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Chapter Text

Special Agent Daphne Wyeth pounded her steering wheel, cursing rush hour, L.A. traffic, and whatever jerk back in Washington had tossed out her name for this little "hostage exchange".

Collaborative effort at interagency cooperation, the FBI agent thought, tossing back dark hair as she scowled at the red minivan trying to make up its mind which lane of traffic to swerve into. Yeah, right. Who do they think they're kidding?

The taxpayers, maybe. Politicians were so stupid...

Be that as it may, Jason Locke - who she still hadn't met, and probably wouldn't for weeks yet - was probably zonked out on a hard-as-rock hotel bed, courtesy of the FBI, before they shoved him into a cubicle on what he'd definitely consider the wrong side of the Potomac. And "Danger-prone Daphne", the weirdo from the Windy City, was stuck out in California freeway traffic.

Look at the bright side. Nobody out here's likely to bring up that arson mess in Chicago. The series of dragon-slaying cartoons some smart-Alec had been posting on her walls had gotten old real fast. It didn't even matter that she hadn't been back to the city in almost three years. If people in the agency thought Chicago and weird, they thought her.

A horn blared, accompanying a screech of tires as an idiot in a black BMW tried to shoulder his way past her and a pair of tractor-trailers. Brake lights flashed on like sparklers at a bachelor's party - and from the way steel and glass veered over the asphalt, some of the drivers were just as drunk.

"Arggh!" Throwing up her hands in disgust, Daphne let out a few choice curses she'd learned on the seamier side of Chicago's docks from a short little sticky-fingers called Carl. Off-ramp, off-ramp...

There. And from a quick look at the map, it was even aimed the right direction. Someone up there must like me.

She checked into the specified hotel, accepting the key handed over by a smirking Hispanic clerk. Evidently he'd seen the other people going up to room 307 and drawn his own conclusions. Keep it up, bucko, and I'm asking for your green card.

"Sir," she nodded to the scowling, dark-haired man in the gray three-piece seated just inside the door. Heck of a place to dodge the CIA. "Special Agent Wyeth reporting in."

"I won't ask how you liked the traffic," Special Agent in Charge Thomas Huntley said dryly. He nodded her toward a chair. "Addison?"

A blonde with a laptop and a glint of mischief in her eyes handed over a shoebox that rattled. "Locke's phone. A list of his current files that we've got clearance to get from the Agency computer. His keys - the ones we could get hold of, at least."

"It's someplace to start," Daphne acknowledged. She glanced around the small room, looking longingly at the bed. Sleep. That'd be so nice. But first things first. "Ready to go, sir. I was told we'd have to move on this quickly..."

"We probably can't keep Locke out of town more than a week," Huntley acknowledged. "But you can take the time to catch up from your flight." He smiled slightly, as if afraid to crack his face. "We're not sure where your suspects are currently, but if they keep to their usual routine, they'll be flying back just before dawn."

"Flying?"

"This."

Daphne took the slightly out-of-focus photo, making out guns, a hint of rotor flash, a black-and-white paint job that looked like nothing so much as a killer whale. Orcus helicopterus, she thought dryly. "A black helicopter?" Great. Just when she'd thought she'd left weirdness back in D.C. What's next, Men in Black?

"A tactical weapon," Huntley stated. "Apparently either in civilian hands... or an intelligence agency's." The faint smile vanished. "Either way, it breaks the law just as often as it breaks the sound barrier."

"Sir?" She couldn't have heard that right. A helicopter, breaking Mach 1?

Her new boss shrugged, picking up his coat. "Read the file. But do get some sleep, Agent Wyeth." That hint of smile glimmered again. "There won't be anything happening in Van Nuys tonight."

"Cuchilla! Here, girl!"

The gargoyle beast growled, lifting her feline head from her inspection of spilled French fries on the edge of dark tarmac. Black-on-black jaguar spots glistened on her pelt as she slunk back to the group, but the four paired horns over her brow ridges were pure gargoyle.

Bloused cotton rustled as Seferina crouched to stroke behind nervous ebony ears, murmuring soft reassurance. The chestnut gargoyle glanced toward the maze of half-lighted Van Nuys runways, cast a wary look back at her dark mate. "There are too many people here. We should go."

Tizne nodded, gathering up the packs that held their supplies. The truckers who'd unloaded them at the Van Nuys Airport might have had their suspicions why a shipment of Mexican statuary had camp gear packed with it, but they hadn't stuck around until sunset to find out. "We must, Isabel. If my mate cannot keep Cuchilla calm... we cannot chance losing her."

"Just a few more minutes. Try. She promised she'd come." Isabel Apoyo shifted the most precious trunk in her arms. Not part of the cargo, no; this box had ridden with her on a chartered light plane from Mexico, so the three amethyst-spotted ovoids within spent the least possible time in transit.

Another shift leaned wood against her shoulder. Her wrist was healing nicely, but her right arm still didn't want to bear the weight of three gargoyle beast eggs. "So... explain this to me again," she murmured to the fox-headed red gargess beside her. "Cuchilla's not on the same season as the rest of the clan? What does that mean?"

"That she may not breed with the rest of us." Leaning down, Zorra took part of the weight. "Just as well, perhaps. Given how we found her."

Near the end of her strength in the south of the clan's territory almost a year ago, eggs on a rough sledge and an obsidian dart buried deep in her flank. Isabel had heard the story when the clan began to trust her; asking, as they'd asked every official contact they could find, to look for evidence of the clan Cuchilla had survived. Wish I'd been able to help. "I just wondered if it had anything to do with Bronx turning to stone." That had been a shock, after the days she'd spent playing with El Timoteo's beasts.

"You forget, amiga. We have a sorceress among us. The clan has been lucky that way; magic has been ours, for as long as the elders' tales remember-" The fanged mouth snapped shut; a hint of ruby glowed in her gaze. "Ah."

A white helicopter hovered into view, settling gently to dark asphalt. The African-American woman in the right seat gave them a quick smile, gesturing toward the passenger door.

Tizne stepped near her, talons flexing out of the pilot's sight, grabbing snatches of the breeze from the rotors. "You trust this woman, hermana?"

"Sí," Zorra nodded, lifting her own pack to her shoulder. "Callista said this would be a good path to fly."

The dark-beaked gargoyle winced. "That's what she said about steering the tornado."

"And from what I recall of you telling that story, that worked," Isabel pointed out. "Hermano. If you and yours want to strike out on your own, I'll back you. But Marella's friends helped us when they had nothing to gain."

The dark gargoyle breathed out slowly, talons flexing on his gear. "It's not easy, trusting outsiders," Tizne admitted. "Seferina?"

His mate was coaxing her beast to the white hatch, stroking ebony hackles. "Sweet one. Brave one. Let's try this, sí?"

Rumbling, Cuchilla leapt inside.

"That's... something else," Marella breathed as Zorra closed the hatch behind them all. A manicured hand gestured to an overhead rack. "Radios if you want them."

Isabel buckled into the co-pilot's seat, nestling the trunk in her lap. Settled the headset over her ears one-handed; winced as it caught a strand of dark hair. "How far are we going?"

Lifting into the night, Marella shrugged. "That depends on you."

Four sets of eyes glowed; three red, one white. "Why?" Tizne demanded.

"Easy, Señor," the white-suited spy smiled. "Trust takes time. We all know that. There's a lot of room near Cold Creek. You've got our number; if you want to spend a few nights checking the area out on your own, I can let you out anywhere there's a good landing spot. Or just anywhere. If you're willing to bail out. Most of it's national forest; I'd ram us into a tree if I tried to put this baby down."

Isabel saw tension ease out of wing-cloaked shoulders. Good move, she thought. The El Timoteo gargoyles hadn't lasted this long by trusting governments. Mexican or United States.

She was government. But given that the DEA had missed Argentino's spy in Third Mesa completely, leading to a desert chase that had nearly killed them all... she wasn't feeling too trusting herself.

"Or?" Zorra prompted.

Marella banked north, heading for the San Gabriel Mountains. "I know a man who sets a wonderful dinner table. Even if he doesn't like people very much." She cast a grin toward the foxy gargoyle. "Just warn me if you spot any eagles."

"You think they're coming?" Caitlin O'Shannessy dodged up, down, and through the cabin's main room, burning off energy as she and Le Van Hawke laid out the table.

"Who's coming?" the Amerasian teenager asked. He shot a dark glance toward his Uncle Dominic, ear twitching at the spatter of butter around crisping trout. "Dad didn't say anything about you having guests."

"Well, now, we're still not sure they're gonna show, Half-Pint." Dominic Santini took his red silk baseball cap off, combed fingers through mostly-gray hair. "And... they're not like our usual guests."

"Zorra's people may be some of the most normal guests you've had up here. But St. John doesn't need to know that. Yet." Leaning on his cane beside the flickering fireplace, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III gently pushed Tet off his shoes. The blue-tick coonhound grumbled softly, dark ears folding as he flopped his head back onto white leather.

Michael sighed. His knee ached dully, and Tet was putting his foot to sleep, but he was loath to leave the muscle-easing warmth. Not when that one last knot from the latest Uzbekistan mess had almost worked its way out of his shoulders... "Marella can be quite persuasive."

Inwardly Michael hoped she'd been persuasive enough. He'd had gargoyles as enemies before. And - once - as allies.

Of the two, his aching bones preferred allies.

"Who's Zorra?" Le Van asked the lean, dark blond turning the fish; the only uncle in the room actually related to him.

Stringfellow Hawke slid a spatula under crisping fish, flipped it. "Gargoyle." He eyed the pan's contents, slid in another chopped onion. "Seemed decent."

Glowing accolades, from Hawke, Michael thought. But also a warning. Stringfellow might call him a lot of things, some of them even complimentary, but decent wouldn't be on that list.

So Hawke wasn't sure Zorra or her companion Isabel would make good spies. And whether they would or not, he preferred they avoid espionage as a topic of dinner conversation. At least for tonight.

Fair enough, Michael admitted. From what Caitlin had told him the other day, Hawke was stretching civility as it was having him up here.

I wish I hadn't seen this coming...

After they'd arranged St. John's rescue from Burma, he and his crew had blended into Santini Air fairly well. At least to start. Jo Santini fit in like a missing puzzle piece, juggling flying and spying deftly as her uncle. Mike Rivers was aggravating but tolerable, the flamboyant playboy gradually settling down into a responsible agent. Even Jason Locke wasn't too annoying, for a Company man. Though Archangel still avoided him. It wouldn't do to be caught snickering over the switch he'd so effectively pulled on the man. Locke had no way of knowing he didn't have the real Airwolf.

But St. John did. And that was beginning to be a problem.

Not because Sinj would betray them to Locke. He wouldn't. Probably.

But he knew Hawke was flying Airwolf for the Firm. And he did not like the idea of his little brother as a spy. Especially for Archangel.

Michael sighed, rubbing away the start of a headache. St. John hadn't thrown down the gauntlet yet. But he had gone so far as to say he didn't want Archangel near his son.

Hawke, in turn, had quietly stated that Michael was welcome up at Eagle Lake. Anytime.

From String, it might as well have been a declaration of war.

And everyone at Santini Air knows it, Michael thought dryly. Except Sinj.

Locke ought to have intervened, if only to keep his own Airwolf team running smoothly. Except that the CIA agent had just been yanked back to Washington, as part of the fledgling effort to get the Company and the FBI cooperating.

As Dominic might put it, snowballs would stand a better chance in Saigon, Archangel thought wryly.

But interagency tangles didn't worry him nearly as much as the fact that Locke had been pulled out in the first place. On the surface, the recall made no sense whatsoever. Locke was a field agent, not an analyst.

Of course, if you were a Committee member with an axe to grind, trying to lay bloody hands on a certain Firm-built helicopter... it might make a great deal of sense.

Or it could simply be some hare-brained Congressional subcommittee plan to get those "in the field" talking to each other, Michael admitted to himself. Coincidences do happen. Occasionally.

