Faint sounds of traffic from the street below filtered up to the room where Johnny sat unconscious, head lolling down to his chest, while Dmitrii paced impatiently. Aleksei leaned against a pillar, alternately observing the unconscious man and his partner. A battery-powered utility lamp sitting on the floor lent a sinister cast to the nearly dark room. The old, metal chair holding Johnny was the only real piece of furniture in the second floor of the abandoned building. Most of the inside walls had been knocked out, leaving only the support pillars behind. A few wooden crates and pallets sat piled haphazardly against one of the exterior walls.

The pain in his head pulsed in time with his heart, as the strained muscles in his neck cramped from the awkward angle at which his head hung forward. Disoriented, Johnny looked up, trying to ease the kinks in his neck, confused at finding himself sitting in a chair, unable to move his arms or legs.

“So, Nikolai. You awaken,” Johnny’s attention was drawn to the sneering, angry, blond giant across the room.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Johnny asked in no little alarm and confusion.

“Don’t play the fool with me! I am not a patient man.” Dmitrii quickly covered the five paces to the chair where the man he mistook for Nikolai sat.

“Wait! Who’s Nikolai?” Johnny cringed as the large man bearing down on him filled his entire field of vision.

The blow snapped Johnny’s head backwards, cutting off his words. “You are a traitor to Mother Russia, Nikolai Nikolayevich Shcherbatov!”

“My name is John Gage. I’m from Wyoming,” Johnny mumbled dazedly, spitting the blood from his mouth.

“Your cover is very good, Nikolai. But I would recognize you anywhere. How long did you plan this defection?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not this Nikolai. My name is Joh…” This time the feel of a gun pressed against his temple stole the words from his mouth. Johnny closed his eyes and whispered, “No, please, no…”

Dmitrii pulled back on the trigger, and instead of a deafening roar, the click of an empty chamber echoed inside Johnny’s head. He blinked in surprise for a moment and then sagged forward against the bonds holding him to the chair.

Dmitrii yanked Johnny’s head back up by the hair and hissed into his face. “Do not worry, Nikolai. A shot to the head is far too clean for you.” He released his hold on his prisoner, reached for a package of Prima Stolichnayas, and lit one up, the bluish smoke curling into the air over his head as he considered his enemy. Grabbing Johnny’s hair once again, he forced the paramedic to meet his gaze. “Do you know how Sergei died?”

“I don’t know anybody named Sergei. Please! My name is…”

“Liar!” Dmitrii backhanded Johnny and then crushed the tip of his cigarette against Johnny’s arm. Continuing to speak even as Johnny yelled with pain-filled surprise and tried to jerk away, Dmitrii said, “He died slowly. Piece by piece. Bit by bit. Who was it, Nikolai? Who did you sell my brother to?”

Johnny gasped for breath. “Please! I’m not Nikolai! I’m not Nikolai! You’ve got the wrong person!”

“I’ll cut out your lying tongue, Nikolai!” roared Dmitrii as he withdrew a knife from the recesses of his coat and pressed the tip under Johnny’s chin.

Eyes wide with fear, Johnny scarcely dared breathe, much less speak. The sharp, sudden stinging at his throat and the warm, wet trickle of blood told him that the large man holding the knife must have cut him.

“Beg, Nikolai. Beg me to spare your miserable life!”

“Please! Please! You’ve got to believe me! I don’t know you! I’m not who you think! I don’t know anyone named Nikolai! You’re making a mistake!”

The older, dark-haired man who had thus far remained a silent observer came to stand in front of Johnny. “It is you who have made the mistake, Nikolai Nikolayevich. Bring the other one here,” he ordered his companion.

Dmitrii vanished from Johnny’s line of sight as he moved behind a portion of the wall that was still intact, and then quickly returned, dragging a bound and gagged Roy. He roughly dumped the paramedic on the floor near Johnny’s feet and left the room again. Roy groaned as he hit the floor, and then rolled to get a better look at his partner. He had heard the words and the blows, helpless to do anything more than listen.

Johnny eyed his partner with dismay. He had not realized that they kidnapped Roy as well. “Are you okay?”

Roy nodded, taking in the dark bruises forming along Johnny’s jaw, as well as the blood trickling from his split lip and underneath his chin.

“I’ve been better,” Johnny smiled weakly at Roy, in response to the unasked question.

Dmitrii soon returned and set the various boxes, oxygen and defibrillator down on the floor far more gently than he had the blond paramedic. “Quite a lot of interesting toys you have here, Nikolai,” he said with an evil grin. Opening up the drug box, he read off the labels on several vials and ampules. Finally he held up several pre-filled syringes. “Let’s play with these.”

Aleksei crouched down in front of Roy. “We presume you know how to use all of this…” he indicated the medical equipment on the floor. Upon receiving an affirmative nod from Roy, Aleksei continued, “Your task is very simple. You make sure he doesn’t die. Understand?”

After Roy nodded again, Aleksei cut through the tape holding Roy’s wrists together with one pass of his knife, and then freed the paramedic’s feet. Roy pulled the tape off his mouth, wincing as it peeled away some of his skin as well.

Dmitrii rose from the drug box with several filled syringes and pressed them into Roy’s hand.

“No!” refused Roy, defiantly trying to open his hand.

“Is this enough to kill him?”

Roy looked down at his hand still held tightly in Dmitrii’s grasp, and then glanced at Johnny, the calculations running through his unwilling mind. “No…” he said slowly. It shouldn’t be enough to kill his partner; just enough to make him very sick.

“Perhaps you would prefer we inject you instead, Mr….” Dmitrii squinted at Roy’s nametag. “Mr. DeSoto?”

For a brief moment Johnny considered bargaining with the two Russians. Perhaps if he just admitted to being this Nikolai, they would let Roy go. But in the end, he reasoned that the best chance of keeping them both alive long enough to be rescued would be to continue to deny the crazy assertion. The Russians would have no further need for Roy if Johnny confessed to what they wanted to hear. Surely they would kill Roy; and then, judging by the way they had behaved thus far, slowly and painfully kill him.

He locked eyes with his partner and spoke, his voice surprisingly steady, “Do it, Roy.”

Roy shook his head, the emotional anguish he felt writ plain on his face. “I… I can’t.”

“Do it!”

Aleksei held a gun to Roy’s head. “You would be wise to listen to him.”

Dmitrii let go of Roy as he felt the resistance leave the other man’s body. Roy swallowed nervously and then moved towards Johnny, shaking his head ‘no.’ Johnny nodded his head ‘yes.’

Roy glanced at the syringes in his hand, teeth worrying his bottom lip, then turned around, colliding into the big Russian that he had not realized was so close behind him.

“Where do you think you’re going? Stop stalling!” growled Dmitrii menacingly, accompanying the words with not a little shove.

Stumbling backwards, Roy gestured toward the open drug box and replied, “I need some equipment from there.”

“What do you need?” asked Aleksei coldly.

“Alcohol prep pads, for one thing. And, I want to establish an IV line.”

“Why?”

“If you expect me to keep him alive…” Roy took a deep breath to steady himself. “If he goes into shock, this is the most effective way to ensure delivery of… of whatever he may need.” Roy also wanted to avoid poking Johnny over and over again. The Russians didn’t need to know this reason, however.

Aleksei rubbed a hand over his chin as he regarded Roy with a stare that seemed to search out the truth in the paramedic’s assertions. Finally, with a brusque nod of the head and wave of the hand, the dark-haired stranger gave permission. “Proceed.”

Quickly gathering the necessary supplies, Roy knelt next to Johnny, his icy cold hands trembling as he applied the tourniquet and swabbed a patch in the hollow of the elbow.

