's eyes drifted shut; he knew what the priest was doing. He had seen his father transfer his chi to others countless times. It was just one of many skills that Peter feared he would never have either the power or the knowledge to develop and use the way others trained in the Shaolin way could do. And he wasn't entirely sure he wanted the responsibility that attached itself to such talents. He was having enough trouble just dealing with the extra sensory abilities he already had. But then there were times like this, when he would have given anything to be able to do for his foster father what Master Khan was doing now.

Peter waited quietly until Khan withdrew his hands and stepped away. "Did you help him?"

"I eased his pain. That is all I can do."

"Why didn't Kermit and Rykker take him to a hospital?"

"No hospital," came the whispered reply from the bed. Peter moved to the chair next to Paul's bedside and sat down, gazing into the heavy lidded eyes of his foster father.

"That's exactly where you should be," Peter said as he tucked the faded quilt around Paul's shoulders. "You'll probably get pneumonia and God knows what else from that little unscheduled swim we took."

"Doesn't matter," came the faint reply. Paul closed his eyes again, and for a moment Peter thought he had drifted back to sleep. Then Paul opened his eyes and focused on Khan, who stood silently behind Peter's chair. "Where's Kermit?" he asked the older man.

"Outside," Khan replied. "Shall I get him for you?"

Paul nodded, and Master Khan slipped out silently ,leaving the two men alone in the dusky room. Peter slipped one hand under the bulky covers and grasped the still icy hand underneath. As he felt his hand squeezed weakly in return, Peter found he was no longer able to distinguish the designs on the patterned blanket in front of him. He took a deep breath and forced himself to blink back the tears as he focused on the tired blue eyes that studied him.

"You know, don't you?" Paul asked softly.

Peter nodded, unable to speak. He slipped his other hand beneath the blanket and enclosed the older man's between his own.

"Don't...blame Kermit. He did...what I asked him...to do."

Peter nodded. "I know that now. I understand."

"I ...I never wanted to...to leave you," Paul said. "It was...a mistake."

"We all understood."

"No...no, you didn't." Paul said, his breathing becoming more labored. "I loved you all ...so much...I wanted...I wanted to be with you."

"I know. I love you, too."

Neither man spoke for several minutes as Paul drifted back into an uneasy sleep, his hand still entwined with that of his son's. The door behind them creaked on rusty hinges, and as Kermit entered the room, Peter leaned forward, replacing the covers around his foster father's still form. Kermit stopped at the foot of the bed, watching silently as Peter placed a kiss on Paul's forehead as he rose stiffly from the chair.

As he reached the doorway, Peter turned back to see Kermit take a seat in the chair he had just vacated. Blaisdell stirred and spoke softly to his old friend, his words muted and unintelligible.

Peter pulled the door closed as he exited the bedroom. He was vaguely aware of the sympathetic gazes of Rykker and Khan as he stumbled past them on his way out the front door. A bitter blast of frigid air stung his face as he stepped out onto the porch, but it barely registered in comparison to the numbness that threatened to overwhelm him. He found that his legs would no longer support him as he slid down the rough wall and pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face in trembling hands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The sound of the front door as it swung open startled Peter. He glanced up as Kermit strode past him across the narrow porch, down the steps and across the withered grass toward the riverbank. Peter stretched aching and half frozen muscles to rise to his feet and follow his friend, stopping to stand next to him by the water's edge. The older man neither spoke nor acknowledged his presence as he stared out across the deceptively calm waters that had almost stolen two lives the day before.

"How long have you known?" Peter asked softly.

"Known what?" Kermit's voice was low and controlled.

"That he was dying."

Kermit's shoulders tensed as he stared across the stream. " A couple of months now."

"And that's why you didn't want me to come here."

Kermit nodded. "He didn't want any of you to see him the way he is now. I tried to convince him to come home. And when I found out just how sick he was, I even came here, tried to get him to take it easy and let Campbell handle his assignment alone. But he said it gave him a purpose...something to keep his mind off what was happening to his body. He said...he said it made him feel like he was still useful to somebody." Kermit's voice cracked on the last sentence; he turned away from Peter and walked a few feet away, then stopped.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I wanted to tell you, God knows I did. But he made me promise that I wouldn't. I don't expect you to forgive me for keeping it from you and Annie and the girls, or for the way I've treated you since you showed up on this trip. I did what I had to do."

"Don't apologize for keeping a promise to a friend. It was..." Peter's voice suddenly faltered and then failed completely. Kermit turned at the same moment as his friend's face lost all color and his knees began to buckle. Griffin caught him before he hit the ground. He did his best to support the younger man, whose eyes were closed as if in pain.

"Peter? What's wrong?" Kermit asked, but whether it was the physical contact with his Shaolin friend, or a psychic flash of his own, he knew the answer to his own question before it left his lips.

