1st story, "Finding the Rainbow" by Black Rook
Dear participants, both writers and artists, we've come to the end of our first Magnificent Seven Big Bang. I can only hope that you enjoyed being a part of it, and that you wouldn't mind repeating the experience.
That said, I need to inform you that our gracious mod, sparrowsverse, unfortunately lost her uncle today, so I will be posting the entries for the time being. Our thoughts and prayers go out to her and her family tonight.
Since LJ has a character limit, the stories will be posted in parts. We start with the one written by Black Rook, aka grachonok
Title: Finding the Rainbow
Fandom: Magnificent Seven
Author: Black Rook grachonok
Artist: DJ Aida dj_aida
Disclaimer: Well, they still aren’t mine…
Character/Pairing: All Seven with focus on Chris, Orrin Travis, Nettie Wells, Rain
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: n/a
Summary: The formation of the ATF Team Seven - from the very beginning.
Authors Notes: First of all, many thanks to MOG for the creating that wonderful sandbox, and to all the other authors who have kept ATF Universe alive and well! After hundreds of stories it’s nearly impossible to create something new when writing in this AU, especially the beginning story, so if you recognize some idea or plot twist as yours - you’re probably right :). Either ‘great minds think alike’, or I liked that idea so much it just became a part of my personal ATF fanon. In either case, please take it as a compliment :).
Special thanks to tpena19 for beta-reading!
Finding the Rainbow
“Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for takeoff.”
Orrin Travis, the Assistant Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives in Denver, fastened his seatbelt and watched through the window as the lights of DC slowly faded away. He’d spent the last week in the capital enduring endless meetings; this latest round of accountability a result of the last epic fail of the ATF as a whole. Strangely enough, most of the meetings were dedicated to searching for solutions and not to finger pointing, one of those possible solutions was on Travis’s mind now.
It had been decided that several special teams would be created and based in different major cities across the country; self-sufficient, effective teams capable of operating throughout the US. One of those future teams would be based in Colorado, and Travis had 6 months to organize the paperwork, hire employees, and get it started. Six month was a rather short period of time in which to accomplish such a task, but, fortunately, the Denver AD knew where he wanted to start. Amongst his agents was a man perfect for leading the new team; if he accepted the position, that is.
Chris Larabee, the man in question, was a former Navy SEAL and he used to work as a homicide detective for Denver PD. Travis had heard of him while Larabee had been working in Homicide, but their first face-to-face meeting had happened under very tragic circumstances. The Larabee car bombing had shook all of Denver’s law enforcement personnel; firstly, because it was a fellow officer who’d been targeted, and secondly, because his wife and son had been killed instead. Every agency in the area had been eager to offer their help, and, since it had been a bombing, the ATF had had a valid reason to get involved. The Denver branch had gotten lucky; one of Travis’s agents had found similarities between that bombing and two others, a distinctive signature that had led to one man. They’d managed to catch the bomber, but alas, it'd turned out that he was only a paid lackey, and he had refused to give up the name of his employer. He was sent to prison, and not long after, had been killed in his cell. The case had then gone cold. After that, Larabee had left the DPD, and though Travis had sometimes heard about the man (and nothing too pleasant either), he hadn’t seen him until five months later, when Chris Larabee had come to his office, looking for a job.
Orrin raised his eyes from the application lying on his desk, to the man sitting on the other side of it. This Chris Larabee, dressed all in black, didn’t look like the man Orrin had sometimes seen at law enforcement social gatherings well before the tragedy, but he did look much better than he had during the last time they had met. But Orrin had to ask.
“Why?”
“I won’t lie to you, sir,” Larabee answered, straightening himself up. “I’ve crawled out of a dark pit recently and I need a job to keep me from falling back into it.”
Travis liked the man’s bluntness and, well, he could understand the reasoning. In fact, he understood better than most; his own son, Stephen, a leading journalist for the Denver Post, was murdered ‘in the line of duty’ a couple of years ago, and it had been her job that had kept Stephen’s widow, Mary, from falling apart, and himself too, if he was being honest. And they were luckier than Larabee had been, they still had Billy.
“Why the ATF?”
Larabee gave a half-shrug accompanied by a half-smile. “You left a good impression.”
Travis hid his chuckle by studying the credentials in front of him. They were good, more than that, they were impressive. Larabee had potential, if he held himself together he might make a great agent . Travis felt he ought to give the man a chance; especially since they had failed to catch those responsible for his loss.
“I’m approving your application, Mr. Larabee. Welcome on board, Agent.”
Now, two and a half years later, Chris Larabee still worked in the ATF and he had earned as many commendations as he’d received reprimands. He worked alone, without a team or a partner, but he got the job done; the rookies were in awe of him, the brass, save for Travis, were constantly annoyed with him, and his fellow agents either admired or hated him - sometimes both. Larabee got results, but Travis knew the man was capable of much more than that. He wasn’t just a good soldier, detective and agent, he was an excellent officer, a talented strategist, and a born leader. A man didn’t just lose those qualities. Travis knew Chris Larabee was his best chance for getting a functioning team. The question was, did the man want the responsibility?
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
While the Assistant Director of the Denver ATF was in the air thinking about his most unorthodox agent, said agent was driving home after finishing work on the biggest of his current cases. Nearly exhausted, Chris had decided to leave the paperwork for Monday, and was halfway through Denver when he realized that he was hungry enough to eat a horse and the fridge at the ranch was most likely empty. Not in the mood for shopping or cooking, Chris began to pay attention to his surroundings - he didn’t know the neighborhood all that well, but it wasn’t the worst part of town yet, so there should be some passable places to eat. Soon he noticed the sign of a Mexican bar, hoping they served something besides tequila, he found a place to park nearby and went inside.
The bar wasn’t crowded, those who came for a quick drink after work must have already left and those who intended to celebrate through the night hadn’t yet shown up. All in all, there was one harmless drunk at one of the far tables, an African-American couple sitting at the bar chatting with the bartender, and three kids, who were obviously enjoying their first taste of being legal. Satisfied that there were no signs of imminent trouble, Chris took a table in the corner (facing the entrance, back to the wall) and asked for a menu. The food selection wasn’t all that varied, but he came here to eat, not dine, so Chris ordered the entrée with the biggest amount of meat in it, and a beer to polish it off with.
The food proved good, and Chris was in the middle of finishing his meal when a large group entered the bar, disrupting the quiet. There were at least a dozen men of different ages in the bunch; they didn’t exactly look like gang members, but they were no respectable citizens either. Damn, Chris sighed, he’d had too long of a week to want to get involved in a bar brawl on a Friday night. At least there was still a chance that he’d have enough time to finish his meal and leave before those hotheads started something - and they would definitely start something. But by the time Chris was ready to pay his check, trouble was already brewing - one of the ‘bad guys’ was flirting with the woman at the bar, totally ignoring her obvious displeasure. Of course her companion interfered, and then the rest of the wannabe Romeo's friends began to pay attention as well…
“Call the police, girl,” Chris said to his waitress. “Things are about to get ugly.”
She hurried away, and Chris stood up, appraising the situation. Not good. The men were far from sober, and they clearly wanted some entertainment; him announcing his lawman status, or even drawing his gun, would likely only make matters worse. And even if the man they attacked knew how to handle himself in a fight, and it looked like he did, the odds weren’t exactly promising. Suddenly something made Chris look to the bar's entrance. There was a man there, one who’d just come in and didn’t have enough sense to immediately bolt right back out again. The worn boots, faded jeans, fringed-leather jacket and Texas A&M t-shirt just screamed native Texan, the only thing missing was a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. The man's timing was either perfect or awful, but before Chris could finish this thought, he met the newcomer’s eyes. The man nodded almost imperceptibly - and the odds went to hell.
When the police finally arrived, the three of them had the situation under control; nevertheless, everyone involved had to pay a visit to the nearest precinct. Fortunately, the officer on duty remembered Chris from his days with the PD, and all possible misunderstanding were cleared up quickly. The arrested hotheads clearly wished they’d picked another bar after they learned that they had attacked a C.S.I. expert from Kansas City, who was in Denver to testify on a case, and that the men who had helped him were a Federal Agent and a US Marshal. Altogether, the three of them spent less than half an hour in the precinct and another hour in the nearest bar, one frequented by policemen and thus ‘much safer on a Friday night’. Actually, Chris would have preferred to just go home, but Nathan Jackson, the forensic criminalist, and his lovely lady, Rain, had insisted that they at least owed a cup of coffee to the two men who had risked so much to help them. So they had all relaxed together enjoying coffee and talking about nothing in particular. To Chris it’d felt like they’d known each other for ages, not just hours.
It was close to midnight when the couple drove Chris and Marshal Vin Tanner back to the Mexican bar where their vehicles were parked, hopefully still in one piece. Chris’s Ram looked okay, but for some reason he was reluctant to just climb in and drive away. He watched as Tanner, who indeed proved to be from Texas though he was now based out of Cheyenne, went to his car a couple of spaces further away, opened the door and then slammed it shut with a curse. He continued swearing as he came back.