“Don’t miss the damned stick.” Johnny’s feeble attempt at gallows humor did little to camouflage the fear in his eyes.

Roy’s eyes mirrored the same fear as he briefly looked up to meet his partner’s eyes. Roy compressed his lips, breath coming in little hitches, as he injected the contents into Johnny as carefully as he could, trying to spare his partner more pain.

When he was done, Roy again looked into Johnny’s eyes and murmured, “I’m sorry.” Sorry that Johnny would suffer. Sorry that he was the cause of the suffering. Sorry that he was a paramedic. He never would have imagined in a million years that he could be doing such a thing to anyone, let alone to his best friend.

Johnny didn’t say anything more. The drug burned as it filled his vein. He closed his eyes, unsure if his rapid heartbeat and shallow breathing were due to the drug or to his own fear. The first definite sign he noticed was a dizziness that swept over him, making the room seem to spin and tilt like one of those whirling rides at the county fair. He blinked his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear the blurring, trying to focus on Roy standing just a few feet away.

He gasped at the unusual sensation in his chest. At first, the drug-induced speed at which Johnny’s heart beat felt like an odd, squeezing sort of twinge. Then the sensation altered to a heavier, throbbing pain that began to build both deep within his chest and in his head. A moan escaped his lips.

Roy saw Johnny’s eyes start to move rapidly from side-to-side as a deep red flush flooded his partner’s face. His own breathing increased as he watched Johnny begin to labor with the effort to draw breath.

“Roy…” Johnny tried to swallow, his dry tongue suddenly sticking in his mouth, unable to properly form the words. “Roy, I can’t breathe…” His speech slow and slurred, his voice husky, “No air… suffocating…”

Roy started forward, intending to help his partner, but Dmitrii stopped him with an iron grip. “Wait.”

“No! I have to…”

“When I say.”

Hot. He felt so hot. Burning up. As if at a fire. The blood rushing through his ears became the roar of the flames, as his temperature rose, fueled by an internal heat.

“It’s going to flash!” Johnny struggled against the bonds holding him to the chair, witnessing a scene that no one else could see. “Get out! It’s going to flash!”

As Roy watched with increasing anguish, Johnny’s muscles lost their coordination, and began to convulse, his movements painful and jerky, his mouth worked but no words came out.

“He’s seizing! Let me go!” Roy tried to break away from Dmitrii’s firm grasp.

“Release him,” Aleksei ordered quietly.

Roy’s feet barely touched the ground as he covered the few paces to his partner. The paramedic knew that the only real treatment he could offer would be to tend Johnny’s symptoms as best as he could, there being no antidote for this particular drug. Determining the best course of action, Roy administered oxygen and hung an IV bag, then settled in to monitor the vitals.

“Come on, come on, come on…” he muttered, impatiently. Moistening a bandage, he gently wiped Johnny’s face and waited for the effects of the drug to abate. Gradually, with maddening slowness, the drug began to release its grip, resulting in a gratifying change in the symptoms Johnny was manifesting. Roy relaxed slightly, knowing it was now just a matter of time, waiting for the drug to metabolize out of his partner’s system.

***

Doctor Brackett sat before a sea of paper spread out over the top of his desk, the dark circles under his eyes and rumpled appearance of his clothing bearing witness to the fact that he had not left the hospital for over two days. His late dinner of cafeteria food combined with his irritation to give him a nasty case of heartburn as he warily watched two Central Intelligence Agency operatives read through Dr. LaGuerre’s chart, silently hating having to deal with the government men. Like so many other federal law enforcement officers Dr. Brackett had worked with over the years, Agent James Foster, an abrasive black-haired man in his early forties, was proving to be a thorn in the doctor’s side, second-guessing his every move and essentially ordering him to find the cure. David Perry, apparently the junior partner, didn’t talk much, but more than made up for it with an intimidating non-verbal presence.

“What about drugs?” asked the senior agent for what must have been the tenth time.

“As I’ve already told you, we tested for everything we could think of.” Dr. Brackett ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He cared deeply about Henri LaGuerre’s condition, but not for the same reasons as the CIA agents. “Some of them leave no trace…”

Agent Foster interrupted the other man. “May I remind you, Doctor, that Dr. LaGuerre is engaged in sensitive research that affects our national security. Those who would stop him have access to sophisticated pharmaceuticals.”

Taking umbrage at the agent’s tone, Dr. Brackett rose from his chair, hands flat on his desk, the muscle along his jaw twitching. “May I remind you, Agent Foster, that we have access to some of the most sophisticated lab equipment there is. If we can’t detect any poison, it’s not detectable, and…”

Changing tactics, the agent spoke over the doctor once again. “What are the names of the two paramedics who found him?”

The doctor visibly forced down his rising ire, and responded civilly, “Roy DeSoto and John Gage. Why?”

“Roy DeSoto and John Gage?” repeated the agent, writing the names down in a little notebook.

“Yes. Why?”

“Maybe there’s something else they noticed that will shed more light on this. Where can I find them?”

“They work out of LA County 51. They’re two of our top paramedics. I don’t think they would have missed anything. I don’t know what more you think you can get from them.”

Foster pocketed his notebook expressionlessly. “Sometimes the smallest, most insignificant detail is the key. They approach things from a different angle. I want to talk to them.”

“Fine. Fine. We have the number out at the base station.” Dr. Brackett moved to escort the two agents out the door, glad to be rid of them for a time.

***

Roy finished taking Johnny’s vitals yet again, which had surprisingly returned to normal, and then checked the reaction of his pupils with the penlight. This response, too, seemed to be as it should. He continued to hold his partner’s head with one hand, more for comfort than for physical support. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Johnny ran his tongue over his parched, cracked lips, then continued, his voice raspy. “Just really thirsty.”

“I’ll get you some water.” Roy straightened up and started toward the trauma kit.

Dmitrii held up a bottle for Roy to see. “What is the antidote for this?”

“Activated charcoal.”

“Do you have any?”

Roy nodded reluctantly. “It might not be enough…”

“Then, I suppose we will find out. Get it ready.” Dmitrii crossed to stand behind Johnny’s chair. “You are thirsty, Nikolai? Drink this!” Dmitrii forced Johnny’s head backward in a headlock with one arm, and pried his mouth open with the other. Aleksei poured some of the tincture into the trapped paramedic’s mouth, who did his best to spit it out. Dmitrii then pinched Johnny’s nose and held his mouth shut.

“No! Don’t!” yelled Roy, stretching out his hand as if he could stop the other man.

Dmitrii favored Roy with a small, contemptuous smile.

Johnny vainly struggled to free his head, but Dmitrii held him fast. Knowing he could only hold his breath for so long, he frantically considered his options. If he passed out, he would most likely aspirate the liquid into his lungs, which would probably prove almost immediately fatal. Unpleasant as his current circumstances might be, he was not dead yet, nor did he want to be. If he swallowed, he would probably wish he were dead, but if they permitted Roy to give him the activated charcoal in time, he would in all likelihood survive. He swallowed.

Dmitrii let go of Johnny, then stepped around him to stand in front of Roy, who stared at Johnny with a stricken expression on his face. “Don’t you have something you should be doing?”

Roy glanced up at the blond giant, wishing he were big enough, brave enough and strong enough to get rid of this man and get himself and his partner out of this surrealistic nightmare. He exhaled shakily before bending to the task at hand.

Aleksei and Dmitrii stood off to one side and watched both Johnny and Roy.