Still. He planned to keep a very close eye on Special Agent Wyeth. Even though she couldn't be nearly as much trouble as two Hawkes in a bad mood.

Currently Caitlin was conspiring with Rivers and Jo to make sure the two brothers didn't exchange too many words until tempers cooled down. Which wouldn't be anytime soon, if he knew Hawkes. The family temper tended to burn long, slow, and cold. And when it did blow, small countries might vanish off the map.

Dangerous, for two men who flew Airwolves.

Thank goodness they still listen to Dominic. Their guardian turned mentor was half a breath from grounding the pair of them, just so they'd fight it out hand to hand. Instead of with Hellfires.

"A gargoyle?" Le finally found his voice, eyes wide. "Wow. From New York?"

Michael smiled quietly. Reports from that city had been gradually settling down, thanks to some underhanded press releases by the Firm and the NSA, blunt statements from H.E.A.T. that the situation was not contagious, and the tireless public-relations work of Dr. Venkman. Nicely done, that. Spengler and the other Ghostbusters might have the facts, but it took the psychologist's touch to soothe the media into reporting something near the truth.

Hawke shook his head. "Mexico."

"Just don't ask how we met her," Caitlin advised, setting the salad in the middle of the table. A cherry tomato disappeared into her grip; Michael heard the soft crunch as she snacked.

"Classified," the thirteen-year-old sighed, thumping his chin against the top of a chair back. "Sheesh. Don't you guys ever do anything that isn't top-secret?"

Michael chuckled, shoving St. John and his temper into his things-to-worry-about-later box. He could wait there with the rest of the former Soviet republics. "Young man, I assure you, there's nothing classified going on tonight." And most of what I manage to persuade your relatives to involve themselves in is classified considerably above Top Secret.

But Le Van didn't need to know that. Michael had argued out a set of ground rules with String as soon as they knew Sinj's son was here to stay; he knew String would rather go to his grave than give up classified information, but he also knew Hawke had no idea how vulnerable he'd suddenly become. A grieving hermit was hard to threaten. A man with a son...

No one's using Le Van as a pawn. Not on my watch.

Easier said than done. Michael had placed his agents, scouted Le Van's school for security hazards, and talked and talked and talked until that damn taciturn pilot gave in... if only to get him to back off.

So this half of Santini Air was quite clear on what they did and didn't tell the youngster in their care. If something was classified at any level, Le didn't hear about it. If he were there when they needed to talk, String would tell him he wasn't cleared and ask him to take a walk. And with String's hearing, Michael could finally sleep nights without wondering if a too-curious teenager would get in trouble for knowing something he shouldn't.

Then again, String had gotten his piece of the bargain as well. Don't lie to him, Michael, the pilot had said. Le hasn't had much he could depend on. At least let him know he can trust us.

He ought to know better than to trust me, Archangel had argued.

Too many times we almost got killed because we didn't trust each other, Michael, came the blunt reply. I know the odds. I'm not giving up Airwolf. And I'm not losing Le Van.

"Most of what we do ain't classified at all, Le." Dominic leaned back against the cabin bar. "Trust me, kiddo. Most of the time we get hurt, it is a stunt."

Air whispered around wool; Michael caught the white sweater before it could hit his face. "Guests," Hawke pointed out, retreating to the stove.

As in, lose the jacket. These were gargoyles, not errant Company or Firm agents who deserved to face the wrath of Archangel. They didn't even need to know about Archangel.

Odd thought. He'd been Archangel most of his adult life. Was Archangel, now and forever, to most everyone who knew of his existence enough to work with him. Or against him. Certainly when he'd collided with Pyetr in Germany it'd been as Archangel, not Michael.

But to the people in this room, he didn't have to be Archangel. Not always.

Opportunity to add to Airwolf database, gargoyles, came a warm, fluffy tickle in the back of his mind. Noted: nighttime sorties preferable near mission base of operations, Eagle Lake. Noted: full dark prevailing. Possibility direct observation?

No, you can't come, Michael thought back, pulling white wool over his head. Ordinarily he'd whisper it. Anything to keep the illusion of distance between his mind and the AI.

But Le Van was a Hawke, after all. He'd hear a whisper. And that would raise questions none of them wanted to answer.

A mental grumble. Logically Michael knew Airwolf saw the point of his refusal. This wasn't a combat mission.

At least, he hoped not.

Contact data valuable. Possibility of maintaining open link for purposes of indirect observation?

Airwolf wanted to look through him. The ultimate in surreptitious surveillance; drinking in information from his own senses. A rational request, if you looked at it logically. One way or another Airwolf probably would encounter gargoyles again, and she'd benefit by having a tactical database to draw off of.

Yet... that would mean holding that feathery warmth close. Dangerously close, as far as he was concerned. Why don't you ask the others?

Permission already obtained: pilots Hawke, Caitlin, came the brisk reply. Denied: pilot Dominic. Reason: tired. Unwilling to maintain multiple data flows.

Smart man. Fine. I'm tired too.

Psychic scan indicates falsehood. A sense of hurt; warmth withdrew.

Damn. He could weave darkest deception around heads of state with a smile on his face. Why did it always hurt to lie to Airwolf?

Maybe it was that endless, gentle curiosity. The helicopter that served as Airwolf's body might be armed and armored to the teeth, capable of smashing MiGs from the sky with a thought - but the AI herself genuinely meant no harm. Not unless her pilots bade her.

Or maybe it's knowing what Hawke will do to you if she cries, Michael thought dryly, catching that cool, blue-eyed glance across the room. Stringfellow Hawke would quite willingly take apart any number of men to defend Airwolf. And that was before he'd learned she was alive.

She was joy and wonder to fly; life against death, against the most overwhelming odds. She would pull them from the jaws of Hell itself.

And maybe that was the most frightening thing of all.

Lady? Carefully, carefully; not reaching out any more than he had to. Angel, listen...

A slim tendril of thought reached back. Michael Archangel?

Just a little, Lady. He let her weave warmth into the back of his senses, trying not to flinch. Don't go any deeper.

Conditions noted. It was like being swiped with an intangible tongue; warm and friendly and happy.

"Talked you into it, hmm?" Dominic's grin could have lit a runway. It was no coincidence the older man was standing so his bulk blocked Le Van's view.

Michael suppressed a shudder. It'd be so easy to get used to that warmth, to forget it had ever been absent... "How the hell does he stand it."

"String? He's good with kids. Be glad you don't got nightmare patrol."

Michael looked at him askance. "You can't possibly be serious."

Dominic snorted. "Who's not being serious? She's a kid. She gets nightmares." A wry twinkle in brown eyes. "What, you never talked a kid down from the scary monster in the middle of the night?"

A helicopter that could smash tanks, having nightmares. Good god. "No."

The older man's gaze turned serious. "Michael, kids love their parents. It takes something real evil to get 'em to stop." A strong finger poked white wool. "Whatever evil is, you don't got it."

That stung. He was a master of spies. Responsible for more deaths than Airwolf would ever cause. A killer and a liar and a Machiavellian manipulator, all in his country's service. "Evil's part of my job description, Dominic. Ask St. John."

Santini, damn him, didn't so much as turn a graying hair. "Sinj don't know you. String does." He cocked an ear toward the lake. "Sounds like Marella's coming in loaded."

"Eagle Lake," Marella identified the swathe of dark water as they landed on the floating dock. "One of the largest tracts of privately-owned land in this forest. A three-day walk on foot from anywhere civilized, and that's if you're pushing it." Shutting down the turbines, she cast a glance back at her passengers. "Plenty of room to get lost in if you don't want to spend the day."

Zorra kept her muzzle expressionless, holding inside the blend of doubt and hope she felt as she gazed out toward the white-chinked cabin. A real home, this was. Meant to last so long as its dwellers lived. Old logs stood strong and solid as the walls of El Timoteo's rookery, a weathered contrast to the extra room someone had added to the east.

Not built for her clan. Even stained to match the rest of the cabin, that wood was at least a year old.

Isabel slipped her a reassuring wink as they opened helicopter doors. "Smells like fish."

It did indeed; freshwater, with onions and peppers adding their own savor. Bread was in there too, and a hint of greenery and garlic.

"Trout from the lake. Stringfellow's not fond of red meat." White boots tapped lightly on floating wood as Marella stepped out. "But there's always some in the freezer."

"String-" Trunk in hand, Isabel stopped. "Hawke?"

A lean, tan human stood in the cabin doorway; light from inside glinting off dark blond hair, face hidden in shadow. "Evening."

And in that breath Zorra knew the face didn't matter. All she'd ever seen of this man was a pair of piercing blue eyes, framed by a helmet black as the eerie craft he piloted. The voice was key; and that voice was calm in the midst of nightmare, rescue out of the blackest pits of despair.

"Amazing. Actual civility." Marella sauntered up to Hawke, crossed her arms. "I suppose we should get inside before you strain something."

"Yeah."

"This is one of those who rescued you from Sonora?" Tizne asked in an undertone as the humans crossed the threshold.

"We cannot speak of that, Tizne. We gave our word." Zorra stepped into the cabin, hiding her confusion. Easier, once she looked about. There was so much to see.

Paintings decked every wall, leading the eye up the stairs toward a loft. A brass sculpture of an eagle met their gaze by the door, fierce as any she'd seen in the skies over Mexico. Stone and mortar formed the body of a bar at one side, the photos of humans in green uniforms hanging over it as carefully framed and mounted as any of the paintings. A cello leaned against the wall, bow ready to use beside it. And a fireplace burned bright and comforting, warmth beating out into the room.

Cuchilla pricked up her ears at that last, pushing aside a dark-spotted hound and a white-clad human to get to the warmest stretch of stone. Purring, she settled into a loose curl, yawning in a flash of fang before dropping her head onto her paws.

"Mama mia! What is that?" An elderly human scratched behind the hound's ears, cast them a wry glance. "Oh, let me guess." Dark brows flashed up. "Housecat?"

"Cool!" A slant-eyed teen lunged forward - only to be caught by a redhead with a grip like steel.

"I believe that's a watchbeast." The man in the white sweater braced both hands on his silver-headed cane, studied the rumbling not-quite-a-cat by his feet. "European beasts bear a closer resemblance to canines. But then, I'm told those in Japan look more like dragons." He shrugged slightly, turned the same intense gaze on those from El Timoteo. "Good evening."

What happened to him? Zorra tried to keep the shock from her face; knew from the muffled exclamations behind her that her clan-sibs hadn't. For it was a one-eyed gaze they met; the other, if it were still there at all, hidden behind a dark patch on his glasses.

Yet that blue gaze was clear and piercing as Hawke's had been, that horrid desert night. Not a gaze that looked for pity.

"I hope you don't mind if we stick to English," the man went on. A smile curved his mustache. "I've been told my Spanish is terrible."

"Getting better." A wry smile bent Hawke's face. "Supper's on."

Interesting night, String thought, watching Michael play gracious guest. Kind of fun, listening to the man make conversation without ever alluding to his real job. An amazing amount of which consisted of arguing details of stunts and pyrotechnics with Dominic and Caitlin. Agents used a considerable quantity of trickery in their work, one reason the Firm was able to keep Santini Air on retainer without raising too many eyebrows. Not that they didn't have ties with other theatrical companies. But if Michael's people needed something in a hurry, sometimes String could find it quicker.

The pilot glanced down at his plate, toying with a shred of carrot as Michael skipped again around the subject of what he did for a living. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. The white-clad Firm agent came up here to relax; to be himself, without any of the pretenses that surrounded an agent's life. To be Michael and Archangel, among the few people who accepted they were two threads of the same tangled personality.

But Archangel had wanted to meet the people his agency was going to arrange visas for. To know, for certain, before he let gargoyles loose on Cold Creek.

And when Archangel wanted something, Michael usually lost.

Now that half-dark gaze had narrowed his way. "Hawke, please tell me you've never auto-rotated off the top of a three-story building."

String held back most of a grin. "Maybe."

Course of action highly inadvisable, jabbed at him. Pilot hazard. Unlikely to contribute to mission success.