“What’s wrong?” Chris asked when the man was on the other side of the Ram.
Tanner shrugged. “Just remembered what I needed at that bar. You by chance know the number for a reasonable towing company? The Jeep broke down again.”
“Ah.” With an understanding smile, Chris opened his cell, found the right number, pressed the call button and handed the cell to the other man. With a thankful nod, Tanner took the cell and arranged for his car to be towed to some repair shop, Chris didn’t recognize the name.
“Thanks,” Tanner gave the cell back. “Maybe you know a number to call a cab as well?”
“I have a better idea, Tanner. I’ll give you a lift.”
“Nah,” the lanky Texan shook his head. “I don’t want to put you out, I’m staying out of town.”
“Where?”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then answered: “The Wells ranch.”
Chris laughed briefly. “Get in the car, Cowboy. I live on the next ranch over.”
With a mischievous look that promised retribution for the moniker, Tanner climbed into the passenger seat.
They drove in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, not just a polite one. When they arrived at the driveway of Nettie Well’s house, Chris, somewhat to his surprise, heard himself saying: “There's a lake at the border of our properties, about three miles east of here. I’ll try to catch my breakfast there on Sunday; would be glad for some company.”
It was too dark to read Tanner’s expression, but he answered casually: “I’ll think about it, Larabee. Thanks for the ride, have a good night.”
“Yeah, say ‘hi’ to Nettie for me.”
“I will,” with that the Marshal left the car and walked towards the house. Chris watched him for a moment then drove home and, for once, slept like the dead till the next morning.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
On Monday, Chris Larabee came to work early, rested and refreshed, and even the endless paperwork didn’t sway his good mood. He was halfway through writing the report on his last case, when the workday officially started and the phone on his desk rang.
“Larabee.”
“Morning, Chris.”
That was Shelley, Travis's secretary. Did that mean that the AD was back from DC? “Morning, Shel. Is he back?”
“Yes, and he wants to see you at 11 a.m..”
“Whatever for?”
“I have no idea, Chris, honest. I haven’t even seen him myself yet, only a bunch of notes.”
“Okay, I’ll be there. See you.” Chris hung up and sighed. An unexpected summons from one’s boss was never a good sign, and the fact that Travis had just come back from a big meeting with his bosses didn’t improve the situation at all. Well, Chris still had almost two hours before the meeting, so he’d better get that report done before Travis saddled him with some new big headache.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
The phone on Travis’s desk rang at exactly 10:59 a.m.
“Sir, Agent Larabee is here.”
“Send him in, Shel.”
Chris entered with a wary expression on his face; clearly he didn’t expect anything good from this meeting. Funny, because Travis himself felt nervous like a schoolboy in the principal's office, and he was the boss here.
“Welcome back, sir. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I did,” Travis got up to shake his agent’s hand, then sat back down. “Have a seat.”
Chris sat, and Orrin took a moment to once again look over the papers concerning his new unique team; he still didn’t know how to present the idea to Larabee. He must have kept silent longer than he thought, because Chris asked softly:
“Sir, something wrong?”
“No.” Well, better take the bull by the horns. “Agent Larabee, I have a proposition for you. I have orders to start a special ATF task force, based out of Denver, and I want you to lead it.” Okay, now he can say he saw something very few people ever did - a shocked Chris Larabee. Travis pushed the papers towards the other man, adding:
“Look these over and give it some thought, Chris, please.”
“I will, sir.” Chris flipped through the papers a little, then asked: “The men who will make up the team?”
Not exactly a clear question, but Travis knew Larabee well enough to understand what he meant. “You can recruit whomever you deem worthy, as long as it’s within the law. I may have some candidates for you, but the final call will always be yours as head agent.”
Chris nodded.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
Chris sat in his office, eyeing the folder Travis had given him. He’d read it twice already, and damn, but it sounded interesting. A year ago, hell, maybe even last week, Chris would have said ‘no’ right off to anything that included a leadership position. After failing his own family so totally, he’d been sure he would never take responsibility for other people again; he even refused to have a partner anymore. But now something had definitely changed. Maybe that brawl on Friday had reminded him of more than simply what it felt like to have someone at your back in a fight; yes, it had just been a stupid bar brawl, but still…
Or maybe that quiet fishing trip with Tanner on Sunday morning had balanced something inside himself, something that had been unbalanced for a long time. Or maybe, just maybe, enough time had passed for him to have finally started healing. Or perhaps it was his conscience and his sense of duty, his father’s advice kept repeating in his head. ‘If something needs to be done, son,’ the tough Air-Force Colonel used to say, ‘do it yourself. Because no one else will.’ And that team sure looked like something that needed to be done.
Twenty minutes later, Chris was listing the skills he’d need in the team for it to be effective and self-sufficient. Finding all of those skills in only eight men (that was the maximum number permitted in the future unit, leader included) would be a challenge, but Chris felt he was up to it. But first of all, he needed at least one man on the team whom he trusted unconditionally, both as a person and as a professional. He needed someone who wouldn’t be afraid to address weak points in any plan, but would also be willing to do his part once the plan was approved; he needed a second-in-command. In other words, he needed Buck Wilmington. Chris settled back in his chair and allowed the memories to flow through his mind.
They had met during their first year in the Navy, and it had been mutual antipathy from first sight. They’d been at each other's throats when allowed for several months, until one disaster of a mission; the results of said mission were several people dead, Chris receiving a promotion much earlier than he expected to, and Buck becoming his partner, 2IC and best friend. They had been through some really bad shit together since then, and it had only strengthened their friendship, so when Chris had finally had enough of the Navy brass and their hypocrisy and left the service, Buck had followed. They'd graduated from the Police Academy together, and for the first time in its history, Denver PD had agreed to allow two formal rookies to partner with each other; DPD hadn’t ever had cause to regret this decision. Buck had been the best man in his wedding, had been Adam’s Godfather, and a very devoted one at that, and it had been Buck who had literally kept Chris alive after the tragedy.
Buck had kept him together during the investigation, and then, after the case had gone cold, Buck had hauled him home from countless bars, kept him from drowning in his own vomit, and stopped him from killing anyone or getting himself killed. Buck had been there despite all of the attacks from Chris - both verbal and physical - and though Chris’s memory of those days was still vague, he was pretty sure there had been plenty enough to run the man off many times over. His downward spiral had lasted for months; until, after one night Chris had no intentions of ever recollecting, he’d decided to stop and get his shit together. And Buck had been there to help then too. However, as soon as he’d been sure Chris wasn’t a threat to others or himself, Buck had left. Maybe he’d finally had enough of Chris’s shit, or maybe he'd just needed to grieve himself, and around Chris that was impossible; maybe…anyway, he’d left and Chris had been glad he had. The blond had needed to learn how to deal with the memories and nightmares, and he had needed to do it alone.
Now, two and a half years later, it looked like he was ready to have Buck in his life once more, though there was a big chance that Buck wanted nothing to do with him. But even if the man refused the job offer, some things needed to be said between them - and the sooner the better. Chris hadn’t actually contacted his friend since he’d left, but he’d kept tabs on him; he knew Buck had transferred to the Albuquerque Police Department and that the gregarious man still worked there. So, he picked up his phone and booked a ticket for an early flight leaving tomorrow for New Mexico.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
It was close to noon when Chris arrived at the Albuquerque Police Station where Buck worked. He spotted a grizzled sergeant manning the front desk and headed over to ask him about his friend’s location.
“You just missed Detective Wilmington,” the older policeman said. “But he’s most likely over at Lester’s café. One of the waitresses there is his current love interest.”
‘Well, you can always count on Buck,’ Chris thought, asking for directions to the restaurant.
Indeed, once Chris entered the café, he could hear Buck laying on the charm. As he moved farther into the seating area he could see the Casanova sitting at one of the tables, keeping a rather pretty brunette in a uniform entertained at his side. The flirtatious man was working his trademark Wilmington magic on her. Chris watched them with amusement; damn, but he’d missed this show. Finally, the girl was called away by another customer, and Chris stepped into Buck’s line of sight.
“Afternoon, Buck. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Chris, you old war dog!” In a second, Buck was on his feet and grabbing Chris in a bear hug. Chris, who’d half expected (and in his opinion highly deserved) a punch on the jaw, felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders.
“Easy, big fella. Folks talk.”
“So let them,” Buck answered, but let Chris go and pointed at the seat across from him as he returned to his own chair. Chris sat down, and Buck motioned for the waitress to come back. “So pard, what are you doing here?”
There were several answers to this question, but Chris decided to begin with the simplest. If Buck accepted the invitation, there would be plenty of time to say those other things later, if he didn‘t … well, he‘d cross that bridge if he came to it. “Got a job proposition for you.”