Johnny spit again, and more of the liquid dribbled out, running down his chin. The bitter taste made him shudder, and his stomach felt like he had been stabbed as a sharp pain knifed through his abdomen. He panted slightly, knowing that vomiting would soon follow. He hated puking. He hated it when victims puked on him in the ambulance. He hated it when he puked. And, he knew that this would be far worse than any flu or hangover he had ever experienced in the past. Almost before he knew what was happening, his stomach clenched in a powerful spasm and he began to heave.

The vomiting and cramping seemed to go on forever, making it impossible to even draw a breath. The small capillaries in his eyes burst under the pressure, and still his stomach convulsed. He gagged and choked, feeling as if his stomach were trying to squeeze up through his esophagus. Surely his ribs would crack from the strength of the contractions. The muscles of his abdomen began to cramp from the effort, and still the grip of the poison continued.

Roy mixed the water with the charcoal, creating thick black slurry. He stood and faced the two Russians. “I have to give him this now, or the damage will be irreversible!”

“Does he look panicked enough to you?” asked Dmitrii.

Aleksei considered Roy for a moment. “No. Let’s wait a few more minutes.”

Dmitrii crossed over to Roy. “I’ll hold this.”

Roy reluctantly let go of the container holding the solution. He glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes at the outside. After thirty minutes, the antidote would be useless. He tried to convince the Russians one more time. “He has to have it… Please. Let me give it to him.”

“You looked at your watch. Why?”

Roy considered lying. But, not knowing how much they knew, he was afraid to gamble with Johnny’s life. Pointing at the activated charcoal, he replied. “If you wait too long, that will be useless.”

“How long?”

“The sooner, the better.”

“Don’t play games with me. How long?”

“I don’t know how long is too long! Everyone reacts differently. Sooner is better!”

“Will he be dead in five minutes?”

“No, but…”

“Ten minutes?”

“Probably not. But…”

“Fifteen?”

“I… I don’t know!” Roy ran a hand through his hair in agitation.

“Ten minutes?” asked Dmitrii.

Aleksei nodded. “Yes.”

Dmitrii approached Johnny from the side, not wanting to step too near the noisome mess. Holding the activated charcoal up, he taunted, “Here is the cure. Tell me what I wish to know and it’s yours.”

Still gagging Johnny shook his head in negation.

Dmitrii tipped the container, allowed a couple of drops of the thick liquid to spill onto the floor. “Time is running out, Nikolai. Who did you sell my brother to?”

Finally able to breathe, Johnny gasped, “Didn’t…” That was all he had time for before another spasm gripped his abdomen.

Dmitrii continued to torment Johnny with the antidote for the next several minutes. His efforts went largely unappreciated, however, as the paramedic probably couldn’t have responded, even if he wanted to.

“Ten minutes, Dmitrii.”

Dmitrii stepped behind Johnny and once again forced the paramedic’s head back. He poured some of the liquid into Johnny’s mouth, which Johnny almost immediately vomited back up over Dmitrii’s hand.

Disgusted, Dmitrii motioned Roy over with the hand holding the activated charcoal. “Here.” He thrust the container at the blond paramedic while shaking his other hand. “Give it to him, and then clean him up.”

Roy reached for the mixture of activated charcoal with evident relief. He reached around his partner and put the antidote to Johnny’s lips. “Come on, Johnny. Try to drink this.”

Johnny swallowed, then gagged and once more vomited the thick, black mixture.

“You’ve got to keep this down.” The anxiety in Roy’s voice made the words sharper than he had intended.

“I know!”

Roy held the container to Johnny’s lips again, tilting it so that some of the liquid ran in. Johnny swallowed and shuddered, but managed to keep it in his stomach this time.

“Roy?” Johnny said tiredly, as his partner carefully wiped his mouth and face with a moistened cloth.

“Yeah?”

“You know how I was telling Chet that his cooking makes me puke last shift?”

“Yeah.”

“I ain’t doing that no more.”

***

“May I help you?” Cap inquired of the two tall, dark-haired men in suits.

Foster displayed his ID for Cap, noting that the man seemed somewhat distressed. “I called you a little while ago. We’re looking for DeSoto and Gage. We need to talk with them about a run they had on their last shift.”

Cap stared at the man for a shocked second, a thousand questions racing through his mind. “They’re missing.”

“What do you mean, ‘missing?’” Foster’s face betrayed nothing.

“They responded to a call over two hours ago. They never reported back. The police are checking it out now.”

Just then the telephone in Cap’s office rang. “Excuse me, please.” He went to pick it up. “Station 51, Captain Stanley… Uh huh… uh huh… I see. Well, keep us informed.” Cap glared at the receiver as he hung it up. Turning to face the two CIA agents who had followed him into his office, he told them what he had learned. “The location of their call was an empty lot. Some of the neighbors reported seeing them go up to a different house, but no one seems to be there now. They left shortly after they arrived, no lights, no siren. There’s still no sign of them.”

Foster and Perry exchanged glances, certain that the paramedics’ disappearance had some connection with Dr. Henri LaGuerre.

“What was the address that they went to?”

“Just a minute. I’ll go get it,” said Cap, getting up to retrieve the information from the call station. He returned less than a minute later and handed a slip of paper to Agent Foster.

“Mind if I use your phone?”

“Be my guest.” Cap indicated the instrument on his desk with a wave of his hand.

The agent dialed a number and had a terse conversation with the party on the other end. “Foster here. I want you to get me the names and backgrounds of all the people who live at and around this address: 125 Penrod. This is priority one. I’ll call back in an hour.”

A photo on the wall caught Agent Foster’s attention just as they were about to leave. “Is this your crew?” he asked Cap, pointing to the picture.

Cap’s gaze followed the man’s finger. He crossed to the picture, took it down and handed it to the agent. “Yes. This man is Roy DeSoto, and this man is John Gage.”

Foster studied the photograph and then handed it back. “Thank you for your time, Captain. Perry, let’s go.”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” protested Cap. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s a matter of national security, Captain. Your boys may unwittingly be involved. That’s all I can tell you.”

The two men strode briskly toward their car, Agent Foster waiting until they walked out of earshot before speaking to his partner. “We’re going to re-interview everyone who was working that day,” he said. “We’ll start with the building security staff. Maybe they remember something else.”

Cap stood in the doorway, watching the retreating backs of the agents. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. As he turned to re-enter the station, he collided with a wall of three concerned firefighters.

“Who were those guys?” “Who was on the phone?” “What did they say?”

Cap held up his hands to ward off the anxious men and recited the few details that he knew, concluding with the words, “They just disappeared.”

“How can a squad and two paramedics just disappear!” asked Chet in patent disbelief.

“Maybe they had an accident or engine trouble,” suggested Marco.

“Can’t we go out and help look?” asked Mike.

“Yeah! We can be available from the engine,” added Chet.

“I know you want to go out there and help. I’d like to go out there and find them as much as you do. But our orders are to remain here, on duty. 36s will handle as many of our medical calls as possible.”

“But…”

“Those are our orders.” Cap inhaled deeply and let his breath exhale slowly. “Let’s check the apparatus again, to make sure we’re ready for anything.”

The three firefighters silently complied, glad to be doing something more than sitting around, waiting and worrying.

***

“This drug is too dangerous. Too unpredictable,” Roy objected.

Aleksei considered the man standing defiantly before him. “Then you will have to be most skillful.”

“This is crazy! He can’t tell you anything!”

“While your loyalty is most admirable, it is misplaced. You are wasting time. You can administer the drug. Or, we can kill you and do it ourselves. Which do you choose?”

Aleksei watched as the internal struggle played itself out over the sandy-haired paramedic’s face. He was not surprised to hear the man capitulate.