Don't worry, Lady. String hugged that fierce warmth, never minding the prickles. I'd never do that with you.

He wouldn't try that now, truth be told. He had too much to live for. Santini Air, the odd, flying family he and Dominic had pulled together; Hawkes and Santinis and their various strays... including a redheaded former cop, a few types in white suits, and one unbelievably classified AI.

Funny, that it had taken a helicopter and a battered, underhanded secret agent to wake him up to what was right in front of him.

Owe you for that, Michael. Big time.

"You don't even have wings!" Tizne objected. A pile of trout ribs decked one side of his plate, topped by a gnawed T-bone; the gargoyles had put away an amazing amount of meat.

Guess the Cold Creek general store's going to get busy, String thought, scratching Tet under his chin. "Yeah."

"People been flying without 'em most of a century now, you know," Dominic pointed out, laying down his knife and fork.

"Or not flying, sí?" Seferina chuckled.

Isabel groaned. "Is anyone ever going to let me live that down?"

"I doubt it." Zorra's lips showed an amused gleam of fang. "It's too good a story."

"What happened?" Le Van was all bright-eyed attention, leaning over his plate to the point he risked knocking the water pitcher off the table.

Zorra tapped it back toward the table's center with the casual ease of someone who'd lived with a pack of gangly-limbed teenagers. "Well, it was just before mi amiga met the clan-"

"Quiet." String held up a hand. Something... near the fireplace...

Crunch. Crackle. A high, kittenish mew.

"Purrrrr."

"¡Ay, caramba!" Seferina hopped clear of the table, heading for a mass of piled, multi-colored rugs. "You could have told me."

Cuchilla rumbled in the middle of a nest of shredded rugs, licking fragments of purple-spotted shell off squirming black fur. One massive paw reached out, gathered in another egg in the midst of cracking.

"Oh no," Marella murmured.

"S'okay," Caitlin reassured her. "The antiques're on the walls upstairs." Her voice dropped. "They are, aren't they?"

"Yeah." String shook his head in disbelief. Seferina was cooing and petting the adult beast, a soft murmur of reassuring Spanish as striped and spotted cubs squirmed toward their first meal. Tizne was grinning, exchanging a series of cocky handgrips with Zorra. And Isabel's face flickered between a wince at the damage and wry joy at the sight of new-hatched fur.

"Kittens," Le Van breathed, dropping into a crouch for a better view. "Can we keep one?"

String shot him a hard look.

"Aww..."

Marella leaned against the dock railing, drinking in the silvery gleam of moonlight on the lake. She could almost feel the roar of highways draining out of her ears, supplanted by the soft sigh of wind and the quiet chirp of crickets. Eagle Lake might not have massive supercomputers, or fine theater, or any of the trappings of city life... but it had peace.

It'd taken a while to realize how much she needed that.

And I'm not the only one. "So far, so good, sir?"

A quiet thump beside her; Michael joined her at the rail, taking his weight off his rosewood sword-cane. "It's not sir right now, Marella." The blond mustache bent in a wry smile. "At least no one's shot anyone else yet."

She tossed back a stray dark curl, answering his dry grin with her own. "I thought you preferred to be optimistic." A dark brow canted upward. "Is it Dominic?"

"Dominic Santini can handle Hollywood directors, enemy agents, and Stringfellow Hawke in a foul mood. He can certainly deal with gargoyles." Archangel frowned at dark water. "Le Van's fascinated. Caitlin's willing to take them as she would any newcomers to the area. And Hawke will only be a problem if they linger at the lake. He may not be as fiercely solitary as he was three years ago, but he still prefers his privacy unmolested."

Dark brows flew up. "You're worried about the gargoyles."

"You've read the same files I have," Michael admitted. "From all evidence, they tend to be traditionalists." Fingers traced the splintery edge of rough wood, lost in thought. "Circumstances being what they are, we'll hopefully get the more adaptable members of the clan. But I suspect the good citizens of Cold Creek will have an easier time accustoming themselves to gargoyles than the clan will to California."

"Yes; they're not exactly another wolfpack," Marella murmured.

"We are not a pack."

"Are you sure? Dominic says it's got a nice ring to it." She let her voice slip into a fair imitation of the Italian's accent. "The Lady's Wolfpack."

Michael sputtered. "You said that to Dominic?"

Got you. Now she could get to what was really bothering him. "So is Stringfellow coming out here, or do I need to dragoon Caitlin into locking you both in Le Van's room again?"

"Marella." Flat threat.

She let the glare wash past, ignored. "The Lady does give me updates, Michael." Since I'm the only one that can get any of you help if something goes wrong. "You two need each other as much as you need her."

Now the glare turned haunted. "We're not - I don't-"

Marella laid her hand over his, feeling strong fingers gone chill. For a brief instant, she considered dropping a hint to the IRS about one Blair Sandburg. Who said revenge was unprofessional of an agent? It's not fair. Michael's still so afraid... Not that Hawke was much better. If it weren't for Airwolf constantly tugging them back together, she was certain the two men would have high-tailed it to opposite ends of the globe. "You forget I've also read your personnel files." She let a smile dimple her face. "If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that both of you definitely prefer the opposite sex."

Archangel cleared his throat, gaze involuntarily flicking down the sleek lines of her dress before determinedly settling back on her face. "Yes. Well..."

Marella held back a blush. Michael might have a well-deserved reputation as a womanizer, but he'd never been anything but a perfect gentleman where those working with him were concerned. He admired their intelligence, encouraged their skills of deception, and most certainly enjoyed their beauty - but he'd never laid an unprofessional hand on any of his "angels". And never would.

Damn.

"All the research indicates that members of an empathic bond need a certain amount of regular physical contact with each other," she said patiently. Anyone human needs physical contact, Michael. Not that he'd believe her if she told him that. He was Archangel; he didn't need anyone.

Or so he thought.

"Just spend a little time with Hawke, and you'll both stop growling at people," Marella finished. Considered that last statement. "Well... maybe you will."

Michael sighed, white wool catching on dark splinters as he leaned against the rail. "You know what the Committee would do if they knew."

I wish I didn't. Locke would find what was left of his team in the wreckage of Santini Air. If he found them at all. As for Airwolf's pack...

If they were lucky, they'd be dead.

She shut away that dark thought. The Committee didn't know. And they weren't going to. For as long as everyone at this lake could keep it that way. "So. Do I need to find him?"

The blue eye went distant. "Apparently not."

Marella knew that cant of white shoulders; she turned, barely making out the red plaid shirt in the shadows. The pine-green jacket beside it was the only surprise. Caitlin's been taking stalking lessons, I see. "And how long have you two been there?"

"'Bout a minute." String stalked onto the dock, settling in on Michael's blind side; Caitlin book-ended him, silent and graceful as a falcon on the wing. "Bothers me too."

Michael scowled, even as he unconsciously shifted his arms to lean nearer to the pilot. "Unfortunately we appear to be inextricably enmeshed in this... situation."

"Yeah."

"We've been scouring the current research on empathy. Scanty as it is; most of those so afflicted have enough warning to steer clear of agencies like ours-"

"Michael." Caitlin's tone was soft, understanding. "You're not a freak. You're just - like us."

The azure gaze turned stormy. "Covert combat pilots disdaining the fine maneuverings of deception for direct, costly and entirely too visible use of munitions? I think not."

"Never know 'til you try." String moved in shoulder to shoulder with the agent. Marella gripped the railing as Michael shifted away; mindful of splinters, but determined not to move.

Caught between them, Archangel stiffened; blew out a long, snarling breath. "I'll have you know I thoroughly despise this."

Marella let her smile slip into her voice. "We'll put it on record."

Hawke wrapped an arm around the taller man. "Easy, Michael. Not going to hurt you..."

Marella barely heard the whisper, as her boss and friend finally yielded to the bond and relaxed, leaning into the pilot's grip. "That's what terrifies me."

"So." Isabel regarded her love by the fireplace, watching Seferina fuss over Cuchilla's litter. Le Van had been packed off to bed by Dominic an hour ago, yawning all the way even as he protested he could stay up until dawn. Right now the older pilot was going over a topographical map with Tizne, pointing out the best routes into Cold Creek; apparently he'd flown around here long enough to read mountain winds as well as any clan member. The other four humans still hadn't come in from the lake. "What do you think?"

Zorra frowned, lips lifting as if to test the air. "We shouldn't stay here. Not for long."

"Damn." The DEA agent's heart sank. Had she misread these people so badly?

"Oh! Not because of them." The foxy muzzle bent in an embarrassed smile. "I do not have Callista's gifts. But I can feel... some things." She waved talons toward the lake. "This place has power. It is safe enough to visit, yes; we are Hawke's guests, we will not be harmed." Dark eyes met hers. "But it is Hawke's place."

Some of the tension eased out of Isabel's shoulders. She still didn't know much about magic, but if Zorra said it was safe, she'd trust the gargoyle's judgment. "You'll be safe for the day?"

"Very," Zorra nodded, satisfied. "Did he mean us harm, we would know it by now. The wind itself would whisper we were not welcome." A brick-red arm reached out, gathered her in. "You've found a good place, mi amor. We must only look near it."

Ummm... Warm. "Mi amiga..."

"Hey!" A fierce Italian glare broke their clinch. "You two want to save that for behind closed doors?"

"The doors appear closed," Zorra said dryly. Not moving from where she had one wing wrapped around her chosen mate.

"Yeah, but they ain't yours," Dominic jabbed a finger their way. "We got a kid under this roof. You keep that somewhere else."

Bitter anger burned in the back of Isabel's throat. Mother of God, she was so tired of this. "And where do you expect us to go? Some back alley?" She gestured out the windows. "The middle of the wilderness? We've got a right-"

"You got a right to do what you want to do in your own place," Dominic cut in bluntly. "Maybe I don't like it, but you got a right to do it. You're under this roof, you're a guest. You keep it decent."

Tizne stepped back from the map, eyes glowing faintly. He'd been one of the first to defend their pairing to the elders, caring only that his clan sister was finally happy. "Is that what you'd tell your friends Hawke and Michael?"

Dominic stepped up nose to beak with the soot-skinned gargoyle. "Michael and String ain't that way, mister. And you're lucky they ain't here, 'cause they'd knock you into next week." He stepped back, shook his head. "If Cait and Marella didn't beat 'em to it."

Dominic flipped off the kitchen lights, tipped his red baseball cap to Seferina. "Ladies. Blankets in the window boxes. Night."

Tizne growled once the man was out of sight. "As if the clan were not thick-headed-"

"I think," Seferina said quietly, "That is enough." Tucking one last shred of rug over the snoozing litter, she rose. "We are guests, sí?"

"Sí," Zorra sighed. "I only wish..."

That the world was different, Isabel finished silently. That we could love, and care, and not be condemned...

"Elders," the watchbeast handler stated, "Have earned the right to respect. Did he say you could not love?" She shook back her dark mane. "Only that you should do so at your own hearth."

True, Isabel admitted reluctantly. She'd seen hate of her kind in men's eyes before. Loathing, mixed with the sick challenge to violate her choice of love by violating her body.

Dominic's gaze had held none of that. Distaste, perhaps. An air of doubt; definitely skepticism, though thinking back she couldn't be sure if that were due to the fact that they were both female, or that one of them was gargoyle.

But there was no hate in him.

It wasn't perfect. But perhaps... it would be enough.

Flying co-pilot over southern California, Major Mike Rivers knuckled away a yawn in the dark before dawn. "Man." Another yawn stretched the blond's jaw. "Who'd have thought Canada would be dealing tech with the Russians?"

Holding his Airwolf steady, St. John Hawke shook his head. "Brave new world, Mike. Everybody's looking for a deal." Maybe Jason could explain it. He couldn't.

Assuming Jason was around to explain. Before they'd gone radio-silent, Jason had mentioned some trouble back in Washington. Nothing to worry about, he'd assured them, just a little bureaucratic snafu. He'd have it cleared up in no time.