"He's gone." The words were whispered so softly that Kermit had to bend even closer to be sure he hadn't imagined the sounds. In his peripheral vision, he saw movement at the cabin's front door. Master Khan stood on the top step, nodding his head slightly in response to Kermit's silent question. His own knees suddenly went weak beneath him, and this time it was the younger man who reached out and kept his friend from falling.

"It's okay, Kermit," Peter spoke in a hushed voice in his friend's ear. "He's...he's at peace now, I can feel it. You did all you could."

"No, I didn't do anything. I should have dragged his ass to a hospital, whether he wanted to go or not."

"You kept your promise." Peter slowly rose to his feet with Kermit's help. "That was all he wanted you to do, and you did it." Closing his eyes, he stood for a moment without speaking, then Kermit placed his hands on his friend's shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I should have done more..."

Peter shook his head as he glanced back toward the cabin. "I'm sorry, too, " he whispered. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry you had to choose between two friends to keep a promise. But you chose the right one. I don't know if I could have done it. Now I have to keep a promise, too."

The two friends slowly made their way across the frozen ground toward the cabin. Each step seemed to take a supreme effort from both men. Kermit turned to Peter as they approached the house. "I didn't do so well on keeping my promise. You still ended up here anyway. What was your promise?"

Peter took a deep breath and stopped. "To bring Paul with me when I went back."

He felt his composure begin to crumble as the finality of what he had dreaded for so long finally hit home. Turning to his friend, he made no effort to hide the tears that threatened to spill. "I'm going to need the help of a good friend to do that. Whaddya say?"

Kermit glanced down at the trembling hand that was extended out to him in a gesture of friendship and forgiveness. He grasped the grieving son's hand between his own and then pulled him into a compassionate hug. "Oh yeah."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Spring had arrived early, its appearance marked by dappled fields of canary yellow buttercups dusted like angeldust on a carpet of pale green. The river was high, swollen from spring thaws that filled the mountain stream to capacity, swirling and churning its way to the man made dams and lakes below.

The sun warmed the young man's back as he walked slowly along the river's edge, occasionally stopping to skip a smooth stone across the water. The tranquility of the scene was soothing; it was easy to see why someone searching for inner peace would choose a setting such as this. And yet, the solitude was deceptive, as if the passage of time could somehow be suspended in such a secluded world.

But time stopped for no one; it was the wind at the back of every man, impelling him onward toward his ultimate destiny. That was the lesson his father had strived to instill in him as long as he could remember. And it was the final lesson that his foster father had bequeathed to him on a cold November morning, six months ago to the day.

The men who had played an important role in that scenario were gone now; Dawson and most of his men had been rounded up in the invasion of FBI and ATF agents that had swarmed the terrorists' compound shortly after Peter and Paul's escape. Eric Campbell had been laid to rest in a small cemetery in his hometown in Virginia; his widow clutching a posthumous commendation lauding his bravery for giving his life in the line of duty. And Paul Blaisdell had been laid to rest on the same day in his own hometown with full military honors.

Peter's memories of the days preceding and immediately following the interment were blurred and jumbled, and perhaps it was better that way. The memories he carried with him now were stronger, more vivid than any he shared with the friends and family left behind. That was what he wanted to remember.

He paused beside the water's edge and removed a small, tattered piece of paper from his pocket. It was the only personal belonging of his foster father's found in his possession after his passing. The picture was faded and its edges worn from years of constant handling; Peter couldn't recall now just how it came into his possession; he assumed that Kermit had something to do with that, but the reticent ex-mercenary never would admit to being the one that pressed it into his hand during the solemn grave side ceremony that day.

As he replaced the picture in his pocket, Peter's hand brushed the envelope he had received from Paul's lawyer the week before. He had read the contents of the letter at least a dozen times. Even though he had known about what the document contained since the reading of Paul's will, seeing the words in official black and white brought it all home to him.

The envelope contained the deed to the cabin where Paul Blaisdell spent his last days, only now the ownership had been transferred to Peter, free and clear. Peter's first thought was to sell the land and the cabin, but after a long and emotional talk with Annie, he changed his mind. Paul had wanted him to have it, wanted him to have a place of solitude to go to when he needed it, just as the retired mercenary had done when his demons threatened his soul and his sanity. Despite the strong emotions the location revived in him, Peter also knew it was a place he could go when he needed to feel close to his foster father again. One day he would bring Annie and his sisters here, tell them about Paul's last days. But for now he wanted to hold onto the intimacy, the feel of his foster father, that the isolated spot brought back to him. He wasn't ready to share that memory just yet.

As he paused beside the stream and took one last look around, a line of long forgotten verse from one of Annie's favorite poets flashed in Peter's mind. He had paid little attention to the sentiment until now; yet at this time, in this place, it seemed most appropriate...

'The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep.'

"Sleep well, dad," Peter said softly as he crossed the lush carpet of new grass on his way back to his car and the road that would lead him home.

THE END.

~~~ Poetry quotation taken from "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. Used gratefully but without permission. ~~~