“I’m going to need more oxygen off the squad,” Roy finally said, reluctantly.

Aleksei signaled Dmitrii with a jerk of his head, and the big, blond Russian quickly left the room to comply with the silent order.

Roy rolled the pre-filled syringes containing the drug between his palms, warming the liquid inside. He considered accidentally dropping them on the floor. Or, if the dark-haired Russian would just take his eyes off him for an instant, maybe Roy could depress the plunger and thereby reduce the amount of the drug he would be forced to give Johnny. All too soon, he heard the heavy tread of Dmitrii’s footstep on the stairs, and the moment for rebellion irretrievably passed.

Johnny stared fixedly ahead, not speaking or giving any indication that he knew what was going on around him. He neither flinched nor looked at Roy as his partner administered the drug, his only reaction being to close his eyes while he waited for the overdose effects to begin.

As Roy watched, the muscular tremors turned into convulsions and the irregular breathing gave way to wheezy bronchial spasms. With an effort that felt as if he had just torn his arm off, Roy escaped Dmitrii’s grip and lunged for his partner. Before Dmitrii could grab him again, Roy already began to prepare Johnny to receive the antidote.

“Let him go,” said Aleksei.

But, when Roy started to cut though the tape binding Johnny to the chair, Dmitrii knocked the paramedic’s hand away. “Stop! What are you doing?”

“I need his head to be down!”

Dmitrii tipped the chair so that the back lay on the floor. Roy slipped the oxygen mask over Johnny’s face and then pulled another bag of IV solution from one of the boxes.

Aleksei stopped him this time. “What are you doing with that?”

“This saline solution is part of the antidote.”

“Continue.”

“Come on, come on, Johnny.” Roy spoke softly to his partner while he worked. “Hang in there, Junior.” Finally the tremors ceased and the dark-haired paramedic’s breathing eased.

After what seemed like an eternity to Roy, Johnny’s eyes fluttered open and he groaned, rolling his head from side to side as if trying to dislodge the oxygen mask. Roy placed a calming hand on Johnny’s head. He heard what sounded like ‘take it off,’ Johnny’s voice muffled by the mask.

He leaned down and spoke to his partner. “You need to leave that on for a while. Try to relax.”

Johnny’s eyelids shut in response, as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and ran down into his ears.

Roy brushed them away with his fingers and tried to keep his own from falling. He had never felt so powerless in his entire life.

After a few minutes, Johnny opened his eyes again and called his partner’s name. He waited until Roy looked directly into his eyes. “Not your fault.”

***

Although it was evening time and the front-desk security guard had long ago gone home for the day, the two agents had no difficulty in locating the man’s house.

“We need you to tell us once again everything you saw on Friday.”

“Well, like I said. When Dr. LaGuerre came in that morning, he said ‘Top of the morning,’ to me as he came by the desk, just like he does every day. Then he went into his lab. Like I told you before, I had everyone sign in and out. All the visitors and deliveries are logged. I never left the desk.”

“What about when the paramedics arrived?”

“Mrs. Tate let them in. Well, I mean, I was standing at the front door when the paramedics pulled up. But, there was no one else in the lobby. And, then Mrs. Tate took them back to the lab.”

“You’re certain you saw no one else?”

“No.” The guard thought for a moment. “Oh, wait! I kept looking out the door, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. I saw a big, blond guy fooling around the paramedic’s truck. I think he was looking inside or something. He took off before the ambulance arrived.”

“What did this man look like?”

“He was big. Real big, like a football player. Maybe six-five or more. Two hundred fifty, three hundred pounds easy. And, he was wearing a black suit. I remember thinking that was kind of odd. You don’t see a lot of suits on people these days. Unless they’re at a funeral, or something.”

The two agents exchanged glances. This description matched only one active KGB agent in their area that they knew of: Dmitrii Vasilyev. And, where Dmitrii Vasilyev was, Aleksei Grigoryan was also.

“Damn,” cursed Foster softly. Then, more loudly, “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll get back to you later if we need anything else.”

The two agents walked back to their vehicle in silence.

“Are you going to fill me in on the rest of it now?” asked Perry.

Foster pounded his fist onto the roof of the car, an explosive expletive on his lips. “I want to know who the hell was doing the surveillance on Friday! How could they miss spotting two known KGB agents?” He thumped the roof of the car again. “Damn! This case just developed a new wrinkle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gage. The dark-haired paramedic in the picture at the station. He’s a dead ringer for an ex-KGB deep cover operative who died several years ago in a fire under suspicious circumstances. I’ll bet they noticed the resemblance…” Foster drummed the roof of the car thoughtfully. “We better find these paramedics soon, or there may not be much left to find. Radio ahead and have someone deliver photographs of Vasilyev and Grigoryan to Penrod Drive. And, get photographs of those two paramedics, too. Let’s go check out the residents.”

Agent Perry nodded his head and complied with the order, even before Agent Foster had backed the car out of the security guard’s driveway.

***

Aleksei calmly smoked a cigarette while Dmitrii paced like a caged tiger. Back and forth the blond Russian prowled, stalking past the chair that once again held the bound paramedic upright, hand snaking out to strike the man with each pass.

He stopped his pacing and reached out to cuff Johnny once again. He then grasped the paramedic’s face with bruising fingers and leaned down to force their eyes to meet. “How long do you think you can last, Nikolai? We already know the truth.”

Johnny made no reply, ears ringing from the blows and eyes seeing little sparkles dancing in the air around him.

“Patience, Dmitrii,” said Aleksei, casually blowing smoke into the air. “Perhaps it is time to try something else.”

Dmitrii kicked at the drug box on the floor. “There aren’t enough drugs here.”

“I wasn’t thinking about drugs. Something mechanical, perhaps?”

Dmitrii considered the idea thoughtfully for a moment, and then smiled a most chilling smile. He reached out and ripped Johnny’s shirt open, the buttons flying across the room and hitting the floor, sounding almost like the first kernels of popcorn in the popper. Johnny’s startled eyes filled with dread, following Dmitrii’s every movement as the Russian pulled a package of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and lit it.

“Don’t you know those things are bad for your health?” asked Johnny, coughing a little as Dmitrii blew the smoke into his face.

Dmitrii laughed once. “Such a clever one. They will be bad for your health, comrade.” He took another drag, making the end of the cigarette glow bright red, then pressed it against the skin on Johnny’s bare chest.

Johnny yelled and then gagged, the searing shock of pain and the smell of burnt flesh mingling with the cigarette smoke nauseating him.

“Why did you do it, Nikolai?”

“I’m not Nikolai!” he moaned.

Dmitrii drew on the cigarette, causing the red ember at the tip to flare hotly.

“No! Don’t!” Johnny struggled futilely against the bonds holding him to the chair, eyes irresistibly drawn to the object in Dmitrii’s hand.

“Why did you betray my brother?” repeated the Russian, applying the circlet of red fire once again to the paramedic’s chest.

***

Various law enforcement vehicles were already parked on both sides of the street at Penrod when the two agents arrived. Foster quickly located the CIA agent directing their activities at the scene, and hastened over to where the man perused several papers spread out over the hood of his automobile. At the sound of Foster’s and Perry’s approaching footsteps, the agent looked up.

“Agent Miller. What have you got so far?” asked Agent Foster.

The blond, middle-aged agent handed Foster one page bearing the names, addresses and occupations of all the residents on the Drive. He also handed over copies of fire department photographs of John Gage and Roy DeSoto, as well as pictures of the two KBG agents. “We’ve been interviewing the residents, taking their statements. Our best bet is probably that house.” Agent Miller indicated the home of Gennadi and Natalya Tanalov. “We’re searching for clues now.”