Jason, my friend, why do I not believe you?

Something on his console bleeped. "Jo?"

"Two F-15s, coming up fast," Jo Santini warned from the engineer's seat.

Sinj frowned. Edwards Air Force Base. String said those guys were twitchy. Nervous F-15s; not what they needed. "Do they see us?"

"Absorbing 90% of their radar, but-"

The radio warbled on. "Hey, Angel!" A fighter pilot's voice, cocky and amused. "You're early." Silver wings waggled; the rightmost plane rose, setting up for an overhead strike. "Think you'll like this one."

Angel? Sinj mouthed. His helicopter had been called a lot of things, some of them unprintable, but never that. How did they get this frequency? "Who is this?"

"Pirate." Tactical showed a laser pulse ranging out, trying for target lock. "Who are you?"

Jo bit out a soft swear. "Two more, coming up from the northeast!"

Pirate chuckled. "Told you you'd like this one."

"We're dead," Mike muttered under his breath.

"Not yet we're not." Gritting his teeth, Sinj prepared to fly for his life.

"Pirate?"

"Yeah, Valley?" Pirate asked absently. He barely spared a glance toward the plane she was flying, concentrating on closing their box around the elusive black helicopter. The new pilot was zigging and zagging like a madman, flying on Starlight a hundred-fifty feet above reddish dunes. Has to be a newbie. Angel's usual pilots would be under a hundred. And faster.

"I got a bad feeling."

Pirate frowned. Valley had a way of knowing when things were off; rigged dice, a valve a hair too loose, an alley a shade too dark. "We're about to get target lock and you've got a bad feeling-"

Sun-bright light burst over his scopes; a pair of Sunbursts, shed like glowing tears.

"Whoa!"

"And we are out of here." Sinj thumbed on the turbos; the massive hand of Airwolf's engines plastering him back against the seat.

They bounced over a ridgeline and down, running over a river in a whisper of shadow over water. Sinj kept one eye on their speed, the other on the fuel gauge. Going to have to call Jason for a refuel.

The CIA agent wasn't going to like that. But they didn't have much in the way of options. Kicking it past Mach, they'd gone into critical fuel consumption. They'd never make it all the way back to the Valley of the Gods.

Maintaining the ECM, Mike shook his head. "What the heck was that about?" He ran a finger across dials, checking each by eye. "No missiles. They were waiting for us and they didn't even try to shoot us?"

"Seemed like they were playing a - game," Jo said thoughtfully.

"A game? With who? They were waiting for us, Jo." Rivers flung up a gloved hand. "It's not like you can mistake Airwolf for anything else!"

"Yeah." Jo's laugh rang hollow in Sinj's ears. "She's one of a kind."

Except she isn't, St. John thought. But of the three in this helicopter, only Mike didn't know that.

Twitchy, String had said.

Those F-15s hadn't been twitchy. They'd known exactly what they were up to.

Dammit, String! You said you were retired!

Chapter Text

Caitlin woke to the sound of French toast crackling in a touch of butter, accompanied by soft, familiar snickering.

"Opportunist." Hawke, without a doubt.

"Allow me a few small amusements." Archangel, flipping the toast; she could hear suppressed chuckles in his voice. "Your mastery of silence is unparalleled, outmatching even your gift for understatement. Yet it's rare I have the opportunity to view Stringfellow Hawke at a complete and utter loss for words." Now the chuckle broke free. "If I'd known, I would have shredded your rugs years ago!"

Caitlin grinned at Hawke's low growl. Last night did 'em good, she thought, slipping into the bathroom to wash her face. Marella probably wasn't up yet; one of her white silk suits hung neatly on the clothes rack, ready for the day. Michael had definitely been in here; his after-shave lingered, a hint of mint and mountain air. By the orderly state of the sink, Dominic and Le Van hadn't been through yet. Too bad we got to practically tie 'em together to get 'em to ease up.

Marella literally had tied String and Archangel together the first time. Handcuffs were an exercise in frustration; if Michael didn't have them picked inside a minute, Hawke had them in two.

Not that rope was much better, the way the two of them pulled off Houdinis.

But it was getting easier to get them to lean on each other. Slowly.

"Aackk!"

Caitlin shot out of the bathroom, hair still a mass of red tangles, mind automatically calculating the distance to the nearest gun even as her hands yanked the bristles off the wooden hairbrush to reveal a knife-blade. When Marella yelled like that, there was trouble somewhere-

"Sir." Shoving off Tet's inquiring nose with one bare foot, Marella's tone made Siberia seem warm. Dressed in only a white robe and her dignity, the agent waved a handful of snowy leather rags that had been boots under Michael's nose. "This, is coming out of your expense account."

Halting at the top of the stairs, Caitlin choked back a giggle. Hawke finished filling a glass of water from the kitchen sink, stoic face carefully bland. Michael's expression held just the faintest trace of a wince. And shreds of white leather were scattered like goosedown from the couch to the fireplace, where a purring not-quite-jaguar curled around three innocent cubs.

Mostly innocent. If you didn't spot the strips of leather dangling from tiny jaws.

Knife sheathed, Caitlin yielded to laughter.

A cell phone warbled, echoing off cheap wallpaper. Rang again, jarring loose fine plaster dust from the crack near the bathroom.

A hand fumbled out from under pale pink sheets. Flipped open the phone. "Wyeth," came the sleep-slurred response.

"Who the hell is this?"

Daphne blinked away the crust of a bad night's sleep, scowling at black plastic. Across the room Agent Addison half-fell out of bed, punching on the recording equipment. Careful, Daphne reminded herself. Remember your cover; you were assigned to cover Locke's agency phone, you have no idea he didn't get the chance to tell anyone he wouldn't be on it. "Special Agent Wyeth," she stated, squinting at the clock. Way too early to be vertical. Even if she were still on the East Coast. "Who're you?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake..."

"Ask her if she can get her hands on a few hundred gallons of av-gas."

Av-gas. Aviation fuel? Glee woke her almost as effectively as a gulp of coffee. Bingo!

Quiet thumps, as if someone didn't quite get their hand over the receiver on the other end of the phone. Yet it didn't sound like a phone, somehow. Sort of an echo to it... and what was that faint howl in the background? "Mike!" her unknown caller hissed.

"Hey, you never know. She sounds like she might be pretty."

Mike. Major Mike Rivers? Which meant the man on the phone with her was probably St. John Hawke, and they had two of their possible suspects marked. If only they could get proof... That's what the recording's for. Daphne shook her head, trying to pull together scattered thoughts. Jet lag. I hate jet lag. "Look, I need to know who you are-"

Click.

Okay. Now she was awake. "Did we get it?"

Grabbing the notebook she'd left on the dresser, Agent Addison scribbled a few quick notes. Frowned. "Tracing it now. But given that background noise, I doubt it was a land line."

Daphne took another look at the glaring red numbers on the clock. Sighed. You know what they say about curiosity and cats.

But there was no way she'd be getting back to sleep now. Might as well take advantage of the early-morning traffic. "If they're looking for fuel, they're probably not at Santini Air."

"And we have a warrant." Addison nodded. "I'll call the rest of the team."

Daphne nodded, heading for the bathroom and a splash of cold water to keep her brain running until they could grab a dose of caffeine. Lock up your husbands, children, and petty offenders, Van Nuys. Here we come.

Going to be a good day for flying, String thought, studying white tufts of cirrus through flickering blades as Caitlin lifted off for Cold Creek. Already a jet was in the air over Van Nuys, some early-bird star or director heading for Vancouver and work. "Anything special on the sheet today?"

Dominic shook his head, smiling at the star-spangled sign over the hangar door that proclaimed Santini Air. "Chopper lessons for Ta'ra, tune-up for the Stearman before that next stunt sequence down by Universal - I want to check that right rudder, she's feeling a little funny. Outside of that, grab a wrench an' dig in anywhere." He hesitated. "You sure Red and Le are gonna be okay, taking Miss Apoyo up?"

String didn't smile. Dominic had been Army back when the forces threw out homosexuals so hard they bounced. And he'd been a good Catholic-raised Italian well before that. Granted, the man took people on their own merits. It was the idea he had trouble with.

Can't blame him for that. Not when Hawke had his own doubts - though from everything he knew, there was no good reason to. Hard to fight a whole culture that said this isn't normal. "Isabel and Zorra looked pretty tight to me. Doubt she'll stray-"

Brass rattled against steel. At the back of the hangar.

Two hands went for pistols; fisted with frustration, realizing they were currently back in Airwolf. String pointed to himself, made a circling motion.

Dom nodded. Waited out of sight by the side of the door as String started to circle toward the back. "What a way to start a morning," came the mechanic's soft growl.

"Ah-ha!" Quiet triumph held hints of Chicago as String eased around the last corner. White teeth flashed in a brunette's wry grin as she twisted the knob. Two men and another woman formed a loose circle around her, obviously watching for approaching trouble. "So he does have a key to this place."

String took a moment to weigh the group up. The lady with the key was tall, maybe five-nine, with walnut-brown hair that curled over her shoulders and a tongue that tucked into the corner of rose-pink lips in concentration as she peeked inside the helicopter-filled hangar. The other woman tossed short blonde hair back from a worried frown, fidgeting with the laptop case slung over her arm. The two men might have been bookends; one dark, one light, both around six-two and built like retired running backs. All had formal blue or gray suits, shoulder holsters, and a slightly rumpled air. Feds. Which agency? Though it really didn't matter. They weren't Michael's angels, and he wasn't in the mood for anyone else. "Mind stepping back from there?"

"Who-" the woman with the key turned, saw his expression. "Whoa. Easy. Special Agent Wyeth, FBI. We've got a warrant..."

A quiet crunch of gravel told him Dom was ready to back him up if things turned ugly. "A warrant?" String let surprise ring in his voice. "What for?"

She jingled brass. "Do you know who this key belongs to?"

"Can't say from here." No one with ordinary vision could have picked it out. He could; from those tiny, deliberate scratches near the ring, it had to be Locke's. What the hell have you gotten into this time, Jason?

The blonde's head straightened, obviously matching him to some picture in her head. "Stringfellow Hawke." It wasn't a question. "We have some questions for you in regard to the recent activities of your brother, St. John."

"What?" After almost four years of being chased by nearly every federal agency on the planet, that was the last thing String had expected. "Why?" Sinjin hadn't done anything illegal. Except fly an Airwolf. But the FBI couldn't possibly be interested in that. Could they?

"We also have questions in regard to your fellow employees at Santini Air," Wyeth picked up smoothly. "We have reason to believe a person or persons associated with or employed by this hangar are in the habit of violating the sovereign airspace of foreign nations on a regular basis."

Try, all of them, String thought dryly, holding shock on his face. Calm. Keep it calm. You're a dragonfly pilot, you fly stunts, and you've never heard anything so outrageous in your life. "Listen, lady-"

"Agent," Wyeth corrected crisply. "We know you've only recently regained contact with your brother. I'm sorry to have to break this to you, but during the time he was out of the States, St. John was employed by the CIA in a... less than legal capacity."

"You've got to be kidding." Now String wasn't feigning his shock. How the hell did they dig that up?

"We have reason to believe he's maintained this connection, using his employment here to cover further illicit assignments. Possibly involving other pilots in this company. We have documented records of breaches of international law, and there have even been rumors of engagements with foreign air forces."

No, really?

"As a fellow citizen, I'm sure you'll want to give us the fullest possible cooperation."

Son of a- They were after Airwolf. Sinjin's Airwolf. I don't believe this.

A snort whirled agents around to face a scowling Italian. "I'm Dominic Santini, Miss," Dominic said testily. "And nobody's answering anything until you tell me what the hell you're doing with a key to my back door!"

"Cold Creek, California," Caitlin said briskly as the JetRanger's gyros spun down. Her left-seat passenger hadn't spoken much during the flight, preferring to breathe in coffee fumes from her thermos; not surprising, given Isabel had stayed up to tuck the clan in. Hope the coffee kicks in soon, Caitlin thought. Quinn likes people to be awake when he's talking at 'em. "Population somewhere 'round 780, got electricity sometime back in the thirties, an' the cable companies finally fought it out as to who gets service here last year."