“Huh?”
“Travis wants me to form a new special team within the ATF. I need a surveillance expert, explosives specialist and second-in-command. You interested?”
Carrie, the waitress, came back at that very moment, with all of the perfect timing of those in her profession. While she was taking Chris’s order, Buck somehow managed to overcome the shock of Chris seeking him out and offering him a job out of the blue. He forced himself to think, to really consider, whether or not he wanted to work with Chris again. The details didn’t matter - an ATF special unit or a knitting club - as long as Chris was in charge, the rest didn’t matter at all.
Buck Wilmington knew he’d been a good soldier and that he was a good detective on his own, but he also knew he was much better when working at Chris Larabee’s side. Hell, both of them were much more effective together than they were apart; Sarah had even called them ‘coherent sources’ once, a term from Physics, meaning together they created much more havoc than the sum of their separate efforts. And damn it, he had missed that synchronism on the job, just as he had missed his old friend. So yes, he wanted to work with Chris again, but the question was, was there a “Chris” inside the man sitting across the table from him at the moment? Neither the self-destructive force of personified anger, nor the empty shell he had finally left in Denver two and half years ago, were his friend Chris Larabee.
So, Buck listened to Chris explain how the future team would function and the role he would play in it, if he chose to take the offer. Then he asked Larabee about the way the ATF worked and about past cases, pretending real hard that a little catching up was all they needed at the moment. All the while, he was trying to find at least a glimpse of his old friend in the blond ATF agent. And what he saw and heard gave him hope. Of course, things would never be the way they used to be, and he wasn’t asking for that, but maybe they could start something new. Something good.
Automatically giving a warm smile to Carrie as she brought them the check, he waited ‘til she was out of earshot before musing aloud:
“I guess the women of Denver are feeling mighty lonely by now…”
“I’m afraid they are,” Chris answered, keeping his voice serious.
“So I’ve got to save some lonely souls now, don’t I? I’m in, Chris, on one condition.”
“Yeah?”
“You take care of the transfer paperwork. I had enough of that shit last time.”
The grin on Chris’s face was familiar, and that was gratifying. “Deal.”
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
“Damn it, I should have stayed a simple cop,” Orrin Travis mumbled, entering his office. With a compassionate smile, Shelly offered him a glass of water and a couple of pills. She always had them handy whenever he had to attend one or another political meeting. ‘Good girl.’ He thanked her with a nod, taking the pills as she asked innocently:
“Maybe you should hire someone special just for visiting the mayor's office, sir?”
“I’ll definitely think about it, Shel,” he answered, as usual. “What happened here while I was wasting my time there?”
“A pile of papers, waiting for your signature,” Shelly pointed at the ‘To Sign’ folder, “nothing important; the DA’s office sent the testifying schedule for the next couple of weeks; a final report on the Sanders case was submitted; and Agent Larabee called, asking to see you when it’s convenient.”
Travis sighed. He had actually been expecting to hear from Chris the next morning, and he couldn’t say if an early answer was a good, or bad, sign.
“Call Larabee, tell him I’m waiting for him,” he told Shelly and, taking the ‘To Sign’ folder with him, went into his room.
Ten minutes later Chris came in, wearing his usual unreadable expression. You could never tell what Chris Larabee thought at any given moment, not unless he wanted you to know; one of the reasons he was such a good agent. The quality Travis appreciated most about the man, though, was that he never beat around the bush.
“I’m accepting your offer, sir. It will be an honor.”
It took the AD some effort, not to show the relief he felt at that, and he answered just as seriously:
“I’m very glad to hear that, Chris. I hope we’ll create something worthy together.” They shook, and Orrin motioned Chris to a seat. “Have you thought about the qualities you’ll need in your men yet?”
“Yes, sir, I have. I wanted to ask what paperwork I require to transfer Detective Wilmington over from Albuquerque PD?”
Well, that wasn’t really surprising; in fact, it was almost a given. Travis remembered Wilmington, Larabee’s partner from the Navy and DPD, his shadow and anchor during the investigation into the Larabee family murders. The fact that he was the first person Chris thought of to invite was somehow reassuring, meaning the once depressed man did take the future team seriously.
“Leave his information with Shelly, I’ll start the necessary procedures. I take it he’s agreed?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Do you have any ideas for the rest of the positions?”
“A few, but I haven’t given them much thought yet.”
“I see, maybe I should reassign your current cases?”
“No need, sir. I’ll wrap them up in a week.”
“Good. There won’t be anything new until at least the core of the team is formed, so you can focus on the head-hunting.”
Chris gave a lopsided smile; Travis found a thin folder on his desk and pushed it towards his agent. “Here. There are some names within that might interest you. I’ll make sure you have high enough clearance to request full dossiers on them, or anyone you’d like - within reason, of course.”
Chris nodded, grabbed the folder and stood up, correctly assuming that the conversation was over for now.
“And Chris?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good luck.”
Another nod and half-smile, and Larabee left.
“Good luck,” Travis repeated in a whisper, and then mused louder: “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
Chris did as he had intended and finished off his cases as soon as possible. It was rather late when he finally had a moment to relax in his office and take out Travis’s folder with names. And though he dutifully ran through the list, his mind was clearly elsewhere.
Chris Larabee wasn’t a superstitious man, he’d never believed in signs and omens, but now his mind kept returning to the meeting in the bar on Friday. His inner voice, the sarcastic one, was mercilessly mocking him for that, but he did have rational reasons for thinking about these men, didn’t he?
The future unit needed its own forensic expert, in Chris’s opinion. Of course, the ATF had well equipped labs with good specialists downstairs, but Chris needed someone with the same priorities who wouldn’t be overloaded with dozens of other cases. At the very least, he needed someone able to translate when those kids in the white labcoats began talking a mile a minute in a language where only the articles were left from plain English.
Now, though he was a forensic scientist, Nathan Jackson certainly didn’t look like just a laboratory rat. He’d given off an air of someone with field experience, which was a good thing as Chris didn’t want anyone without it on the team. Justifying himself this way, Chris logged into the system and requested Jackson’s file. And, before he could think better of it, he also requested the file on one Vincent Tanner, US Marshal.
‘And what reason do you have for that?’ that irritating little voice asked. Chris sighed. All he could tell about Tanner, so far, was that the man was good at hand-to-hand combat, moved soundlessly, and was a damn good fisherman. Nothing extraordinary, except for the strange confidence Chris felt in his presence, confidence that his back was covered. After all, there was no harm in looking into the file, was there? Just out of curiosity.
Meanwhile, Jackson’s file was out of the printer, so Chris began reading it.
Oh. Definitely not a simple lab rat. A medic in the Army for several years, decorated even; a B.S. degree in biology with a minor in chemistry; currently, working as a crime scene investigator for the Kansas City PD, specializing in Incendiary Forensics. His record was spotless; he even had several commendations. Well. ‘Maybe it was time to start believing in signs?’
Apart from the general stuff, like fingerprints and matching bullets to guns, the ATF mostly dealt with strange liquids and explosives, which meant Chemistry and Incendiary Forensics (and though Buck was your guy when you needed to diffuse a bomb or create one from a couple of drinking straws and a plastic bottle, the restoration of one from burned remnants wasn’t his forte). And emergency medical training was really an advantage; Chris hadn’t thought about it before, but he remembered a few situations, both in the DPD and the ATF, when an ambulance was just a minute too late, or when it was too damn dangerous for civilian paramedics. So, Nathan Jackson had two of the skills from Chris’s list plus one bonus skill, and, besides, Chris had liked the man.
He couldn’t recall if Jackson had mentioned the case he’d been in Denver for, but a quick search found the answer. Chris whistled. He’d heard of the case, it was a really big one - no wonder Jackson had been stuck in Denver. There was a chance he still was, so Chris decided to have lunch in the court house cafeteria the next day. If the man was still needed in court, then Chris would find him during the break; if not, he’d contact him in Kansas City. Of course, it looked like Nathan Jackson had a good career there, and it was possible he wouldn’t want to start anew in what looked like an experimental unit, but for some reason that didn’t worry Chris.
Having made a decision and formulated a plan about Jackson, Chris reached for Tanner’s file.
Another one with a military background; he enlisted at 18, served in the Rangers…. Interesting, most of his Army record was classified, save for the list of commendations (impressive for someone so young) and a description of his official skills: weapons specialist, sharpshooter, and tracker. Again, two hits and one bonus: wonderful. Also, a degree in Criminal Justice, no less. Better and better. Honorably discharged at 24; the character reference from his last CO was present. After reading it Chris suddenly felt a big déjà vu; it took him a moment to realize that his own final reference from the Navy looked almost the same, save for the paragraph about leadership abilities. Funny.