“Who hasn’t been interviewed?”

The blond agent consulted his clipboard. “Frank Jackson. Number 120.”

“Let’s go, Perry.”

A few minutes later, Agents Foster and Perry were leaving the Jackson house when the Tanalovs arrived back at their home.

The two men reached the couple just as Gennadi parked the car in the carport. Foster flashed his badge even before Gennadi finished getting out of the car. The sight of the government officials caused the Russian to visibly pale and stagger back against the vehicle.

Agent Foster reached out a hand to steady the man. “Are you all right?” he asked with a sincere expression of concern.

The startled man brushed the agent’s hand away and regained his composure. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Perhaps we could continue this conversation inside your home?” suggested Agent Foster.

Gennadi glanced at the door to his house, noting that it already stood open, the yellow light spilling out into the night. He nodded, then rounded the front of the car to assist his wife.

As they entered the residence, they saw several men working inside, brushing powder on various surfaces and collecting little bits of something in plastic bags. Gennadi’s eyes swept over the scene, and then he turned to the dark-haired agent. “What’s going on?”

“We believe your house was used to commit a crime tonight. Where have you been this evening?”

Gennadi nervously listed the restaurant and shops that they had visited and then named the movie theatre where they had finished the evening.

Foster handed the couple the fire department photographs of John Gage and Roy DeSoto. “Have you seen either of these two men before?”

The couple bent their heads over the pictures, whispering together as they examined the unfamiliar faces. Shaking his head in honest denial as he handed the pictures back, Gennadi said, “No. We have not seen these men.”

Agent Foster next displayed a photograph showing both Aleksei Grigoryan and Dmitrii Vasilyev. Natalya gasped in recognition, then her hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she had done, an expression of fear evident in her eyes.

Putting an arm about his wife’s shoulders and positioning his body slightly between the American Central Intelligence Agency operatives and Natalya, the Russian replied. “Yes. We have seen them.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.” He then proceeded to outline the visit made by the two Russian agents and the demands they made. “Are we under arrest?” he concluded, anxiously.

“No. You’re under the protection of the United States government. But, if these two ever contact you again, we would like to know about it immediately.” Agent Foster pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Gennadi. “You can reach me at this number.”

The two Russians nodded solemnly, expressions of fear and relief warring on their faces. “Thank you,” said Gennadi, as he accepted the card. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know what to do.”

“Now, what?” asked Agent Perry as they left the house.

“We keep looking. We need more manpower. I think it’s time to cooperate with the locals.”

***

Roy gently dabbed antiseptic cream to the burns dotting Johnny’s chest, wincing with every hiss of pain that escaped Johnny’s clenched teeth. “I don’t know how to help you,” he said softly. “I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this.”

Johnny exhaled shakily. “Me neither. But, if you see a chance to get away, take it.”

“I’m not going to leave you here…”

“Go and bring back help,” Johnny insisted quietly.

Dmitrii rummaged through the contents of the drug box and the trauma kit, examining the various items until he found what he wanted: a thick, oily emulsion. “Sit over there, DeSoto.” Dmitrii indicated a spot on the floor near Aleksei.

With a despairing glance at his partner, Roy reluctantly obeyed.

Making sure that Johnny watched him, Dmitrii slowly filled a small syringe and then waved the bottle in front of Johnny’s face. “Do you know what this is, Nikolai?”

Johnny nodded cautiously.

“You know, the Chinese use bamboo. I think this will be more interesting, don’t you?”

“No.”

Dmitrii heaved a dramatic sigh. “You force me to do this. Why do you not just confess who you are?”

“I told you who I am already.”

Dmitrii’s eyes glittered with hatred as he knelt down and grasped Johnny’s fist, prying the thumb loose.

Think about Wyoming. Think about the ranch. Think about riding a horse up into the mountains and watching the sunset. He couldn’t suppress a small gasp as he felt the needle go under his thumbnail, sending a fine white line of pain up his arm. He held his breath as Dmitrii began to depress the plunger, forcing the thick, viscous liquid in. The pain was indescribable, like nothing he had ever felt before, and he gritted his teeth together tightly. Think about baseball. Think about apple pie. Think about Chet hitting him with a water bomb. Think about anything but where he was, what they were doing to him. Tears began to flow from his eyes. Still he held his breath, knowing if he breathed, he would scream.

Dmitrii looked up into Johnny’s face and smiled, apparently savoring the agony he saw written on the traitor’s face. He refilled the syringe and slowly repeated the process on the index finger.

Johnny’s face became a mottled shade of reddish-purple as still he held his breath, his body trembling from the effort. From across the room, Roy also held his breath in frozen horror, unwilling to watch, unable to tear his eyes away, wanting to speak some word of encouragement to his partner, afraid to say anything that might make the situation worse.

Dmitrii started on the third finger of the same hand. “Confess who you are, Nikolai,” he said softly in Russian.

Johnny’s desperate attempt to jerk away from the source of the pain resulted in only shifting the chair a couple of centimeters back from Dmitrii.

“You cannot escape the inevitable,” the blond giant continued with a sardonic smile.

Think about his favorite run. The sound of his shoes crunching on the cinder path, the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves in the trees. The rich smell of the damp earth and the tang of moss covered rocks. The feel of the cool breeze on his neck and the warm sun on his face. Finally, Johnny had to breathe. The air rushed out of his lungs with a guttural scream and rushed back with a choking cry, which he bit off by clamping his jaw shut and holding his breath again. He squeezed his eyes shut as his body shook with suppressed sobs as the pain found expression through the tears streaming down his face and running from his nose.

Roy leapt up from where he sat on the floor, unable to stand it anymore. “Stop it! Stop it!” he yelled. “Why are you doing this? Can’t you see he’s not the person you’re looking for?”

He made it halfway to the chair holding Johnny before Aleksei’s gun stopped him. “I think you’d better sit down, Mr. DeSoto.” The chilling expression on the Russian’s face left no doubt of his willingness to use the weapon if Roy failed to comply.

Roy remained standing, breathing hard, his eyes on Aleksei’s face. He could not believe that this was really happening. Worse than any nightmare he’d ever had, this feeling of utter helplessness, of being forced to violate principles he believed in, this involuntary participation in the torture of another human being. And not just any human being, but his best friend and partner. When this was over, he didn’t know how Johnny could ever forgive him. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive himself, either. There would be no exoneration.

“You want to do something, DeSoto? Remove his shoes and socks.”

“Why?”

“I grow weary of your defiance!” roared Dmitrii as he advanced on Roy. “Do it now!”

Roy scooted back out of Dmitrii’s way, ashamed of his cowardice, miserably believing that he had indeed made things worse with his outburst. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured to Johnny as he did Dmitrii’s bidding.

Johnny opened his eyes and exhaled slowly. His breath hitched with each inhalation as he stared fixedly at the top of Roy’s head and he noticed that his partner’s hair was starting to thin. He fought the urge to start laughing hysterically, knowing that all too easily the laughter would turn into involuntary sobs. The rhythm of his heart beat in each of the injured fingers, stabbing the nerve endings with sharp, fiery impulses that seemed to travel all over his body. He tried to breathe with the pain instead of fight it. Isn’t that what they always told pregnant women in labor to do? Breathe with the pain. Ride up over the top of it rather than drown in the depths of it. Pain with a purpose. Except, this pain had no purpose.

“Get back over there.” Aleksei waved Roy away with the gun after his task was completed.

“What did the CIA promise you, Nikolai?” asked Dmitrii as he filled the syringe again.