"Uncle String hates this place," Le Van added, leaning over Isabel's headrest from the back seat. "Too many people."

Dark eyes made a serious attempt to open. "I take it your uncle's not a..." Isabel slugged back ebony brew, sighed with relief. "People person."

Caitlin and Le traded glances, snickered. "Does the word duh mean anything to you?" Le Van snorted.

A slow blink. "So when Marella said..."

"Yeah," Caitlin grinned. "You got lucky. That was Hawke on a good night."

"Terrific." Isabel dropped out of the hatch, propped herself against the star-spangled hull to stretch out her back-

Halted mid-motion, at the sight of the laminated card Caitlin held in front of her face. "That's-"

"Temporary permit," the former cop shrugged, motioning Le Van to make sure all the hatches were locked. She'd never had a problem at the strip outside Cold Creek yet, but there was always a first time. "Courtesy of Marella."

Dark eyes shot her a narrow look, but Isabel took the card. "I'm not carrying."

"Stay around here, you will be," Caitlin said bluntly. "Lot of regular folks up here, Isabel. Good people. Also a lot of folks in Marella's line of work. Some of them are good people too." And some of them aren't.

From the way the DEA agent weighed her in her gaze, Isabel followed that thought. "And Michael's line of work?"

Le Van froze on the other side of the chopper. Caitlin didn't let her gaze stray. "Michael's Marella's boss. That's all you need to know." Man, I have spent way too much time in the Game. Never thought I'd be using that line. "And... he's a friend."

"People like that usually don't have friends," Isabel said neutrally.

"Uncle Michael's not like that," Le Van blurted out. "He found me."

Isabel blinked. "Found you?"

"Long story," Caitlin jumped in. Long, complicated, bloody story - an' String and Sinj still haven't matched up all their notes on it. "Ask Sinj sometime. Short version - St. John went missing a while, had a wife, ran into trouble, never knew he had a son." She stepped around the chopper's nose, ruffled dark hair. "Michael found him." She nodded toward town. "Sheriff's office is that way."

"So why the hell is Jason in Washington?"

St. John shook his head at Mike's indignant question, giving his Lady another once-over with his gaze. They'd managed to arrange a refuel at a small strip, no questions asked. It wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat.

Of course, a practical corner of his mind whispered, you could have called Archangel.

Like hell, the rest of him shot back.

Or String, reason argued.

Who would have called Archangel. Not a chance. He leaned over Jo's shoulder as she tapped away on one of the Lair keyboards. A slim maze of wires connected the attached computer to a scrambler, and then to their black phone. "This should give us a secure line?"

Dominic's niece nodded. "Ought to be connecting with the office he's in right about... now."

"Counter-terrorism task force," a familiar harassed voice answered. In the background they could hear another phone ringing, pencils tearing triplicate forms, someone's foot tapping a drumbeat on a cubicle wall.

Sinj grinned wryly. Cubicles, Fibbies, and paperwork; the field agent must feel like he'd been sucked into the ninth circle of Hell. "Wrong side of the Potomac, aren't you?"

A low groan came over the speaker. "You have no idea." A deep breath. "I'd swear Briggs was behind this, only I know he'd rather just shoot me." A chair creaked. "How's everything?"

As in, was this line secure? "We're clean, Jase. What's going on?"

"Politics."

"Ouch," Mike murmured.

"They say we didn't tell them, we say we did tell them, everybody says we should have followed the evidence trail that's been building up over the past ten years, nobody takes into account we've been following leads on half a dozen others like him they'll never know about if we do our jobs right-" Fury leaked around the edges of Locke's control. "Dammit! We do what we can, where we can. Six billion people on the planet and we have to sort out the psychos..."

"Is there anything we can do?" Jo asked.

"Stay in one piece," Jason said fervently.

Sinj nodded. "Special Agent Wyeth's got your Company phone."

"She's what?" Locke's chair thumped. "Someone's got my keys."

Keys that could open... all kinds of interesting places. Sinj exchanged glances with his co-pilots. "We'll talk to her."

"Limited access, they said," Jason cursed. "Limited. Damn!"

Angel.

The AI that was Airwolf kicked on a few subroutines; the electronic equivalent of opening an eye to early-morning sunlight. Yawned. There was plenty of power available; hidden solar panels kept the Lair's battery bank charged so she could run internal systems whenever she wanted. But collating data took time and meditation, and she'd gathered an incredible amount of data last night.

Angel, wake up. Hawke's touch; patient, but with an underlying urgency. I need your communications.

'Munications? Airwolf murmured sleepily. 'Kay... She reached through circuits toward the descrambler.

Not that, Lady. Warmth mixed with worry; something was wrong. I need you to relay to Michael. We've got Fed problems.

Shoot? The weapons-arming subroutines were very simple.

I wish, came the wry reply. Think we're going to have to be a little more subtle. A gentle caress. Michael?

Contacting. She spun up the psionic transceiver, reached outward. Michael Archangel?

Silent resignation; she felt the slow throb of pain that always echoed from a surgically-repaired leg. I'm in the middle of morning brief, Lady...

Pilot hazard, federal agents, Airwolf said briskly, probing Hawke and her own GPS for details. Location: Santini Air. Nature: FBI investigation/illicit CIA activities/St. John Hawke.
Known hazards: handguns, warrant, Santini Air keys last seen by pilot Hawke in possession of CIA agent/Airwolf II liaison Jason Locke.
Hostile forces number four. Apparent leader of hostile forces: Special Agent Wyeth.
Hostile forces currently engaged in legal search of Santini Air hangar.
Stated hostile objective: evidence of illicit invasion of foreign airspace on CIA assignments.
Pilots Hawke and Dominic avoiding direct conflict. Currently being interrogated. "Subtlety" requested.

A moment of shock, annoyance, anger. Cool calculation rose up. Caitlin? Michael asked.

Transmitting warn-off, Airwolf assured him.

Good. Don't need any more people in the middle of this if we can avoid it...have they found the obvious scrambler?

Airwolf relayed the question, consulting her own databanks. Santini Air's landline had two scramblers; one for hostile foreign agents to find, one hidden away in the hangar walls itself. Ironic, that Santini Air's need for secure communications had suddenly become a liability. "Not yet," she sent back from Hawke. "Dom's almost in position to grab it."

Long minutes ticked by; options created, considered, discarded, finally settling into the vague outlines of a plan. Tell them to keep our hostiles busy, Angel. Have Caitlin find our stray Company pilots. Amusement tickled down her link. I think I've got an idea.

Airwolf scanned the data flickering by from Michael's plotting mind. Pilot Hawke requested "subtle", she pointed out.

When you plan to double for a Hawke, Lady, it's no time for subtle.

"They're stalling us," Agent Addison murmured, shuffling through the ragged folders of invoices and parts lists that made up Santini Air's paperwork.

No, really? Daphne glared at the pair of pilots; one silent, one muttering what she thought were casual imprecations on her parents' marital status in fluent Spanish.

That in itself was a switch. Mr. Santini had been amazingly polite, given the man had total strangers tearing through his helicopter hangar. He'd also been testy, annoyed, and thoroughly evasive when it came to the question of why Jason Locke had a key.

"Flight lessons," Hawke had said. And not one word more, despite a half-hour of interrogation on their part.

And now the man decided to talk?

Daphne stalked toward him, heels clicking on concrete. "Mr. Hawke..."

The pilot eyed her. Lifted a shoulder in a miniscule shrug. Looked past her, evidently gauging just which parts to replace in the stripped-down red plane in the center of the hangar.

It rankled. She was no Hollywood beauty, she knew that, but mirrors sure didn't crack when she passed. And he'd passed her up for a biplane engine.

"You can get rid of us very easily, you know," she went on. Off to her left Santini slouched against his desk, the picture of annoyance; she ignored him. "Get back to work, to your customers... make things easier for your brother." She tilted her head, polite inquiry. "Where is your brother?"

A blue gaze weighed her, cool as mountain snow. "Out."

"With Mike Rivers?" She held that gaze, even when something inside her shrieked bad idea. "Major Mike Rivers?"

Hawke didn't so much as twitch. "Ask him."

"We will."

Still no flinch. Okay, flyboy. We both know you're a tough nut. Let's see what you do when someone holds out a carrot. "St. John was out of the country a long time," Daphne shrugged. "U.S. policy has changed. There's more accountability. Less leeway for the CIA to make their own policy while operating in sovereign nations."

Was that a flicker of amusement? "Really."

"We know he was a POW. It's understandable he would feel some loyalty toward the agency that rescued him, no matter what illicit activities they were engaged in-" Daphne hesitated, seeing icy eyes turn to blue flame. Bingo. Their information on the younger Hawke, what little they could find before they hit the wall that was his Special Forces file, said he'd been through every branch of government there was trying to get St. John home. "A judge could be understanding, if the case were properly presented. Just tell us anything that seems off, point us toward anything Locke might have left behind-"

Dominic rolled his eyes, fists slipping into his jacket pockets as he stalked away from the desk. "Look, lady, we been trying to tell you. The man was born with a briefcase attached." He waved a frustrated hand. "You can look through any of my choppers you want. The suit wouldn't leave a blank envelope out of his sight."

She would have believed it. If she hadn't seen Hawke's eyes.

Dangerous.

Not that Santini was safe, either, despite his graying hair and warm bluster. Vietnam vet, a pilot who'd survived two tours of duty through rescue missions and recon missions and everything the NVA and Cong could throw at him - no, he definitely wasn't safe. But she'd seen enough bad guys in her time with the Bureau to sort out those trained to be violent from those who just couldn't be any other way. Dominic wasn't the kind of guy who would shoot them in the back.

Hawke would.

He just doesn't have a reason to. Yet.

"Take what you can find and get out," Hawke said levelly. He tilted his gaze toward the front door, where Daphne could just catch a glimpse of wavy blonde hair framing a worried face. "The lady coming in for lessons is an L.A. crime scene analyst. You want to explain why you're harassing us, go ahead."

Wow. Isabel ogled thumb-tacked wanted posters, the carved-wood barrier separating roll-top desks from the front doors, the gray-haired dispatcher with a crossword puzzle discarded by her logbook, the tan-painted concrete corridor leading back to what were most likely a few small jail cells. The stereotypical small-town sheriff's office.

"CCS, three-eight," crackled over the radio. A woman's voice, level with the practiced calm found in cops, pilots, and anyone else whose job insisted they keep their head while the world fell apart around their ears.

"CCS," the dispatcher said calmly, nodding at her out-of-town visitor. "Just hang on a minute, ma'am. Be right with you."

"Three-eight is ten-seven, Langley intersection," came the resigned reply. "Requesting tow."

"Ten-four, three-eight." Shaking her head, the dispatcher picked up the phone. "Has to find 'em the hard way... Bill? Yeah. Langley again. Deputy Green's got at least two flats. And keep an eye out; you know where they've dumped two caltrops, they've dumped more. Thanks." Plastic smacked onto plastic. "Kids." A weary gaze implored the ceiling, settled back into a semblance of good humor. "Now what can we do for you, Miss?"

"Isabel Apoyo," the DEA agent offered her hand and her ID. "Caltrops?"

"DEA, right," the elderly lady nodded, scrutinizing the offered identification. Her grip was a bundle of spruce and balsa; braced, but fragile. "Sandy Owens. Sheriff'll fill you in. Once we can get him out of the county paperwork." She tapped a button on the desk phone. "Sheriff? Agent Apoyo's here."

The man on the other end didn't sound all that upset at being interrupted. "Come on back, then."