But back to the file; seems he was a bounty hunter after the Army for a little over a year, and, despite the rather short stint, Tanner had brought in some really big fish. No wonder the Marshalls were eager to take him in. His record with them made Chris chuckle again - list of commendations, list of reprimands - very much like Chris’s own record with the ATF, not that he’d actually read it. Well, it looked like his gut was telling him the right thing; with such impressive skills, diverse background and experience under Tanner’s belt, Chris didn’t need to convince his sarcastic inner voice of anything anymore. The question, though, was how to find the Marshall?
Vin Tanner hadn’t left any phone numbers with Chris, and the only one in his file was the number to his Marshall’s office in Cheyenne. For some reason, Chris didn’t want to contact him through work, most likely because he didn’t want to involve any officials before he talked to the man himself. So that just left Nettie Wells.
The Texan hadn’t said what exactly his relation to Nettie was, but she had been a social worker for more than forty years, so it wasn’t that hard to guess, especially when no family was mentioned in Tanner’s file. However, he had said that he visited her regularly, so it was likely she had his contact info. This, of course, didn’t mean that she’d be willing to share them with Chris - she was a tough old lady and could be quite protective. He’d just have to convince her he meant no harm, but rather exactly the opposite.
Chris glanced at the clock - it was already late, and by the time he’d get home it would be indecently late. But, like most ranchers, Nettie was an early bird, so he’d just pay her a visit tomorrow, on his way to work. Maybe he’d get lucky, and get not just Tanner’s number but a few homemade cookies as well.
Laughing at himself and his plans for the next morning, Chris put the papers in his safe, shut the computer down and left the office.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
If Nettie Wells was surprised upon seeing Chris Larabee at her door at 7 a.m. on Thursday morning, she didn’t show it. It wasn’t the biggest surprise of her life, after all, so ten minutes later they were sitting in her kitchen, drinking coffee with fresh baked rolls and talking about weather and horses, just like in the good old times.
Actually, Nettie had never been close to Larabee himself, but to his late wife, Sarah. The two of them had quickly become friends; that friendship had only deepened once the younger woman had gotten pregnant and had her boy. Nettie had always been willing to help the new mother out with advice, or as an extra pair of hands. She had also babysat Adam so Sarah could get some chores done or the couple could spend some time alone.
Nettie was no stranger to loss, and yet the tragic death of the boy and his mother had hurt her deeply. It had also hurt to see what the husband and father was doing to himself in his grief. He had spiraled down a dark path for a long spell, but Chris Larabee had been back on track for some time now. However, something must have led him to her door now after such a long period without a visit.
“So, Chris,” she asked, refilling the coffee mugs. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to have a talk with Vin Tanner, Nettie. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me his contact information, or if you prefer, you could just tell him I’m looking for him.”
“Whatever for?” Nettie asked, immediately on the defensive. Of course, Vin told her repeatedly that he was a big boy now and could look after himself; that was true, he was a grown man now, and one who’d survived some terrible things, but she still sometimes saw that skinny teenager she’d discovered sleeping in her barn. Vin had told her he’d met Larabee in town, but he had omitted the specifics, and with his big heart and talent for trouble who knows what he might have gotten involved in…
Chris looked at her, as if weighing how much he could share, and then answered:
“I have a job proposition for him.”
That was a relief, but she needed more details; Chris must have understood because he continued after a pause.
“AD Travis wants me to start a new team within the ATF; I want Vin on this team.”
“You decided that after one fishing trip?”
Surprisingly, he chuckled. “Actually, yes. But I also read his file, Nettie, and he is what I need.”
Well, it was always nice to hear someone else recognizing Vin’s worth; and it sounded like Larabee was just as interested in the man himself as he was in his skill set. There was a chance Vin would accept the offer. It would be good to have him back home; and though Vin put out a good front, Nettie knew he wasn’t happy in Cheyenne, and didn’t actually feel like he belonged with the Marshalls. Chris Larabee was a good man, and, as far as she knew, Orrin Travis was one also, maybe they were just what Vin needed.
“I’ll tell him you have something to talk to him about. I can’t promise anything more.”
“That will be enough, Nettie. Thank you.”
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
“Ladies and gentlemen, this court will return to session at 2 p.m.,” the gavel pounded down and a crowd of witnesses, reporters, and gapers began to pour from the room, all in search of fresh air and food.
Nathan Jackson was one of the last people to leave the room, having been delayed by one of the DA’s assistants; the hall was almost empty when he exited, save for some vaguely familiar figure propping up the wall not far from the doors. Oh, he sure looked different in a suit, but it was definitely Chris Larabee, the ATF agent who’d helped him last week. The man must have noticed him, because he unstuck from the wall and took a couple of steps in Nathan’s direction.
“Good day, Agent Larabee,” Nathan greeted, outstretching his hand. “Are you testifying today, too?”
“No,” Larabee answered as he shook his hand. “I just wanted to discuss something with you, Mr. Jackson, if you have the time.”
Nathan shrugged. “I have about an hour. Maybe you know a decent place where we can have lunch other than here?”
Chris snorted. “I hate to have to say it, but the local cafeteria is the best place on the block. The rumor is, it’s some kind of conspiracy. ”
“Yeah, I heard that, but had hoped they were pulling my leg.”
Larabee shook his head, and together the men went downstairs to buy lunch.
Larabee’s offer was…surprising, to say the least, and more than a little flattering. Nathan had mentioned the bar incident, and the names of his saviors, to his Denver colleagues and he’d already heard enough second hand information about Chris Larabee to be impressed. The new unit sure sounded incredibly tempting too, a real chance to make a difference, but it had taken Nathan a lot of time and effort to build his career in the Kansas City PD, to earn his place; was a position on Larabee’s team worth the risk of starting everything anew?
And then there was Rain to consider. They’d met in high school and had quickly become friends, being the only ones in their class actually interested in studying more than in hanging out. They’d parted ways when Rain had won a medical scholarship and he had opted to join the Army, but had stayed in touch - first through letters and then by e-mail, following each other’s studies, careers and relationships. This was the first time since school where they’d been able to meet in person while both single, and Nathan found himself wondering if maybe it was time to try for something more than friendship. And that would definitely be easier if they lived in the same city, but was that a good enough reason for accepting a new job?
“I’m honored by your offer, Agent Larabee,” Nathan said before his silence would become impolite.
“It’s Chris.”
The forensic scientist nodded. “Okay, Chris. I can honestly say that I’m interested, but I need to think on it.”
“I understand that it’s a major change, and I won’t demand an answer right away. How much time do you need?”
Nathan thought about it; if everything went as planned, he would finish his duties in court today, and fly home tomorrow. And such decisions should be reached at home. “A week will be good, if that’s possible?”
“Of course, there’s no rush - yet,” Chris grinned and handed Jackson a card. “Feel free to contact me with any questions you might have.”
“Thank you, I will.”
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
Saturday morning found Chris in his barn, as usual; he’d just begun working when he was startled by familiar Texan drawl:
“Need a hand, Cowboy?”
Chris jumped and almost reached for his missing gun before he realized it was a certain US Marshall standing at the entrance.
“Damn it, Tanner, give a man some warning next time, will you?”
Actually, it should have been really disturbing, because usually people didn’t sneak up on Chris Larabee unnoticed, at least not on a sober Chris Larabee, but for some reason it wasn’t. Annoying, yes, disturbing - no. Another reason he should get Tanner on his team.
Meanwhile, the Texan just shrugged and gave a mischievous grin. “So, you need a hand here?”
Chris made an inviting gesture. “Be my guest.”
With a chuckle, Tanner joined him. The man clearly knew his way around a barn, because he started doing what needed to be done without further questions.
“Heard you wanted to talk with me,” he offered ten minutes later.
“Yeah, I do. I’m recruiting men for a new type of ATF team, and I have an open position with your name on it.” Chris then went into details, laughing to himself inwardly. So far he’d given ‘the team speech’ in a café in Albuquerque, in the cafeteria of a court house, and now he was giving it in his own barn; what interesting settings. What would be next, a beach in Florida?
Tanner did indeed know his way around a barn, so by the time Chris finished his speech and answered a couple of general questions, the main chores were done.
“So, are you interested?” Chris asked, when they both stepped outside.
Vin turned away, staring into the sky for a few moments, then glancing at the hills, before finally turning back to face Chris. “Is there a chance we’ll be able to get some guns off Denver’s streets in between savings of the world?”
Chris had a feeling there was something very personal for Vin in taking guns off the streets, but he filed it away to think about later. “I hope so,” he answered seriously.
“Then I’m in.”
Smiling, Chris outstretched his hand for a deal-sealing shake, but Vin seized his forearm in an old warrior’s grasp instead; the kind Chris had only seen before in movies. Something inside of him reacted to this, it felt right, like the gesture was telling him everything would be okay.
“Care for some breakfast?” Chris asked casually, after the handclasp finally ended. “Not as good as Nettie’s, I’m afraid, but still edible.”
Tanner laughed. “Sure. ‘An extra meal won’t do any harm’, as Nettie says. You have coffee?”