“My name is John,” he gasped, shifting his focus to Dmitrii’s face.

“And my name is Mickey Mouse. Welcome to the amusement park.” Dmitrii pried Johnny’s little finger out of the other tightly fisted hand and held it straight. “How much money did they give you?”

“No! Please, no!”

Dmitrii thrust the needle under Johnny’s fingernail and began the torture again.

Johnny hung on for as long as he could before he began screaming uncontrollably. “Let me die!” The words both surprised and shocked him. Surprised, because he had no intention of saying such a thing. Shocked, because for the first time in his life, he truly meant them. He would welcome death; or at least, oblivion.

His world reduced to only the present eternity of hell, helplessly tossed on a tempest of pain, buffeted in a storm of unmitigated misery, overwhelmed by a hurricane of unimaginable horror. And Johnny drowned, as wave after wave crashed over him in the ocean of unending agony, cursing fluently in English, screaming disjointed phrases, howling in an incoherent language without words.

***

Agent Foster quickly pulled the car into the space labeled “Police Commissioner,” tires squealing as he slammed to a stop.

Raising his eyebrows, Agent Perry commented, “Making a career change?”

Nonplussed, the older agent considered his younger partner. “Blood sugar getting low, Perry?” he finally inquired, kicking open the door.

The other agent cracked a grin. “Well, it has been a long time since we ate.”

Foster banged the car door shut. “I’m sure they’ll have some donuts and coffee. Local cops always do. I hate dealing with locals. They always think they should run the show.”

Agent Perry closed his door with a snort and followed his partner inside police headquarters. Jurisdiction between local and federal law enforcement agencies was frequently a sore point.

Flashing his badge at the desk clerk, Foster identified himself and his partner before demanding brusquely, “Where’s the Captain’s office?”

“Down the hall, through the bullpen, first door on the left,” came the equally terse response.

As the two federal agents entered the office, the Carson City Police Captain and the LA County Sheriff’s Department Chief paused in their conversation to eye the newcomers. The Police Captain, a stocky grey-haired man in his mid fifties, spoke first, extending his hand, “I’m Michael Roberts.” Indicating his fellow law enforcement official, he continued, “Alan Buckingham.”

The four men shook hands briefly and Agent Foster launched into his reason for requesting the meeting. “As you are aware, two LA County paramedics, along with their squad, have been missing since approximately six-thirty yesterday evening. We have reason to believe that they may have been abducted by hostiles from a foreign government. We need all available manpower to search the city and its surrounds. The more time that elapses, the less likely we are to find them alive.”

The LA County Chief folded his arms and asked, “Why would two LA County paramedics be involved with foreign spies?”

“I didn’t say the foreign nationals were spies. As for the circumstances, let’s just say it’s a case of bad timing and mistaken identity. Finding them is a matter of national security. That’s all I can tell you.”

Two more federal agents entered the office, and after introducing the men, Agent Foster spread out a map on Captain Roberts’ desk. Tapping the document as he spoke, Agent Foster addressed the assembled city, county and federal law enforcement officials. “We need to lay down the search pattern radiating from the Tanalov residence. It can’t be that easy to hide a rescue squad. Someone has to have seen something.” He looked up from the map, meeting and holding the gaze of each one present before moving on. “I assure you that this is a matter of grave national security. Make this priority one. Let’s move.”

***

Aleksei put his hand under Johnny’s chin, forcing the abused and battered man to look up at him. He spoke softly and encouragingly. “Come, Kolya,” he said, using the Russian diminutive for Nikolai. “Tell us the truth and the pain will stop.” Aleksei carefully observed Johnny’s face for any sign of recognition.

Johnny just stared back with red-rimmed, deadened eyes as the salty moisture continued to drip down his face. His head fell back to his chest when Aleksei let go.

Dmitrii spoke next. “You are a stubborn man, Nikolai Nikolayevich. How long do you think you can last? Your body has its limits and we have just begun. You cannot resist what we will do to you. No one can. Sooner or later you’ll tell us the truth.” The Russian made a show of selecting another bottle. “Let us see if this will loosen your tongue.” He filled several syringes with the liquid and then slapped them firmly into Roy’s hand.

“No!” Roy shrank back from the big Russian. “He’s had too many drugs already. His heart…”

Dmitrii shoved Roy towards Johnny. “Quit stalling.”

“I can’t do this!” Roy faced Aleksei, trying to plead with him. “This might kill him!”

“We are aware of that. So might this,” replied the Russian, raising his gun to Johnny’s head. Indicating the filled hypodermics in Roy’s hand with a jerk of his chin, he added, “It is your job to make sure those don’t.”

Roy debated with himself. What if he just refused? Would they really kill him outright? They obviously didn’t know how to manage the drugs. They would probably resort to more physical torture if Roy were dead. He didn’t want Johnny to be tortured. He didn’t want Johnny to die. He didn’t want to die himself. He wanted to go home to Joanne and the children. He wanted to wake up in his bed and find out that this had all been just a horrible nightmare.

“DeSoto!” the voice interrupted Roy’s thoughts. He knew he was indulging in wishful thinking, and that if he refused to cooperate, then these Russians would probably just kill both of them. The only hope of salvation lay in remaining alive long enough for someone to find them. He looked at the hypodermics in his hand. Injecting the drug intravenously would, of course, result in an almost immediate reaction. Injecting such a large amount intramuscularly would slow the absorption, but would cause severe pain and perhaps even lead to tissue necrosis in the smaller muscle of the arm.

Decision made to extend his partner’s life if possible, Roy exhaled shakily without saying anything else and leaned over Johnny. He swabbed an area on the deltoid muscle.

“No.” Johnny’s hoarse whisper breathed in Roy’s ear. “In the vein.”

Roy began to argue quietly. “It’s too fast-acting that way.”

Johnny stopped him with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

“Did you mean what you said before… about wanting to die?”

“No. Sorry about the screaming.” Johnny spoke low and fast, his voice gravelly with pain. “But inject it in the vein. Too much damage in the muscle. You can control it. I know you can.”

Dmitrii intervened in their discussion by grabbing a handful of Johnny’s hair and snapping his head back. “You have something interesting to say, comrade?”

“No,” Johnny ground out through clenched teeth. “We’re just having a professional consultation.”

Dmitrii released Johnny’s head with a vicious jerk. “Inject him now,” he ordered Roy.

Desperately wishing he would awake from the living nightmare, Roy swabbed the medicine port and injected the contents of the syringes one by one. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t meet Johnny’s eyes again. He quite possibly had just given his best friend a heart attack.

A strong hand around Roy’s biceps jerked him to his feet when the task was done. “Prepare whatever antidote you need,” directed Dmitrii, shoving him in the direction of the medical paraphernalia scattered on the floor. “If he dies, you will be next.”

With his attention half on Johnny, Roy switched on the defibrillator, and set out the gel. He placed a BP cuff around Johnny’s arm and then prepared a syringe containing what he hoped would be enough to counteract the overdose. His thoughts floated with an odd detachment through his mind, as he considered the irony of the same drug that had been the previous cause of Johnny’s torture now being the cure.

Johnny began to moan and writhe on the chair as the drug took effect. Gasping for breath, he wheezed, “Can’t breathe… Hurts… Oh, god, Roy!” His head fell forward and he started to gag, veins popping out on his neck.