Politician, part-time cop, Isabel thought, looking around Quinn's office; the photos were the usual glad-handing types with important people in expensive suits, about what you'd expect of an elected sheriff. But there were a few hints of a more serious attitude. A color print off to the side of a set of hole-peppered targets, arranged in order; Isabel recognized distance comparisons for a shotgun blast. A quick list of phone numbers taped to the side of the desk; even upside down she could make out Fire, Medical Examiner, Poison Control. And from the dog-eared corners, those crime scene books dotting his shelf had actually been read. "Sheriff." She hesitated, curiosity eating at her. "Caltrops?"

The balding head shook, waving her to the plain wood visitor's chair. "Kids." Quinn opened a desk drawer, put plastic-shrouded steel onto a towering stack of paper. "If we're lucky, they left a fingerprint this time."

Isabel picked up the bag, eyeing the odd, sharp steel inside. It looked sort of like two nails, bent at right angles and welded across each other to form a four-pointed shape. Any way you tossed it, one point would end up straight up, ready to rip an unsuspecting tire to shreds. "No suspects?"

"A few too many," Quinn sighed. "The equipment you'd need's all too common around here. As is the know-how. We've shaken down the likelies, but you know how it is." He leaned back in his chair. "That's why I'm hoping your friends can help."

Acid gnawed at her gut. What kind of place was this, where knowing how to make something like that was common? "I'm here to act as a liaison between local law enforcement and the DEA..."

"Officially, yes," the sheriff stated. "And we could use the help. Had a bunch of bikers decide the forest was a great place to make meth, not that long ago. Last mistake they made, but-" he shrugged.

"Officially." It felt like a death knell. So long, the clan had depended on secrecy... What does he know?

"Agent Apoyo..." Quinn saw something in her face, softened his tone. "Ma'am. Mind if I explain a few things?"

"Please." Maybe I've made a mistake, maybe I've killed them all-

"The deal with the DEA is on the up-and-up," Quinn said bluntly. "We've been asking for the help, they've been getting around to it. If you don't take the job, somebody else will. Which would make all our jobs a little harder, but we could do it."

"Harder how?" Something didn't quite fit here.

"Another agent might not understand ladies dressed in white hanging around crime scenes," the sheriff answered. "Or listening in on certain interviews."

Ladies dressed in white? Marella? "I'm not sure I understand, Sheriff."

Quinn held up a steaming coffeepot, brow lifted in inquiry; at the shake of her head, he poured himself a cup. "We've got a few retirees in the area. People who aren't in Ms. Duval's line of work, anymore. Good people; families, kids even, some of them. But that doesn't mean trouble can't find them."

Retirees? Retired spies. People who know how to make caltrops. "So... Marella's people have a free hand around here."

"No," Quinn said bluntly. "People who work for Ms. Duval never interfere with an investigation. If they try, you arrest them; whoever they are, they're not Marella's." He leaned forward, hands down on the desk. "But sometimes we've got people going missing, and sometimes we've got people turning up dead, and sometimes we've got one hell of a lot of gunfire."

Isabel wet her lips. "This is a pretty small department for dealing with a lot of gunfire."

Quinn shrugged. "There's a number we can call for that." A wry smile tugged at weathered lips. "Same number we can call if we've got a little girl lost in the forest, in the dark, with a blast out of Canada howling blizzard down our necks and no chance anything Search and Rescue's got can get in the air."

That jarred her. "And she'll be found?"

"She'll be found."

A starlit night in Sonora, blood draining into desert sand... She'd been found then, when hope had slipped from her grasp. Found, and rescued, by pilots who did not care for law and order, but right and wrong. Pilots who apparently - carefully, quietly - cared for Cold Creek as their own.

Not that different from gargoyles.

Isabel let out a slow breath. "If the clan comes here..."

"I've talked to the rest of the department," Quinn said briskly. "We could use some extra eyes on the night shift." He handed over a folder. "How would your people feel about starting out in the Neighborhood Watch? At least until we can scare up some night courses in U.S. law."

Radio frequencies to use, potential stake-out locations; a list of equipment the department was willing to loan, up to and including handheld radios. Flipping through neat pages, Isabel laughed despite herself. Mother Mary, this just might work. "You want us to help you catch your juvenile delinquents."

"When we get a chance for free eyes in the sky? You better believe it." Quinn grinned. "Besides, if we don't catch 'em soon, they'll eventually hit the road the same time as Santini. And that would be one hell of a mess."

That sweet, elderly man... set in his ways, maybe, but more civil than most people she'd met half his age. "He'd never see them in time," Isabel murmured.

"No, he would," Quinn corrected, standing. "But if Santini Air gets involved, Marella gets involved, and whoever's responsible might spend a few hours dangling by their toenails." He crossed to the wall behind her, tapped a large-scale county map decorated with colored stickpins. "Let me show you the places they've thrown 'em so far..."

"Sir." Marella glanced around the dark stone walls that formed Airwolf's mountain Lair, automatically checking the camouflaged security systems nestled into solid granite. Firm engineers, carefully misguided as to exactly where they were, had carved this cavern from the living stone of a mountain near Hawke's valley, and mica-laced rock sang with the low hum from the helicopter's systems. A living rhythm, like the purr of a sated leopard; she'd thought so even before they knew Airwolf had a mind of her own. Involuntarily, she fidgeted; Samala's spare shoes pinched. "This isn't exactly wise."

A soft zip, and Michael stepped back into view; dark glasses put aside for an ivory eye patch, white three-piece discarded for flight suit gray. "Probably not. But remember whom we're dealing with. The FBI does not, as a rule, practice espionage; they're after blood."

"Arrests," Marella corrected.

"And we both know there won't be that much difference, if they succeed. Hawke's made too many enemies. Both of them have." Blond hair drifted over the white cord of his patch as Archangel shook his head. "We can't just float a likely rumor and hope they'll chase it. The only way to get these hounds off the trail is to use a red herring not even a blind man can miss." He sealed his Nomex collar. "This isn't meant to be a combat mission."

"Still. I'd feel better if you had an engineer along."

"So would I," her superior admitted. "I'll have the guns, if I need them. It'll have to be enough."

"If something goes wrong-"

"The moment she goes into Combat Mode, she'll latch onto anyone under a helmet," Archangel said bluntly, cane thumping over stone as he gave Airwolf one last walk-around. "You may be willing to bet you're not susceptible. I'm not."

Hydraulics hissed. Michael's expression softened, a gloved hand reaching out to stroke black hull. "Sorry, Angel. But we both know it's true."

Marella hesitated. "Would that be so bad?"

"One of us has to have some perspective." The sharp gaze crossed hers. "You know the Game we're in."

No second chances. She knew. Marella threw up her hands, stepping back to try and ease the pressure on her toes. "Be careful."

The bright eye twinkled. "Really do hurt, don't they."

"All those girlfriends and not one set of women's shoes in the cabin," Marella groused, wriggling chafed digits. "Hasn't he had any ladies up there since Le Van moved in to stay?"

"Not one, according to Dominic." Michael opened the right-hand hatch. "What free time he has, he's been using to get Caitlin fully checked out on Airwolf."

"Oh-ho." Marella grinned.

"You didn't hear that from me," Archangel said dryly, starting internal pre-flight. "And be careful what you say. You know how gun-shy Hawke is about relationships."

"Maybe he's finally getting a clue, sir." Marella's smile didn't dim, even as she prepared to stalk clear of Airwolf's downdraft. "Jinx or no jinx, there's not much that can take out a lady with a tactical weapon for a bodyguard."

Road, road, more road, Caitlin thought, scanning the stretch of dirt tracks midway between Van Nuys and the Valley of the Gods. Hands held the star-spangled chopper on a steady course; not so low as to eat the ready dust, but low enough to avoid most prying radar. She could only divert this way about fifteen more minutes; any longer, and her own flight plan ran the risk of catching the Feds' attention. They've got to be around here somewhere. "Sing out if you see 'em, Half-Pint."

"You still haven't told me what's wrong," the teenager argued, squirming in his seat as he twisted around to scan the dry, dusty countryside of the California-Nevada border. He made a move toward the radio to call the jeep direct; stopped at Caitlin's frown. "Classified trouble?"

"Something like," Caitlin said absently. Airwolf was stretching in the back of her mind, ready and eager for the hunt. "We don't want them to walk into it blind."

"But how do you know?" Le Van persisted. "You didn't pick up the radio, and Uncle String would have said if something was wrong this morning..." Slanted eyes narrowed at her. "Did you get one of Uncle String's hunches?"

Oops. She'd gotten used to that subtle pulse in the background, the nearly subconscious feed of information that didn't come through any of her senses. "Something like that."

Le Van sighed. "Sometimes you guys are weird."

"Who, us?" Caitlin laughed. Stopped at Le Van's uncomfortable shift in his seat. "What's wrong?"

A formless shrug. "Ms. Townsend brought out these cards a few weeks ago? Stars, wavy lines, circles and squares..."

Half-Pint's psych teacher was playing around with ESP cards? Someone should have a talk with that woman. "She scare you?"

"No!" Silence, punctuated by the turbines and drifting dust. "Well... it's just... she was talking about lowering shields, and I said no, and people laughed; they said it was just a game..."

Hell with talking. String'll dump her out at 10,000 feet. "You did the right thing."

Le Van was staring at her, gaping. "It's not a game."

Caitlin started to answer; stopped. Damn. Damn it all to hell. Sometimes she wished she'd had a chance to meet Le's mother; her son was sure fast on the uptake. Faster than his father. But then, Le'd been around them longer than Sinjin had, before and after the Lady made herself known.

The teenager watched her face; slumped in his seat, a lump of smoldering anger. "I hate classified..."

"Le," Caitlin said quietly. "It's not classified. Not exactly." She squinted against the sun; was that a puff of dust over the horizon? "I think we ought to tell you. But we've got to talk to Michael first."

Dark eyes blinked at her. "You mean - if I'd tried the cards, I could have-"

"You could've gotten yourself in a whole passel of trouble, that's what," Caitlin told him with asperity. "It doesn't work that way." She adjusted her glide angle, nodded once as the dust cloud came into sharper focus. "But when your uncles are in trouble, bad trouble... yeah, I know. Like String knows."

"Like he knew Dad was alive, all those years." Le Van's voice was a bare whisper over the mike.

"Something like." She got down to dust-raising level as Sinj's jeep came over the hill, signaled for Santini Air's three stray pilots to pull off the road. "We'll talk about it, Half-Pint. That's a promise." She drew in a breath, squaring her shoulders to meet the confrontation ahead. "But first I gotta straighten this mess out."

"Caitlin!" Jo Santini ducked under Santini One's blades, impatiently brushing down-drafted blonde hair out of her eyes. Even aviator sunglasses didn't mask the worry creasing the redhead's gaze. "What's wrong?"

"We got a pack of Fibbies tossing Santini Air, is what," the ex-cop bit out. "String and Dom're playing hide-the-lady with 'em, but they're poking around something fierce. I gotta get there before they figure out I'm off my flight plan. You got anything there says Locke's anything but a guy who pays to take choppers up, I need to know now."

"If we do, it's not your problem-" St. John started.

Red-haired fury stalked under his nose. "Wake up an' smell the burning oil, Sinj! You fly for Dom. For Santini Air. You and Mike get tossed into a Federal pen, where's that leave the rest of us? Where's it leave Le Van?"

Blue eyes flicked to the tense teenager in the passenger seat, turned stormy. "Leave Le out of this, you-"

"Whoa, whoa!" Mike jumped between them, fingertips to opposite palm in the classic T. "Time!" He waved one hand Caitlin's way. "We didn't leave anything out. I've been checking." A blond brow cocked up. "They're after me? I'm flattered."

"Guess you're popular with all the ladies," Jo quipped. She should've known; not even the threat of long years on the Federal rockpile could keep Mike serious long. "Special Agent Wyeth?" She'd heard St. John chewing Mike out about that phone call.

Caitlin nodded. Stepped back, hands on slim hips, narrowed eyes challenging the tall, blond Hawke. "Says she's after you and Locke. Mostly Locke. Sinjin's supposed to be the wedge she can use to get the rest of us talking. Don't know what story you plan to come up with for where you were last night, but get to the hangar. Fast. And be careful."