“Plenty.”
“Then lead the way.”
[end part one] [ part two]
That said, I need to inform you that our gracious mod, sparrowsverse, unfortunately lost her uncle today, so I will be posting the entries for the time being. Our thoughts and prayers go out to her and her family tonight.
Since LJ has a character limit, the stories will be posted in parts. We start with the one written by Black Rook, aka grachonok
Title: Finding the Rainbow
Fandom: Magnificent Seven
Author: Black Rook grachonok
Artist: DJ Aida dj_aida
Disclaimer: Well, they still aren’t mine…
Character/Pairing: All Seven with focus on Chris, Orrin Travis, Nettie Wells, Rain
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: n/a
Summary: The formation of the ATF Team Seven - from the very beginning.
Authors Notes: First of all, many thanks to MOG for the creating that wonderful sandbox, and to all the other authors who have kept ATF Universe alive and well! After hundreds of stories it’s nearly impossible to create something new when writing in this AU, especially the beginning story, so if you recognize some idea or plot twist as yours - you’re probably right :). Either ‘great minds think alike’, or I liked that idea so much it just became a part of my personal ATF fanon. In either case, please take it as a compliment :).
Special thanks to tpena19 for beta-reading!
Finding the Rainbow
“Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for takeoff.”
Orrin Travis, the Assistant Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives in Denver, fastened his seatbelt and watched through the window as the lights of DC slowly faded away. He’d spent the last week in the capital enduring endless meetings; this latest round of accountability a result of the last epic fail of the ATF as a whole. Strangely enough, most of the meetings were dedicated to searching for solutions and not to finger pointing, one of those possible solutions was on Travis’s mind now.
It had been decided that several special teams would be created and based in different major cities across the country; self-sufficient, effective teams capable of operating throughout the US. One of those future teams would be based in Colorado, and Travis had 6 months to organize the paperwork, hire employees, and get it started. Six month was a rather short period of time in which to accomplish such a task, but, fortunately, the Denver AD knew where he wanted to start. Amongst his agents was a man perfect for leading the new team; if he accepted the position, that is.
Chris Larabee, the man in question, was a former Navy SEAL and he used to work as a homicide detective for Denver PD. Travis had heard of him while Larabee had been working in Homicide, but their first face-to-face meeting had happened under very tragic circumstances. The Larabee car bombing had shook all of Denver’s law enforcement personnel; firstly, because it was a fellow officer who’d been targeted, and secondly, because his wife and son had been killed instead. Every agency in the area had been eager to offer their help, and, since it had been a bombing, the ATF had had a valid reason to get involved. The Denver branch had gotten lucky; one of Travis’s agents had found similarities between that bombing and two others, a distinctive signature that had led to one man. They’d managed to catch the bomber, but alas, it'd turned out that he was only a paid lackey, and he had refused to give up the name of his employer. He was sent to prison, and not long after, had been killed in his cell. The case had then gone cold. After that, Larabee had left the DPD, and though Travis had sometimes heard about the man (and nothing too pleasant either), he hadn’t seen him until five months later, when Chris Larabee had come to his office, looking for a job.
Orrin raised his eyes from the application lying on his desk, to the man sitting on the other side of it. This Chris Larabee, dressed all in black, didn’t look like the man Orrin had sometimes seen at law enforcement social gatherings well before the tragedy, but he did look much better than he had during the last time they had met. But Orrin had to ask.
“Why?”
“I won’t lie to you, sir,” Larabee answered, straightening himself up. “I’ve crawled out of a dark pit recently and I need a job to keep me from falling back into it.”
Travis liked the man’s bluntness and, well, he could understand the reasoning. In fact, he understood better than most; his own son, Stephen, a leading journalist for the Denver Post, was murdered ‘in the line of duty’ a couple of years ago, and it had been her job that had kept Stephen’s widow, Mary, from falling apart, and himself too, if he was being honest. And they were luckier than Larabee had been, they still had Billy.
“Why the ATF?”
Larabee gave a half-shrug accompanied by a half-smile. “You left a good impression.”
Travis hid his chuckle by studying the credentials in front of him. They were good, more than that, they were impressive. Larabee had potential, if he held himself together he might make a great agent . Travis felt he ought to give the man a chance; especially since they had failed to catch those responsible for his loss.
“I’m approving your application, Mr. Larabee. Welcome on board, Agent.”
Now, two and a half years later, Chris Larabee still worked in the ATF and he had earned as many commendations as he’d received reprimands. He worked alone, without a team or a partner, but he got the job done; the rookies were in awe of him, the brass, save for Travis, were constantly annoyed with him, and his fellow agents either admired or hated him - sometimes both. Larabee got results, but Travis knew the man was capable of much more than that. He wasn’t just a good soldier, detective and agent, he was an excellent officer, a talented strategist, and a born leader. A man didn’t just lose those qualities. Travis knew Chris Larabee was his best chance for getting a functioning team. The question was, did the man want the responsibility?
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
While the Assistant Director of the Denver ATF was in the air thinking about his most unorthodox agent, said agent was driving home after finishing work on the biggest of his current cases. Nearly exhausted, Chris had decided to leave the paperwork for Monday, and was halfway through Denver when he realized that he was hungry enough to eat a horse and the fridge at the ranch was most likely empty. Not in the mood for shopping or cooking, Chris began to pay attention to his surroundings - he didn’t know the neighborhood all that well, but it wasn’t the worst part of town yet, so there should be some passable places to eat. Soon he noticed the sign of a Mexican bar, hoping they served something besides tequila, he found a place to park nearby and went inside.
The bar wasn’t crowded, those who came for a quick drink after work must have already left and those who intended to celebrate through the night hadn’t yet shown up. All in all, there was one harmless drunk at one of the far tables, an African-American couple sitting at the bar chatting with the bartender, and three kids, who were obviously enjoying their first taste of being legal. Satisfied that there were no signs of imminent trouble, Chris took a table in the corner (facing the entrance, back to the wall) and asked for a menu. The food selection wasn’t all that varied, but he came here to eat, not dine, so Chris ordered the entrée with the biggest amount of meat in it, and a beer to polish it off with.
The food proved good, and Chris was in the middle of finishing his meal when a large group entered the bar, disrupting the quiet. There were at least a dozen men of different ages in the bunch; they didn’t exactly look like gang members, but they were no respectable citizens either. Damn, Chris sighed, he’d had too long of a week to want to get involved in a bar brawl on a Friday night. At least there was still a chance that he’d have enough time to finish his meal and leave before those hotheads started something - and they would definitely start something. But by the time Chris was ready to pay his check, trouble was already brewing - one of the ‘bad guys’ was flirting with the woman at the bar, totally ignoring her obvious displeasure. Of course her companion interfered, and then the rest of the wannabe Romeo's friends began to pay attention as well…
“Call the police, girl,” Chris said to his waitress. “Things are about to get ugly.”
She hurried away, and Chris stood up, appraising the situation. Not good. The men were far from sober, and they clearly wanted some entertainment; him announcing his lawman status, or even drawing his gun, would likely only make matters worse. And even if the man they attacked knew how to handle himself in a fight, and it looked like he did, the odds weren’t exactly promising. Suddenly something made Chris look to the bar's entrance. There was a man there, one who’d just come in and didn’t have enough sense to immediately bolt right back out again. The worn boots, faded jeans, fringed-leather jacket and Texas A&M t-shirt just screamed native Texan, the only thing missing was a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. The man's timing was either perfect or awful, but before Chris could finish this thought, he met the newcomer’s eyes. The man nodded almost imperceptibly - and the odds went to hell.
When the police finally arrived, the three of them had the situation under control; nevertheless, everyone involved had to pay a visit to the nearest precinct. Fortunately, the officer on duty remembered Chris from his days with the PD, and all possible misunderstanding were cleared up quickly. The arrested hotheads clearly wished they’d picked another bar after they learned that they had attacked a C.S.I. expert from Kansas City, who was in Denver to testify on a case, and that the men who had helped him were a Federal Agent and a US Marshal. Altogether, the three of them spent less than half an hour in the precinct and another hour in the nearest bar, one frequented by policemen and thus ‘much safer on a Friday night’. Actually, Chris would have preferred to just go home, but Nathan Jackson, the forensic criminalist, and his lovely lady, Rain, had insisted that they at least owed a cup of coffee to the two men who had risked so much to help them. So they had all relaxed together enjoying coffee and talking about nothing in particular. To Chris it’d felt like they’d known each other for ages, not just hours.
It was close to midnight when the couple drove Chris and Marshal Vin Tanner back to the Mexican bar where their vehicles were parked, hopefully still in one piece. Chris’s Ram looked okay, but for some reason he was reluctant to just climb in and drive away. He watched as Tanner, who indeed proved to be from Texas though he was now based out of Cheyenne, went to his car a couple of spaces further away, opened the door and then slammed it shut with a curse. He continued swearing as he came back.