“Hang on. I’ve got you.” Roy could see rapid waves undulating through the vein on Johnny’s neck, but his fingers could detect no pulse. Circulatory arrest! He quickly inflated the cuff and got no pressure reading. Roy’s own heart threatened to go into tachycardia as he held the paddles against Johnny’s chest and read the atrial flutter on the scope. Setting the paddles aside, he reached for the bandage scissors to cut Johnny free. Dmitrii clamped his hand over Roy’s wrist, the crushing grip causing Roy to drop the scissors. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

“I can’t treat him in this damned chair!” yelled Roy, trying to jerk his hand free. “It’s metal! He’s dying! Every second counts!”

“Cut him loose,” said Aleksei without emotion, even as Dmitrii already began to slice through the duct tape binding Johnny to the chair. The two Russians lowered the semi-conscious man to the floor.

Roy set the dial to 100 watt-seconds and smeared the gel on the paddles. “Move back!” Roy barked as he proceeded to defibrillate Johnny.

Roy read the scope once more. “Damn. V-fib,” he said to himself. “Countershock.”

Roy pushed the button to recharge the paddles and impatiently waited for the display to work its way up to the new setting of 400 watt-seconds, feeling the sweat trickle down his back. The count seemed to take longer than usual. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that one of Johnny’s outflung hands rested against Aleksei’s foot. Making a split-second decision that he hoped he could live with, he said nothing before applying the paddles to the chest of the man he considered to be more than just a partner, then pressed the discharge buttons on the paddles.

As Johnny’s body arched upwards, the charge knocked Aleksei off his feet and he went down hard. Roy found himself flying in the opposite direction, aided by Dmitrii’s sizable fist, as the air filled with Russian expletives.

“Are you alright, Aleksei?” Dmitrii asked his partner, helping him to sit up.

“Yes,” he replied groggily, rubbing first his ankle and then his head. “My head. It will clear. Bring me something to sit on.”

Dmitrii pulled a crate over from the other side of the room and assisted Aleksei up onto it. The dark-haired Russian’s murderous growl evinced an undoubtedly monstrous headache, as he drew his weapon and pointed it at Roy. “So, DeSoto. You wish to play games with…” he gestured at the defibrillator. “With that machine. Very well. We shall play.”

Roy had crawled back over to Johnny and was administering a drug to help keep Johnny’s heart in sinus rhythm. Without a glance in the dark-haired Russian’s direction, he replied sarcastically, “You’re not going to have anybody to play with if you don’t let me finish.” Placing the paddles against Johnny’s chest, Roy was relieved to see on the monitor evidence of normal cardiac electrical impulses. A quick check confirmed that all of the other vital signs seemed to be stable as well.

Johnny’s physical appearance was another thing, however. The broken blood vessels around his eyes had blackened like bruises, matching the ones darkening his jaw, made all the more stark by the grey pallor of the normally tanned skin. The whites of his eyes were streaked with red. Traces of pain ravaged his features, etching lines on his face, making him look old and frail, a silhouette of the man Roy knew.

“You okay?” He knew it was a stupid question, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Johnny managed a small, bleak half-smile. “All things considered, I’d rather be scrubbing the latrine. How about you?”

The corner of Roy’s mouth moved in a ghost of a smile. How Johnny could sustain any semblance of humor throughout this ordeal was beyond his comprehension. But, he felt grateful for his friend’s effort, nonetheless.

“Enough! How does this work?”

***

“It just really frosts me how the feds think they can come waltzing into our jurisdiction and tell us to make their case a priority one,” grumbled Officer Bill Watson as he drove the black and white through the night.

“Yeah. And all that mumbo jumbo about national security. I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, but most pushers and prostitutes don’t have a heck of a lot to do with national security.” Officer Tom Halsted wholeheartedly agreed with his partner, as he nonetheless kept a lookout for the missing rescue vehicle.

“Unless one of them was going down on some mucketymuck shmuck,” chuckled Watson.

“That’s probably it. Although, what an LA County paramedic team would have to do with national… hey! Make another pass by that building. I thought I saw something in the back.” Halsted’s whole demeanor changed, his previous jocularity vanishing as he strained to see through the darkness.

Officer Watson swung the squad around at the next light and slowly drove by the two-story building.

“You know, I think this might be it. There’s no reason for that to be there.”

“Call it in.”

Officer Halsted was already reaching for the radio. “Base, this is Charlie 31. We have located what appears to be LA County Squad 51 in the back parking lot at 586 Boiler Street. The vehicle is partially hidden behind a Dumpster and we have not gotten close enough for positive identification. This building is supposed to be vacant, but there appears to be a light coming from the second floor. Over.”

“Charlie 31. Do not approach the vehicle or the building. Continue surveillance and wait for backup.”“10-4”

***

After Roy reluctantly explained the operation of the defibrillator, Dmitrii picked up the paddles and set them against Johnny’s chest.

“Wait, Dmitrii.” Aleksei stopped his young partner. “This man is stubborn enough to die. I have noticed the rapport between the two. Perhaps we can use this blond one against Nikolai. Tie him to this pillar.” Dmitrii grunted in reply, then hauled Roy over and secured him to the spot indicated by Aleksei. Next, he liberally smeared the gel all over the blond paramedic’s chest. This gel would serve as a conduit between the two paddles, causing an electric spark and creating a burn. Aleksei set the defibrillator to 100-watt seconds. He didn’t want to run the risk of accidentally killing this man. Yet.

When the dial showed the correct number he said to Dmitrii, “It’s ready. Make sure you don’t touch him except with the paddles.” With a nod, Dmitrii set the instrument against Roy’s chest, enough to make contact, but not enough to complete the circuit, and depressed the buttons. A flash, a sizzle and a scream filled the air. “Again.” Once more the big Russian complied. Once more the paddles created a spark and burn on the chest of the paramedic tied to the pillar.

Although he was expecting the pain and tried hard not to react to it, another yell forced its way out of Roy’s mouth. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the pillar, gasping and trembling uncontrollably. “Again.” Dmitrii applied the paddles to Roy’s chest once again and lightly held them there, while he stared into the paramedic’s eyes with a small cold smile. On the monitor, Aleksei noticed the accompanying rise in heartbeat. He turned the scope so Johnny could see as well.

“Your friend suffers for your lies, Nikolai. You can prevent this. Tell us the truth.” Johnny lay on the floor where they had left him, unable to do more than helplessly watch. “Leave him alone!” He tried to yell the words, but they came out as only a weak rasp. Aleksei’s only response was to reset the defibrillator while he scrutinized Johnny’s face.

Dmitrii activated the buttons and the smell of burning flesh permeated the air.

Johnny painfully pushed himself up to a sitting position using the heels of his hands. “I’m Nikolai, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m Nikolai!”

“Then you will die as Sergei did. Slowly and painfully, piece by piece,” said Dmitrii in Russian, setting the defibrillator paddles down.

Johnny stared up blankly at the big Russian, seeming to not understand the words spoken. As he crossed to where Johnny sat, Dmitrii repeated the threat once more. Enraged that Johnny’s face continued to evidence his apparent incomprehension, Dmitrii leaned down and yanked the paramedic to his feet. “Stop pretending you don’t understand me, Nikolai!”

The KGB agent slammed the object of his hatred into a pillar and held both sides of Johnny’s head with his hands, thumbs pressing into the hollow below the eye. He glared at the man and snarled in Russian, “First, I will gouge out your eyes, so you cannot see. Then, I will cut out your larynx, so you cannot scream. I will disembowel you and use your intestines to tie you to this post. Then, if you still live, I will slowly carve away your flesh until I have cut out your heart.”

The expression of fear and bewilderment on Johnny’s face and in his eyes did not alter during Dmitrii’s speech. He knew he was going to die. In a husky, barely audible voice, he began to recite the words of a prayer in a language the Russians did not recognize.