"What story are we going to come up with?" Jo wondered, watching Caitlin tear back into the sky. Just a JetRanger, and she soars like an eagle. What the ex-cop could do with Airwolf was pure grace with dark rotors. No wonder String had fallen so hard. Though from what Jo had seen, her "cousin" still hadn't figured out his own heart. Not that hard to understand, if you knew how often Death had struck in Stringfellow Hawke's wake.

Oh, String. Can't you see? She's not like the others. She won't leave you. Death is her wingman, too.

"Well," Mike waggled blond brows at her, "We could always say we tried out a threesome."

"You're disgusting," Jo said dryly.

A dramatic hand slapped the co-pilot's black leather jacket, straight over the heart. "Ah! A fatal wound."

St. John's lips pressed into a thin, thoughtful line. "You know, that has some merit."

Jo glared daggers his way. "You've got to be kidding."

Sinj held up empty hands to ward off argument. "Just hear me out. I think I've got a plan..."

"Change the schedule. Change the schedule again," Samala sighed, fingers tapping over her keyboard, minding Knightsbridge while Archangel and Marella were out at points unknown. Points those in this Firm office were quite careful not to know; four years working with Airwolf had driven home what lengths people were willing to go to in order to lay hands on the stealth chopper. Archangel's coterie of angels weren't known for their timidity, but no one was interested in winding up as a hostage.

The white-clad spy swiveled in her ergonomic chair, reshuffling briefings and information transfers on her computer with the ease of long practice. Unlike most Deputy Directors, Archangel would not stay behind his desk, limp or no limp. His staff had learned to deal with it. Even enjoy it.

After all, when Archangel was in the field, people came back alive.

Just come back in one piece, Sir, Samala thought, rubbing the back of her neck as she worked her way through the latest reports from the former Soviet Union. She'd rather be delving into whatever Wyeth and her superiors were up to. But common sense nixed that; two higher-level agents disappearing for a few hours was enough disruption of their routine. If the FBI were out to catch themselves folks who ran a stealth helicopter, the worst thing the Firm could do would be to show high-level interest. Better to concentrate on the multiple crises the Firm was keeping a lid on across the globe, and leave Wyeth to Research.

Not to mention whatever deviousness the boss has cooked up...

The outside phone jarred the agent out of her mischievous thoughts. She checked the scrambler was on. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was resigned and moderately familiar, wavering a touch as its owner jounced along in what sounded like a four-wheel-drive tearing up the desert. "We need a favor."

St. John Hawke? Interesting. The elder Hawke hadn't worked for the Firm in over a decade, but Archangel's standing orders stated that the members of Locke's Airwolf team were to be considered in the "assist with discretion" category. "What kind?"

"A strip joint?" Wyeth regarded the tattered receipts her grinning fellow agents had collected off the suspect pilots as they straggled in from the dusty, star-spangled jeep. "They were at a Las Vegas strip joint?" She cast another glance toward the reddening face of Jo Santini, peering through the afternoon heat shimmer from the runways. "All three of them?"

"I doubt we'll be able to prove otherwise," Agent Addison murmured. "We ran a check. There's at least five 'Lucky Ladies' in the metro area. By the time we could get the order to subpoena all their security tapes-" She shrugged.

Wyeth glared at the loose flock of pilots. Dominic was gesticulating in fine Italian outrage at St. John, Mike was pestering Caitlin for a date, Jo had just thwacked Rivers on the arm, and Stringfellow was casually holding up the hangar wall. "This isn't over."

"No," Addison agreed. "But I don't see what else we can do here today."

Especially not with stray L.A. police detectives poking around. Stringfellow hadn't been bluffing; apparently Ms. Ta'ra Andulon was highly regarded by the L.A. Detective Division in general and Robbery/Homicide in particular.

So now I know you don't bluff, Wyeth thought grimly. That's something. "At least we've still got an opening to come back. They can't prove they're not the ones flying that thing..."

She hesitated, eyes drawn to the north. Something whispered in the wind. A breeze moaning through glass and steel; a distant howl, from an eon when wolves stood the height of a man. A banshee shriek-

My God!

Jet-black blasted over them, strewing hurricane in its wake. Agency cars rocked. Notes tore loose in a white whirlwind. Agents scattered like bowling pins, blown off their feet.

Wyeth found herself on hands and knees on asphalt, palms stinging in a way that meant bandages for a week. Car alarms were ringing all around, abusing ears already half-deaf from that wind-torn wail. That was - that-

Another howl; the black wind hammered her flat. Glass burst and sprayed, diamond cascades of shards. She couldn't hear herself scream.

A hand grabbed her elbow; Addison, pointing desperately upward.

Braced against the front wheel of her rental car, Wyeth stared into the teeth of the wind. Noted the tall, lean frame, the silver-gray flight suit, the night-dark visor.

The cheeky wave, before the stealth craft's nose rose, and-

Oh, no-

Turbos flamed, kicking the helicopter into the blue. A third surge of air pounded down with all the force of a tornado.

Her head hit the wheel, and everything went gray.

Chapter Text

Again?

Michael chuckled, guiding Airwolf into a swift flight out of Van Nuys airspace. Outraged air traffic controllers were blasting the frequencies, professional calm breached enough for them to sound mildly annoyed. "I think we've caused enough damage for one day."

Fun!

"Oh, yes." He was grinning like an idiot. He knew it. This was joy and glory and pure power under his hands; turbines weaving their rapid beat around his own heart, wind on rotor blades like a breeze tugging at his fingertips.

Fun was a tame description.

Something whispered at the edge of his senses; from Airwolf, and from... somewhere else. Watchfulness. Wariness. And an amused, shared glee.

String. Cait and Dom could reach him through Airwolf. Only Hawke could touch him directly. "What's he want, Lady?"

His answer came in a wash of shifting perceptions; a recalculation of angles and flight paths, sudden attention to aircraft he'd previously dismissed, acute knowledge of just how much time it would take to scramble fighters from Edwards. The most probable paths of local fliers traced themselves over his mental map of the area, altering the best routes of escape from moment to moment.

Combat assist, Airwolf stated, serene as the world wavered around him. Noted: Michael, Archangel qualified pilot. Noted: air combat time limited to engineer's position. Providing backup.

"Lady, don't..." Fear clawed at him; he was holding the controls, and yet - it wasn't him. He didn't see targets when he flew, he didn't know exactly how to swat fellow aircraft from the sky-

The world snapped back to normal. Wordless apology reached him, tinged with String's not-quite-hidden exasperation.

Potential combat situation, Airwolf reminded him, puzzled. She used every tool at her disposal, trusting her pilots to know when to stay her hand. If her pilots chose not to use her capabilities... that was their prerogative.

Yes, Angel, Archangel admitted. It is. And when it came to combat flying, Stringfellow Hawke was the best there was. Period.

"All right." A thin whisper, making its way around the lump in his throat as he wove through the hills near Van Nuys. "Teach me how to do this."

Breathe in, breathe out. Taste the diesel tang of airport haze; taste air's echo in other lungs, a clean, crisp bite of purified air spiced with just a hint of extra oxygen.

"String."

Speed the other's reflexes with your own, ingrained patterns overriding the impulse to fall back, distract, plot... Move, Michael! Don't calculate. Hold the collective. Light, light, yes... that's not fast. She'll tell you when it's too fast. Ride the radar. Don't worry about those pine branches; you've got a good foot of clearance and they'd bend before you knew you touched them. Hold her! She knows the way home, but you have to pick which way's best. Sort your contacts. That's a traffic chopper. That's a corporate jet. That's one of Pendleton's eyes-in-the-skies, way off his reservation; stay low and blend with the ground clutter.

You can do this, Michael. Trust her. Trust yourself.

"String."

Feel the subtle shift as Michael moved from an agent's might-happen to pilot's here-and-now. Breathe relief, as fear faded into a hunter's exaltation, as Airwolf's pilot accepted the power at his command-

"String!"

Blue eyes blinked open, focused on the work-worn hand waving in front of his face. "Dom?"

"Sheesh!" The mechanic rolled his eyes, imploring the fading afternoon light. "Thought you'd checked out on us for good."

"Just visiting." String glanced across asphalt, where Caitlin and a muttering Rivers were shaking the last shards of glass out of dustpans into the garbage can Jo had shoved into place. Just beside the hangar door Sinj and Le Van were having a discussion; a serious one, by the thin line of St. John's mouth. "I miss anything?"

Dominic's grin spread ear to ear. "Oh, nothin' much. Just a bunch of Feds hauling tail faster than Father Frank out of Queenie's place."

A dark brow lifted. "That slow, huh?"

"Huh! No respect, that's what you got. Decent man of the cloth, and you gotta rib him..." Dominic let his voice drop, making sure Sinj couldn't catch a glimpse of their lips. "What the heck were you doing, anyway? I felt the Lady kinda - brush over-" He waved a frustrated hand, trying to find words. "She was mixed up with you and the white wonder, I could tell that much."

"Making sure Michael didn't bite off more than he could chew if Edwards got touchy." String stretched, feeling a host of small aches from a body left ignored just a little too long. "Man doesn't know how to fly combat. Yet."

Dominic hmphed. "You're not gonna teach him from on the ground."

"No." String stood away from the wall. "I think-"

Rivers slammed his dustpan against the can lip. "What the hell was that?"

"Mike," Jo pleaded.

"No!" Rivers waved off explanations. "I know what I saw. I know it's not possible. And I know I saw it. So you tell me what the hell was that?"

Sinjin's gaze slid across glass-dusted asphalt to String's. "I think we'd better take this inside, little brother."

"Four agents in the emergency room. Two vehicles in the shop. Possible harassment suits from the LAPD. Complaints from every man, woman, and roach in the Van Nuys air control tower. Howls of outrage from every legitimate business that flies out of Van Nuys and probably a few that should've kept their mouths shut before the DEA knew they were there." Special Agent in Charge Huntley tossed down a sheaf of paperwork. "And worst of all, no evidence."

Daphne stood at rough attention, headache throbbing under the bandage taped to her temple. The doctors didn't think she had a concussion, but she was under orders to avoid aspirin for the next twenty-four hours, just in case. My case. My responsibility. "Sir, we can't find what's not there. The place is clean."

"The hell it is!" A fist crashed to the steel desktop.

Don't flinch. And don't back down. "Sir, there's nothing there."

"Two years ago," Huntley said, almost under his breath.

"Sir?"

Fingers clamped on the edge of his desk - but when Huntley looked up, there was weary sanity in his eyes. "Two years ago, Wyeth. We've got witnesses - had witnesses, before someone conveniently lost the interviews. A Santini Air JetRanger was involved in a train heist of ammunition, missiles and jet-fuel. All things that damn helicopter's supposed to need." Fingertips turned white. "Only we got hauled off the case because someone in Washington got cold feet. No evidence, they said. They've got alibis, they said. Santini Air is clean." With an effort, Huntley turned loose of polished steel. "You tell me, Agent Wyeth. If they're clean, why did all our files on the case mysteriously disappear?"

Hotshot stunt pilots that stonewalled rather than talk. People whose only alibis were each other - or a set of conveniently uncheckable receipts.

Blue eyes that knew how to hunt. How to kill.

"Santini Air's someone's pet project, Wyeth," Huntley said, echoing her thoughts. "And things like that shouldn't happen in this country."

"Sir." Daphne chose her words carefully. "I believe they are hiding something. But if evidence existed on the premises, we would have found it." She hesitated. "And two years ago, St. John Hawke wasn't even in the United States."

"No. We were after his brother then," Huntley said candidly. "Only rumor said Stringfellow handed off the helicopter after the CIA brought St. John back. Took us this long to track down which CIA agent was involved. And now we've shown our hand, going by the letter of the law." He kneaded his brow, sighed. "Times like this, I hate being one of the good guys."

"Who was flying the Lady?" Mike demanded.

Caitlin winced. Despite a temper that had passed boiling, left simmering gasping in the dust, and was currently neck-and-neck with flambé, Mike had kept quiet until their equipment could verify the Feds had left no little presents behind. But Mike wasn't the real problem.