“What’s wrong?” Chris asked when the man was on the other side of the Ram.
Tanner shrugged. “Just remembered what I needed at that bar. You by chance know the number for a reasonable towing company? The Jeep broke down again.”
“Ah.” With an understanding smile, Chris opened his cell, found the right number, pressed the call button and handed the cell to the other man. With a thankful nod, Tanner took the cell and arranged for his car to be towed to some repair shop, Chris didn’t recognize the name.
“Thanks,” Tanner gave the cell back. “Maybe you know a number to call a cab as well?”
“I have a better idea, Tanner. I’ll give you a lift.”
“Nah,” the lanky Texan shook his head. “I don’t want to put you out, I’m staying out of town.”
“Where?”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then answered: “The Wells ranch.”
Chris laughed briefly. “Get in the car, Cowboy. I live on the next ranch over.”
With a mischievous look that promised retribution for the moniker, Tanner climbed into the passenger seat.
They drove in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, not just a polite one. When they arrived at the driveway of Nettie Well’s house, Chris, somewhat to his surprise, heard himself saying: “There's a lake at the border of our properties, about three miles east of here. I’ll try to catch my breakfast there on Sunday; would be glad for some company.”
It was too dark to read Tanner’s expression, but he answered casually: “I’ll think about it, Larabee. Thanks for the ride, have a good night.”
“Yeah, say ‘hi’ to Nettie for me.”
“I will,” with that the Marshal left the car and walked towards the house. Chris watched him for a moment then drove home and, for once, slept like the dead till the next morning.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
On Monday, Chris Larabee came to work early, rested and refreshed, and even the endless paperwork didn’t sway his good mood. He was halfway through writing the report on his last case, when the workday officially started and the phone on his desk rang.
“Larabee.”
“Morning, Chris.”
That was Shelley, Travis's secretary. Did that mean that the AD was back from DC? “Morning, Shel. Is he back?”
“Yes, and he wants to see you at 11 a.m..”
“Whatever for?”
“I have no idea, Chris, honest. I haven’t even seen him myself yet, only a bunch of notes.”
“Okay, I’ll be there. See you.” Chris hung up and sighed. An unexpected summons from one’s boss was never a good sign, and the fact that Travis had just come back from a big meeting with his bosses didn’t improve the situation at all. Well, Chris still had almost two hours before the meeting, so he’d better get that report done before Travis saddled him with some new big headache.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
The phone on Travis’s desk rang at exactly 10:59 a.m.
“Sir, Agent Larabee is here.”
“Send him in, Shel.”
Chris entered with a wary expression on his face; clearly he didn’t expect anything good from this meeting. Funny, because Travis himself felt nervous like a schoolboy in the principal's office, and he was the boss here.
“Welcome back, sir. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I did,” Travis got up to shake his agent’s hand, then sat back down. “Have a seat.”
Chris sat, and Orrin took a moment to once again look over the papers concerning his new unique team; he still didn’t know how to present the idea to Larabee. He must have kept silent longer than he thought, because Chris asked softly:
“Sir, something wrong?”
“No.” Well, better take the bull by the horns. “Agent Larabee, I have a proposition for you. I have orders to start a special ATF task force, based out of Denver, and I want you to lead it.” Okay, now he can say he saw something very few people ever did - a shocked Chris Larabee. Travis pushed the papers towards the other man, adding:
“Look these over and give it some thought, Chris, please.”
“I will, sir.” Chris flipped through the papers a little, then asked: “The men who will make up the team?”
Not exactly a clear question, but Travis knew Larabee well enough to understand what he meant. “You can recruit whomever you deem worthy, as long as it’s within the law. I may have some candidates for you, but the final call will always be yours as head agent.”
Chris nodded.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
Chris sat in his office, eyeing the folder Travis had given him. He’d read it twice already, and damn, but it sounded interesting. A year ago, hell, maybe even last week, Chris would have said ‘no’ right off to anything that included a leadership position. After failing his own family so totally, he’d been sure he would never take responsibility for other people again; he even refused to have a partner anymore. But now something had definitely changed. Maybe that brawl on Friday had reminded him of more than simply what it felt like to have someone at your back in a fight; yes, it had just been a stupid bar brawl, but still…
Or maybe that quiet fishing trip with Tanner on Sunday morning had balanced something inside himself, something that had been unbalanced for a long time. Or maybe, just maybe, enough time had passed for him to have finally started healing. Or perhaps it was his conscience and his sense of duty, his father’s advice kept repeating in his head. ‘If something needs to be done, son,’ the tough Air-Force Colonel used to say, ‘do it yourself. Because no one else will.’ And that team sure looked like something that needed to be done.
Twenty minutes later, Chris was listing the skills he’d need in the team for it to be effective and self-sufficient. Finding all of those skills in only eight men (that was the maximum number permitted in the future unit, leader included) would be a challenge, but Chris felt he was up to it. But first of all, he needed at least one man on the team whom he trusted unconditionally, both as a person and as a professional. He needed someone who wouldn’t be afraid to address weak points in any plan, but would also be willing to do his part once the plan was approved; he needed a second-in-command. In other words, he needed Buck Wilmington. Chris settled back in his chair and allowed the memories to flow through his mind.
They had met during their first year in the Navy, and it had been mutual antipathy from first sight. They’d been at each other's throats when allowed for several months, until one disaster of a mission; the results of said mission were several people dead, Chris receiving a promotion much earlier than he expected to, and Buck becoming his partner, 2IC and best friend. They had been through some really bad shit together since then, and it had only strengthened their friendship, so when Chris had finally had enough of the Navy brass and their hypocrisy and left the service, Buck had followed. They'd graduated from the Police Academy together, and for the first time in its history, Denver PD had agreed to allow two formal rookies to partner with each other; DPD hadn’t ever had cause to regret this decision. Buck had been the best man in his wedding, had been Adam’s Godfather, and a very devoted one at that, and it had been Buck who had literally kept Chris alive after the tragedy.
Buck had kept him together during the investigation, and then, after the case had gone cold, Buck had hauled him home from countless bars, kept him from drowning in his own vomit, and stopped him from killing anyone or getting himself killed. Buck had been there despite all of the attacks from Chris - both verbal and physical - and though Chris’s memory of those days was still vague, he was pretty sure there had been plenty enough to run the man off many times over. His downward spiral had lasted for months; until, after one night Chris had no intentions of ever recollecting, he’d decided to stop and get his shit together. And Buck had been there to help then too. However, as soon as he’d been sure Chris wasn’t a threat to others or himself, Buck had left. Maybe he’d finally had enough of Chris’s shit, or maybe he'd just needed to grieve himself, and around Chris that was impossible; maybe…anyway, he’d left and Chris had been glad he had. The blond had needed to learn how to deal with the memories and nightmares, and he had needed to do it alone.
Now, two and a half years later, it looked like he was ready to have Buck in his life once more, though there was a big chance that Buck wanted nothing to do with him. But even if the man refused the job offer, some things needed to be said between them - and the sooner the better. Chris hadn’t actually contacted his friend since he’d left, but he’d kept tabs on him; he knew Buck had transferred to the Albuquerque Police Department and that the gregarious man still worked there. So, he picked up his phone and booked a ticket for an early flight leaving tomorrow for New Mexico.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
It was close to noon when Chris arrived at the Albuquerque Police Station where Buck worked. He spotted a grizzled sergeant manning the front desk and headed over to ask him about his friend’s location.
“You just missed Detective Wilmington,” the older policeman said. “But he’s most likely over at Lester’s café. One of the waitresses there is his current love interest.”
‘Well, you can always count on Buck,’ Chris thought, asking for directions to the restaurant.
Indeed, once Chris entered the café, he could hear Buck laying on the charm. As he moved farther into the seating area he could see the Casanova sitting at one of the tables, keeping a rather pretty brunette in a uniform entertained at his side. The flirtatious man was working his trademark Wilmington magic on her. Chris watched them with amusement; damn, but he’d missed this show. Finally, the girl was called away by another customer, and Chris stepped into Buck’s line of sight.
“Afternoon, Buck. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Chris, you old war dog!” In a second, Buck was on his feet and grabbing Chris in a bear hug. Chris, who’d half expected (and in his opinion highly deserved) a punch on the jaw, felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders.
“Easy, big fella. Folks talk.”
“So let them,” Buck answered, but let Chris go and pointed at the seat across from him as he returned to his own chair. Chris sat down, and Buck motioned for the waitress to come back. “So pard, what are you doing here?”
There were several answers to this question, but Chris decided to begin with the simplest. If Buck accepted the invitation, there would be plenty of time to say those other things later, if he didn‘t … well, he‘d cross that bridge if he came to it. “Got a job proposition for you.”
“Huh?”
“Travis wants me to form a new special team within the ATF. I need a surveillance expert, explosives specialist and second-in-command. You interested?”
Carrie, the waitress, came back at that very moment, with all of the perfect timing of those in her profession. While she was taking Chris’s order, Buck somehow managed to overcome the shock of Chris seeking him out and offering him a job out of the blue. He forced himself to think, to really consider, whether or not he wanted to work with Chris again. The details didn’t matter - an ATF special unit or a knitting club - as long as Chris was in charge, the rest didn’t matter at all.
Buck Wilmington knew he’d been a good soldier and that he was a good detective on his own, but he also knew he was much better when working at Chris Larabee’s side. Hell, both of them were much more effective together than they were apart; Sarah had even called them ‘coherent sources’ once, a term from Physics, meaning together they created much more havoc than the sum of their separate efforts. And damn it, he had missed that synchronism on the job, just as he had missed his old friend. So yes, he wanted to work with Chris again, but the question was, was there a “Chris” inside the man sitting across the table from him at the moment? Neither the self-destructive force of personified anger, nor the empty shell he had finally left in Denver two and half years ago, were his friend Chris Larabee.
So, Buck listened to Chris explain how the future team would function and the role he would play in it, if he chose to take the offer. Then he asked Larabee about the way the ATF worked and about past cases, pretending real hard that a little catching up was all they needed at the moment. All the while, he was trying to find at least a glimpse of his old friend in the blond ATF agent. And what he saw and heard gave him hope. Of course, things would never be the way they used to be, and he wasn’t asking for that, but maybe they could start something new. Something good.
Automatically giving a warm smile to Carrie as she brought them the check, he waited ‘til she was out of earshot before musing aloud:
“I guess the women of Denver are feeling mighty lonely by now…”
“I’m afraid they are,” Chris answered, keeping his voice serious.
“So I’ve got to save some lonely souls now, don’t I? I’m in, Chris, on one condition.”
“Yeah?”
“You take care of the transfer paperwork. I had enough of that shit last time.”
The grin on Chris’s face was familiar, and that was gratifying. “Deal.”
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
“Damn it, I should have stayed a simple cop,” Orrin Travis mumbled, entering his office. With a compassionate smile, Shelly offered him a glass of water and a couple of pills. She always had them handy whenever he had to attend one or another political meeting. ‘Good girl.’ He thanked her with a nod, taking the pills as she asked innocently:
“Maybe you should hire someone special just for visiting the mayor's office, sir?”
“I’ll definitely think about it, Shel,” he answered, as usual. “What happened here while I was wasting my time there?”
“A pile of papers, waiting for your signature,” Shelly pointed at the ‘To Sign’ folder, “nothing important; the DA’s office sent the testifying schedule for the next couple of weeks; a final report on the Sanders case was submitted; and Agent Larabee called, asking to see you when it’s convenient.”
Travis sighed. He had actually been expecting to hear from Chris the next morning, and he couldn’t say if an early answer was a good, or bad, sign.
“Call Larabee, tell him I’m waiting for him,” he told Shelly and, taking the ‘To Sign’ folder with him, went into his room.
Ten minutes later Chris came in, wearing his usual unreadable expression. You could never tell what Chris Larabee thought at any given moment, not unless he wanted you to know; one of the reasons he was such a good agent. The quality Travis appreciated most about the man, though, was that he never beat around the bush.
“I’m accepting your offer, sir. It will be an honor.”
It took the AD some effort, not to show the relief he felt at that, and he answered just as seriously:
“I’m very glad to hear that, Chris. I hope we’ll create something worthy together.” They shook, and Orrin motioned Chris to a seat. “Have you thought about the qualities you’ll need in your men yet?”
“Yes, sir, I have. I wanted to ask what paperwork I require to transfer Detective Wilmington over from Albuquerque PD?”
Well, that wasn’t really surprising; in fact, it was almost a given. Travis remembered Wilmington, Larabee’s partner from the Navy and DPD, his shadow and anchor during the investigation into the Larabee family murders. The fact that he was the first person Chris thought of to invite was somehow reassuring, meaning the once depressed man did take the future team seriously.
“Leave his information with Shelly, I’ll start the necessary procedures. I take it he’s agreed?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Do you have any ideas for the rest of the positions?”
“A few, but I haven’t given them much thought yet.”
“I see, maybe I should reassign your current cases?”
“No need, sir. I’ll wrap them up in a week.”
“Good. There won’t be anything new until at least the core of the team is formed, so you can focus on the head-hunting.”
Chris gave a lopsided smile; Travis found a thin folder on his desk and pushed it towards his agent. “Here. There are some names within that might interest you. I’ll make sure you have high enough clearance to request full dossiers on them, or anyone you’d like - within reason, of course.”
Chris nodded, grabbed the folder and stood up, correctly assuming that the conversation was over for now.
“And Chris?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good luck.”
Another nod and half-smile, and Larabee left.
“Good luck,” Travis repeated in a whisper, and then mused louder: “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
Chris did as he had intended and finished off his cases as soon as possible. It was rather late when he finally had a moment to relax in his office and take out Travis’s folder with names. And though he dutifully ran through the list, his mind was clearly elsewhere.
Chris Larabee wasn’t a superstitious man, he’d never believed in signs and omens, but now his mind kept returning to the meeting in the bar on Friday. His inner voice, the sarcastic one, was mercilessly mocking him for that, but he did have rational reasons for thinking about these men, didn’t he?
The future unit needed its own forensic expert, in Chris’s opinion. Of course, the ATF had well equipped labs with good specialists downstairs, but Chris needed someone with the same priorities who wouldn’t be overloaded with dozens of other cases. At the very least, he needed someone able to translate when those kids in the white labcoats began talking a mile a minute in a language where only the articles were left from plain English.
Now, though he was a forensic scientist, Nathan Jackson certainly didn’t look like just a laboratory rat. He’d given off an air of someone with field experience, which was a good thing as Chris didn’t want anyone without it on the team. Justifying himself this way, Chris logged into the system and requested Jackson’s file. And, before he could think better of it, he also requested the file on one Vincent Tanner, US Marshal.
‘And what reason do you have for that?’ that irritating little voice asked. Chris sighed. All he could tell about Tanner, so far, was that the man was good at hand-to-hand combat, moved soundlessly, and was a damn good fisherman. Nothing extraordinary, except for the strange confidence Chris felt in his presence, confidence that his back was covered. After all, there was no harm in looking into the file, was there? Just out of curiosity.
Meanwhile, Jackson’s file was out of the printer, so Chris began reading it.
Oh. Definitely not a simple lab rat. A medic in the Army for several years, decorated even; a B.S. degree in biology with a minor in chemistry; currently, working as a crime scene investigator for the Kansas City PD, specializing in Incendiary Forensics. His record was spotless; he even had several commendations. Well. ‘Maybe it was time to start believing in signs?’
Apart from the general stuff, like fingerprints and matching bullets to guns, the ATF mostly dealt with strange liquids and explosives, which meant Chemistry and Incendiary Forensics (and though Buck was your guy when you needed to diffuse a bomb or create one from a couple of drinking straws and a plastic bottle, the restoration of one from burned remnants wasn’t his forte). And emergency medical training was really an advantage; Chris hadn’t thought about it before, but he remembered a few situations, both in the DPD and the ATF, when an ambulance was just a minute too late, or when it was too damn dangerous for civilian paramedics. So, Nathan Jackson had two of the skills from Chris’s list plus one bonus skill, and, besides, Chris had liked the man.
He couldn’t recall if Jackson had mentioned the case he’d been in Denver for, but a quick search found the answer. Chris whistled. He’d heard of the case, it was a really big one - no wonder Jackson had been stuck in Denver. There was a chance he still was, so Chris decided to have lunch in the court house cafeteria the next day. If the man was still needed in court, then Chris would find him during the break; if not, he’d contact him in Kansas City. Of course, it looked like Nathan Jackson had a good career there, and it was possible he wouldn’t want to start anew in what looked like an experimental unit, but for some reason that didn’t worry Chris.
Having made a decision and formulated a plan about Jackson, Chris reached for Tanner’s file.
Another one with a military background; he enlisted at 18, served in the Rangers…. Interesting, most of his Army record was classified, save for the list of commendations (impressive for someone so young) and a description of his official skills: weapons specialist, sharpshooter, and tracker. Again, two hits and one bonus: wonderful. Also, a degree in Criminal Justice, no less. Better and better. Honorably discharged at 24; the character reference from his last CO was present. After reading it Chris suddenly felt a big déjà vu; it took him a moment to realize that his own final reference from the Navy looked almost the same, save for the paragraph about leadership abilities. Funny.
But back to the file; seems he was a bounty hunter after the Army for a little over a year, and, despite the rather short stint, Tanner had brought in some really big fish. No wonder the Marshalls were eager to take him in. His record with them made Chris chuckle again - list of commendations, list of reprimands - very much like Chris’s own record with the ATF, not that he’d actually read it. Well, it looked like his gut was telling him the right thing; with such impressive skills, diverse background and experience under Tanner’s belt, Chris didn’t need to convince his sarcastic inner voice of anything anymore. The question, though, was how to find the Marshall?