"I'd kind of like to know that myself," Sinj said offhand, eyes level as drawn steel. As they had been, ever since Dominic had opened a wall panel to pull out some of the same bug-detectors Jo had gotten out of the hidden compartment in her locker.

Yeah. There's the problem, Caitlin thought. Half of it, anyway...

String's voice was just as dangerously calm. "A friend."

"A friend knows where the Lair is?" Rivers exploded. "A friend knows her security codes? A friend-"

"Mike." Jo had a pair of pliers in a pale grip, keeping herself between Le Van and the incipient explosion. "Uncle Dom?"

Sinj didn't shift his gaze. "Who?"

Tell him, Caitlin pleaded silently. He's your brother, String. Trust him.

String shook his head minutely. Turned toward the Stearman. "Think we should pull the guide wires."

"Don't you turn your back on me!"

"And why the hell not?" Caitlin burst out. "You did it to us!"

"Cait-"

"Stay out of it, String," Dominic growled, gray-streaked brows low and stormy. "Two of you're too stubborn to listen to me and too hard-headed to listen to each other, the both of you! So just keep your lips buttoned and listen to her!"

Aw, hell, Caitlin groaned silently, feeling two fiery blue gazes fix on her. It was a wonder she didn't incinerate on the spot. Now what do I say?

She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. Dominic had tried gentle. Michael had tried reason.

Time to throw off the kid gloves and smack two Hawkes between the eyes.

"All right, you." She jabbed a finger String's way. "Sinj made his own choices. He went his own way. He trusted somebody he shouldn't have, sure - tell me you've never done that. Almost half his life he's been with the Company, and you expect him to be the big brother you think you remember? It don't work that way and you know it. It's not his fault people stay alive around him and die around you!" She held back an instant, plunged straight into the minefield. "It's not your fault Gabrielle died!"

String lunged for her, rational thought gone; jerked to a halt, Dominic's hands clamped on his shoulders. "You listen!" the heavyset Italian snarled. "Listen, or I swear, I'll deck you here and now!"

Don't stop, Caitlin told herself, sweat stinging her eyes. Don't even slow down. "And you." She swung the finger Sinj's way; like a laser, like the guns on the sleek craft she wished she were flying right now. "Sixteen years, people told String you were dead. Michael thought you were dead. Dom thought you were dead. Sixteen years String kept looking for you anyway, 'cause he had a feeling you weren't. No facts. No leads. Just a feeling." Caitlin shook her head, angry all over again. "Damn it, I've worked missing persons cases, Sinj! You know how that eats you up inside? The searching? The waiting? Even the hope, 'cause you know you could be dead wrong. Worse, 'cause you know you might never know."

Caitlin sucked in a breath, suddenly weary beyond belief. "It breaks people, Sinj," she finished, stuffing shaking hands into her jeans pockets. "Dom couldn't hold the pieces together anymore, and String didn't have anybody else. If Michael hadn't decided he could use a suicidal helicopter pilot..."

"Archangel," Sinj said flatly.

"Michael," Caitlin flung back, fury dredging up one last scrap of energy. "Michael flew the Lady today."

Silence. She heard String's harsh breath, the rustle of satiny blue polyester as Dominic finally let go.

Right. With Sinjin looking like that at the mention of Michael's name, String wasn't going to swing at her. But maybe you should've held on, Dom. If he goes for Sinj....

"How?" Rivers asked, bewildered. "He's half-blind..."

"He's good," Jo said candidly. Still poised to move, as she watched her team leader and his brother face off. "You should check his Company file. He's almost as good a pilot as he is a spy."

"An' speaking of spies..." Dominic favored Locke's team with an aggravated glare. "We got those Feds buffaloed for now, but you know as well as I do they're gonna be back. You're supposed to do this for a living. Think of something." He latched onto String's arm, hauled gently. "Come on. We got birds to get in the air."

"So this is what you call a stakeout?" Tizne's voice crackled over the radio.

Perched two-thirds of the way up a massive pine tree, Zorra didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Fortunate for her clan brother that he was stationed a kilometer away. From the look on Isabel's face, the agent would have cheerfully pounded his head through a handy wall. "Easy," Zorra murmured. "How likely is it that our prey will have-" She searched for the English word. "Radio scanners?"

"In this town?" Isabel rolled her eyes, gloved hands gripping hard on rough-barked branches. "Very."

"I would catch you, if you fell."

Fingering the harness that bound her to the tree trunk, Isabel smiled. "I know. But I'd rather focus on the job than the height."

And that was one of the reasons she loved this woman. Isabel would never be as strong or sturdy as one of the clan, but she knew how to minimize her vulnerabilities. Even turn them to her advantage-

Wait. Was that movement, below?

A whisper of steel and rubber, a trio of bicycles glided out of the deepening dusk.

Isabel's hand brushed her arm. "Do you see them?"

"Sí." The police department had little night-vision gear; Isabel had elected to rely on her eyes, and leave the heavy goggles to deputies who wouldn't be scrambling around in trees. "Three males. Old enough to know better." She heard a clink of steel on asphalt, caught the glimpse of blackened points as the young humans started spreading their trap. "They are the ones we seek."

"Good." Isabel triggered her radio. "Bird's Nest, CCS."

"CCS," came Sandy's even tones.

Isabel's lips curved. "You want 'em, come get 'em."

"10-4, Bird's Nest."

Isabel started unlatching her harness. "Call your sibs. Let's box these idiots before they can do something stupid. Like run."

Zorra chuckled, loosing a rapid patter of Spanish to draw Tizne and Seferina through the deepening night. Then it was seize her friend and leap into the sky, wings grabbing the thermal from the road to take them up in a watchful spiral.

"That's right," Isabel was murmuring under her breath, gaze fixed on what to her must be little more than shadows against starlight. "Stay right there. Tell yourselves how great you are..."

Dominic hovered over the cabin dock, gently swinging the skids back and forth inches from blue-gray fur. Never fails. Swear String teaches him to stay out here... "Move, ya flea-bitten mutt!"

Tet yawned, ears folding back; then the blue-tick tail flew up, wagging as he spotted his human in the copilot's seat. The hound bounded out of the downdraft, dark eyes cheerful.

"Dominic," Caitlin chided, laughing in the back seat. "He's not flea-bitten."

"Hah! Try sleeping on his rug." Dominic started powering down.

String finally stirred. "Dom."

Dominic waved a stern finger, knowing what was on the younger pilot's mind. Don't want me to play favorites? Too late for that, String. "Not one word outta you. Maybe I raised the both of you, but you're my partner. No way am I gonna leave you out here alone with strange company."

"And they don't come much stranger than gargoyles," Caitlin agreed, getting out. But the flicker of glance she sent Dom's way told its own story.

Yeah, Red, I know, Dominic thought soberly, listening to the sounds of a mountain night start to filter through slowing rotors. It had to be said. But Lord, we didn't need this. The man beside him was torn and bleeding inside. Leave him out here on his own, no knowing what might go wrong. He had visions of Hawke shutting the Lady out, vanishing into the night, pulling some damn-fool stunt that would end up with him in a broken heap at the bottom of some godforsaken cliff. There was a dark streak in String he didn't like to think about; a need to fly and kill that could turn inward if someone wasn't around to pull him out.

And they got to the cabin, and Dominic realized that - once again - someone else was a step ahead of him.

Michael sat drowsing in the palest chair, hat off, fire flickering in the hearth beside him, bad leg stretched over a low stool with a hot water bottle pressed against the white-clad knee. Two tabby-sized bundles of fur rolled underfoot, loosing high-pitched kittenish growls as they tumbled over the discarded rosewood cane. A third nursed steadily while Cuchilla licked her from head to dark-spotted tail.

String barely raised an eyebrow. "Turbos got to you."

"A minor price to pay, considering the stakes at risk," Archangel shrugged, not opening his eyes.

"Worked."

"Until they can come up with some other pretext to continue their investigation, yes." White-suited arms stretched, working a kink out of weary shoulders. "Hopefully by that time we'll have gathered enough leverage to send the inquisition elsewhere."

"Never thought I'd see the day I wished the government wasn't doing its job," Dominic grumbled, heading for the kitchen. String might stock the freezer with trout, but he knew where a steak or two hid out. Come to Poppa.

Michael nodded at the irony. "We have one advantage. The FBI's in the business of catching criminals. Legally."

String got down two skillets; one for steak, one for fish. "And you're not?"

Michael snorted. "You know better than that, Hawke. We don't catch them, we outmaneuver them. Out-finesse them."

"Outshoot them," Caitlin pointed out.

A reluctant grin bent the blond mustache. "Occasionally, yes."

The redhead dove into the refrigerator for salad, voice echoing off the orange juice. "And you say you're not a combat pilot."

"I most certainly am not."

"So where's Marella?" Dominic wanted to know, dicing in garlic with the meat. "She dump you here on your lonesome?"

Finding the polished floor suddenly fascinating, Archangel mumbled something.

"Excuse me?" From the looks of interest he saw around the room, not even String's radar ears had picked that up.

Was that a trace of pink on that straight face? "She said," Michael enunciated clearly, "She didn't want me back in the office until the adrenaline wore off."

Caitlin broke first, giggling like a Texas schoolgirl at the thought of sly, cynical Archangel bouncing around on Airwolf's combat buzz. Dominic traded a glance with String, then added to the roaring laughter. Oh, Lady - you got him but good!

Mine, Airwolf agreed, self-satisfied as a kitten in a creamery. Shy curiosity reached toward him. Mine?

Anytime, anyplace, Angel. Dominic grinned, rescuing his steak before it seared. Anytime.

"And did you see the looks on their faces?" Tizne caroled, landing on the path to the cabin. "¡Ay, carumba!"

"At least they should think twice, eh, amiga?" Zorra's fangs gleamed as she set Isabel down.

Isabel brushed windblown hair from her face. Soaring through the night always made her heart race. The wind over her skin, the strong arms around her, the glory of stars overhead... "If that doesn't make them think, I don't know what would."

"I hope she's well," Seferina said nervously, hopping onto the back porch. "I asked for them to leave her more bones. She needs them, to nurse cubs..."

"We heard you." Hawke appeared out of the dark doorway, face sober. "Keep it down. People sleeping inside."

Marella's boss, Isabel thought, noting the blond man buried under blankets on the couch. Half-blacked glasses had been put aside for a white eye patch; she glimpsed a trace of scar at the corner of the covered eye. Small pillows were a riot of peacock-blue and violet, padding his bad knee as he tossed in dreams. "What happened to him?"

String followed her gaze. "Explosion." He pulled blankets over the betraying pillows. "Long time ago."

"This is America," Tizne pointed out, as Seferina and Cuchilla greeted each other in a restrained, joyous duet of purrs. "They have treatments here."

"Yeah." The blue gaze was chill. "Why he can still walk." With a visible effort, he put away the old anger. "You planning to stay?"

Zorra traded glances with her clan siblings. "We will need to speak with the elders," she said carefully. "But I think - yes." She squeezed Isabel's shoulder gently. "This is a good place. With good people."

Well. That decision suddenly became easier. "I'll take the job." Isabel grinned. "Of course you know, if I found evidence someone was doing something illegal, I'd have to do something about it."

String toasted her with the last sip of a glass of pale wine. "Of course." Ceremoniously he turned the glass over, rinsed it out in the sink before setting it into the rack with three others. "Night."

Zorra glanced at her, alarmed, but waited until he and his hound were up into the loft. "Isa, you're not planning to-"

Isabel shook her head. "I'm not planning to pry, and they're not planning to wave anything under my nose," the DEA agent said frankly. "I swore to uphold the law. They swore to protect our country, and our Constitution. I think we can live with each other." She squeezed red talons. "But do me a favor?"

"What?"

"If, while you're out on patrol, one of you should just happen to see a black helicopter..."

"Sí," Tizne said warily.

Isabel gave them a wry grin. "Go the other way."