Vin Tanner hadn’t left any phone numbers with Chris, and the only one in his file was the number to his Marshall’s office in Cheyenne. For some reason, Chris didn’t want to contact him through work, most likely because he didn’t want to involve any officials before he talked to the man himself. So that just left Nettie Wells.
The Texan hadn’t said what exactly his relation to Nettie was, but she had been a social worker for more than forty years, so it wasn’t that hard to guess, especially when no family was mentioned in Tanner’s file. However, he had said that he visited her regularly, so it was likely she had his contact info. This, of course, didn’t mean that she’d be willing to share them with Chris - she was a tough old lady and could be quite protective. He’d just have to convince her he meant no harm, but rather exactly the opposite.
Chris glanced at the clock - it was already late, and by the time he’d get home it would be indecently late. But, like most ranchers, Nettie was an early bird, so he’d just pay her a visit tomorrow, on his way to work. Maybe he’d get lucky, and get not just Tanner’s number but a few homemade cookies as well.
Laughing at himself and his plans for the next morning, Chris put the papers in his safe, shut the computer down and left the office.
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
If Nettie Wells was surprised upon seeing Chris Larabee at her door at 7 a.m. on Thursday morning, she didn’t show it. It wasn’t the biggest surprise of her life, after all, so ten minutes later they were sitting in her kitchen, drinking coffee with fresh baked rolls and talking about weather and horses, just like in the good old times.
Actually, Nettie had never been close to Larabee himself, but to his late wife, Sarah. The two of them had quickly become friends; that friendship had only deepened once the younger woman had gotten pregnant and had her boy. Nettie had always been willing to help the new mother out with advice, or as an extra pair of hands. She had also babysat Adam so Sarah could get some chores done or the couple could spend some time alone.
Nettie was no stranger to loss, and yet the tragic death of the boy and his mother had hurt her deeply. It had also hurt to see what the husband and father was doing to himself in his grief. He had spiraled down a dark path for a long spell, but Chris Larabee had been back on track for some time now. However, something must have led him to her door now after such a long period without a visit.
“So, Chris,” she asked, refilling the coffee mugs. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to have a talk with Vin Tanner, Nettie. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me his contact information, or if you prefer, you could just tell him I’m looking for him.”
“Whatever for?” Nettie asked, immediately on the defensive. Of course, Vin told her repeatedly that he was a big boy now and could look after himself; that was true, he was a grown man now, and one who’d survived some terrible things, but she still sometimes saw that skinny teenager she’d discovered sleeping in her barn. Vin had told her he’d met Larabee in town, but he had omitted the specifics, and with his big heart and talent for trouble who knows what he might have gotten involved in…
Chris looked at her, as if weighing how much he could share, and then answered:
“I have a job proposition for him.”
That was a relief, but she needed more details; Chris must have understood because he continued after a pause.
“AD Travis wants me to start a new team within the ATF; I want Vin on this team.”
“You decided that after one fishing trip?”
Surprisingly, he chuckled. “Actually, yes. But I also read his file, Nettie, and he is what I need.”
Well, it was always nice to hear someone else recognizing Vin’s worth; and it sounded like Larabee was just as interested in the man himself as he was in his skill set. There was a chance Vin would accept the offer. It would be good to have him back home; and though Vin put out a good front, Nettie knew he wasn’t happy in Cheyenne, and didn’t actually feel like he belonged with the Marshalls. Chris Larabee was a good man, and, as far as she knew, Orrin Travis was one also, maybe they were just what Vin needed.
“I’ll tell him you have something to talk to him about. I can’t promise anything more.”
“That will be enough, Nettie. Thank you.”
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
“Ladies and gentlemen, this court will return to session at 2 p.m.,” the gavel pounded down and a crowd of witnesses, reporters, and gapers began to pour from the room, all in search of fresh air and food.
Nathan Jackson was one of the last people to leave the room, having been delayed by one of the DA’s assistants; the hall was almost empty when he exited, save for some vaguely familiar figure propping up the wall not far from the doors. Oh, he sure looked different in a suit, but it was definitely Chris Larabee, the ATF agent who’d helped him last week. The man must have noticed him, because he unstuck from the wall and took a couple of steps in Nathan’s direction.
“Good day, Agent Larabee,” Nathan greeted, outstretching his hand. “Are you testifying today, too?”
“No,” Larabee answered as he shook his hand. “I just wanted to discuss something with you, Mr. Jackson, if you have the time.”
Nathan shrugged. “I have about an hour. Maybe you know a decent place where we can have lunch other than here?”
Chris snorted. “I hate to have to say it, but the local cafeteria is the best place on the block. The rumor is, it’s some kind of conspiracy. ”
“Yeah, I heard that, but had hoped they were pulling my leg.”
Larabee shook his head, and together the men went downstairs to buy lunch.
Larabee’s offer was…surprising, to say the least, and more than a little flattering. Nathan had mentioned the bar incident, and the names of his saviors, to his Denver colleagues and he’d already heard enough second hand information about Chris Larabee to be impressed. The new unit sure sounded incredibly tempting too, a real chance to make a difference, but it had taken Nathan a lot of time and effort to build his career in the Kansas City PD, to earn his place; was a position on Larabee’s team worth the risk of starting everything anew?
And then there was Rain to consider. They’d met in high school and had quickly become friends, being the only ones in their class actually interested in studying more than in hanging out. They’d parted ways when Rain had won a medical scholarship and he had opted to join the Army, but had stayed in touch - first through letters and then by e-mail, following each other’s studies, careers and relationships. This was the first time since school where they’d been able to meet in person while both single, and Nathan found himself wondering if maybe it was time to try for something more than friendship. And that would definitely be easier if they lived in the same city, but was that a good enough reason for accepting a new job?
“I’m honored by your offer, Agent Larabee,” Nathan said before his silence would become impolite.
“It’s Chris.”
The forensic scientist nodded. “Okay, Chris. I can honestly say that I’m interested, but I need to think on it.”
“I understand that it’s a major change, and I won’t demand an answer right away. How much time do you need?”
Nathan thought about it; if everything went as planned, he would finish his duties in court today, and fly home tomorrow. And such decisions should be reached at home. “A week will be good, if that’s possible?”
“Of course, there’s no rush - yet,” Chris grinned and handed Jackson a card. “Feel free to contact me with any questions you might have.”
“Thank you, I will.”
~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~
Saturday morning found Chris in his barn, as usual; he’d just begun working when he was startled by familiar Texan drawl:
“Need a hand, Cowboy?”
Chris jumped and almost reached for his missing gun before he realized it was a certain US Marshall standing at the entrance.
“Damn it, Tanner, give a man some warning next time, will you?”
Actually, it should have been really disturbing, because usually people didn’t sneak up on Chris Larabee unnoticed, at least not on a sober Chris Larabee, but for some reason it wasn’t. Annoying, yes, disturbing - no. Another reason he should get Tanner on his team.
Meanwhile, the Texan just shrugged and gave a mischievous grin. “So, you need a hand here?”
Chris made an inviting gesture. “Be my guest.”
With a chuckle, Tanner joined him. The man clearly knew his way around a barn, because he started doing what needed to be done without further questions.
“Heard you wanted to talk with me,” he offered ten minutes later.
“Yeah, I do. I’m recruiting men for a new type of ATF team, and I have an open position with your name on it.” Chris then went into details, laughing to himself inwardly. So far he’d given ‘the team speech’ in a café in Albuquerque, in the cafeteria of a court house, and now he was giving it in his own barn; what interesting settings. What would be next, a beach in Florida?
Tanner did indeed know his way around a barn, so by the time Chris finished his speech and answered a couple of general questions, the main chores were done.
“So, are you interested?” Chris asked, when they both stepped outside.
Vin turned away, staring into the sky for a few moments, then glancing at the hills, before finally turning back to face Chris. “Is there a chance we’ll be able to get some guns off Denver’s streets in between savings of the world?”
Chris had a feeling there was something very personal for Vin in taking guns off the streets, but he filed it away to think about later. “I hope so,” he answered seriously.
“Then I’m in.”
Smiling, Chris outstretched his hand for a deal-sealing shake, but Vin seized his forearm in an old warrior’s grasp instead; the kind Chris had only seen before in movies. Something inside of him reacted to this, it felt right, like the gesture was telling him everything would be okay.
“Care for some breakfast?” Chris asked casually, after the handclasp finally ended. “Not as good as Nettie’s, I’m afraid, but still edible.”
Tanner laughed. “Sure. ‘An extra meal won’t do any harm’, as Nettie says. You have coffee?”
“Plenty.”
“Then lead the way.”
[end part one] [ part two]