Aleksei, who had been closely observing the dark-haired paramedic’s response, put a hand on Dmitrii’s shoulder. “He is not Nikolai, comrade.”

Dmitrii made no response, frozen in place save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest as the harsh sound of his breathing filled the room. A soft groan from Roy, Johnny’s voice quietly droning on, the sound of the occasional car horn from below punctuated the living tableau.

Still Dmitrii stared at the man he held pinned against the pillar. The light from the lamp on the floor threw a ghoulish cast to his features.

“He is not Nikolai,” repeated Aleksei. “We will dispose of them another way.”

Dmitrii abruptly let go of Johnny and stepped back. The paramedic slid down the pillar to the floor as his knees gave way. Silent now, he watched Dmitrii and Aleksei talk through unfocused, pain-glazed eyes.

“He looks like Nikolai.”

“But, he is not.”

Dmitrii nodded once, snapped a clip into place, then applied a silencer to the muzzle of his gun. He knelt down next to the dark-haired paramedic and straightened his arm, pressing the gun against Johnny's temple once again.

Johnny closed his eyes, breathing shallowly. “Please. Please let my partner go.”

Aleksei put a hand out to stop his younger partner. “Wait. The bullet can be identified. We don’t need that right now. I have a better idea. Let’s burn the place down. As you well know, it will destroy all the evidence.”

Dmitrii nodded. The idea held a certain, twisted appeal. He began to drag the wooden crates and pallets over to the center of the room. Aleksei bent over the boxes of medical supplies, looking for something that would serve as an accelerant to help the fire start burning hotly.

Outside, several members of the CIA and the Carson City Police Department fanned out around the exterior of the building, taking shelter where they could. A few men detached themselves and headed toward the rear entrance. Agents Foster and Perry, along with some members of the SWAT team, crept noiselessly up the back stairs. They could see the light and hear the sound of something being dragged over the floor. A man’s voice speaking in a foreign language carried down the stairwell as well.

Once they were in position at the top of the stairs, Foster gave the signal for the men to rush into the room.

“Police! Freeze!”

Upon hearing the warning, Aleksei reflexively began firing his weapon in the direction of the voice. Dmitrii dropped the crates he carried and reached for his gun as well. Before he could draw it, Johnny lashed out with his legs, catching the big Russian off-guard and sending him crashing to the floor. Dmitrii recovered quickly and incapacitated the hindrance to his escape with a blow to the chin.

The deafening bark of fire play filled the room and in the second longer that it took Dmitrii to lay hand to his weapon, the SWAT team had covered the distance and trained several assault rifles on his chest. Face expressionless, he slowly raised his hands. A glance in Aleksei’s direction told him that his partner no longer lived. As Dmitrii looked around the room, his eyes rested on Agent Foster. This man he recognized. “I demand to speak to someone at the Russian consulate.”

“The situation is contained. Send the paramedics up.” One of the SWAT team members spoke into his walkie-talkie.

Agent Foster also contacted his men, ordering them to come up and take custody of Dmitrii Vasilyev. He watched as the SWAT team relieved Dmitrii of his weapon and handcuffed the big Russian. Satisfied that Vasilyev would not be able to escape, Agent Foster turned and crouched down to get a better look at the battered paramedic lying on the floor, an odd expression crossing his features. Sensing someone watching him, Johnny opened his eyes. “Foster. Nahm Sie lang genug,” he murmured in recognition.

The CIA agents were just walking a handcuffed Dmitrii past as Johnny spoke. “Nikolai! I knew it! I knew it!” screamed Dmitrii, lunging toward the man on the floor. After a brief scuffle, the federal agents dragged him away, his screams of ‘Nikolai’ echoing in the stairwell as they hauled the wildly struggling man down the stairs.

Johnny’s eyes widened as he realized what language he had spoken. With his last reserve of strength, he clutched the lapel of Agent Foster’s coat, heedless of the pain in his fingers. “You’ll handle this?” His voice came out little more than a croak.

“Yeah, but it might be dicey…”

Johnny pulled the agent closer and hissed. “Just handle it. We had a deal…”

Foster gently disengaged Johnny’s hand from his jacket. “Deal.”

The CIA agent wordlessly watched as a different pair of paramedics arrived, carrying their own set of equipment. He continued to observe as these paramedics skillfully provided pre-emergency room treatment for their colleagues. More firefighters arrived, bringing two Stokes upstairs, since the electricity to the building had been shut off long ago. Foster lent a hand in carrying Johnny down the stairs and transferring him into the waiting ambulance. He watched, face impassive, until the doors closed on the vehicle bearing the man called John Gage. Agent Foster stood thoughtfully staring into the distance for a few moments longer. Then he decisively strode to his car. He had a job to finish.

**********

Four days later, Roy had just barely been settled into a room on the medical-surgical floor when Dr. Brackett appeared in the doorway. “Are you up for a roommate?” smiled the doctor as he held the door open for the orderlies pushing the gurney inside.

“Hi, partner,” croaked Johnny as they parallel parked him next to Roy’s bed. “Looks like they let you out of ICU, too?” His eyes swept over his partner. Roy’s trunk was covered in gauze from the burns he had sustained, and an IV was still attached to one wrist.

“Yeah. Just a little while ago.” Roy performed a similar assessment on his partner. Johnny bore bandages from head to toe, with both hands and feet swathed in white. And where the bandages didn’t cover, colorful bruises marred the visible skin. A few tubes and bags that delivered and collected fluids remained in place as well. Johnny closed his eyes and grunted slightly as he was moved.

Dr. Brackett watched the orderlies finish transferring Johnny to the bed, and then began to check his vitals.

“How do we rate the head of ED giving us personal service?” asked Roy with a weary smile.

“I’m always interested in the condition of my paramedics,” replied Dr. Brackett distractedly, his attention on Johnny. He finished with a quick visual examination of the dark-haired man in the bed. “Do you need something for pain, Johnny?”

“Yeah. Not morphine, though. Makes me, uh, gives me nightmares. Demerol would be nice,” Johnny replied without opening his eyes.

“I’ll do the prescribing, thank you very much,” said the doctor with a wry smile. Then, looking at Roy, “What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll send a nurse in with something, Johnny. You guys get some rest. See you both later.”

The two men lay in their respective beds in silence. Roy stared up at the ceiling while Johnny kept his eyes closed. A few minutes passed before a nurse came in and brought Johnny the needed pain relief.

The silence in the room blanketed the two men, settling like a thick fog, enveloping them, hiding them deep within their private thoughts.

After a while, Johnny opened his eyes and looked at Roy. “No permanent cardiac damage?”

Roy shook his head in negation. “How about you?”

“You know me. I’m going to be fine.” Johnny’s grin seemed a bit more wan than usual, but it was a grin nonetheless.

“That’s what they told me.” The blond paramedic let the silence stretch a bit longer. “I’m thinking about quitting.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“No. I don’t. Tell me.”

“I… the things I did… As Brice would say, they weren’t compatible with the EMT oath I took.”

“Screw Brice. You saved my life.”

“I can’t live with what I did to you.”

“I don’t blame you. You had no choice. They would have killed you. And me.”

“I tortured you.”

Johnny sighed. “You didn’t. They used you. You didn’t have a choice.”

“Did you know that I defibrillated you while your hand was on the old guy’s foot? I might have killed him. I knew that, and I did it deliberately.”

“You saved my life, Roy,” Johnny repeated. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t quit because of this.”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t decide right now. You’re not thinking clearly.” Johnny put what he hoped was a most miserable expression on his face. While he could be persuasive when he wanted to be, he was not above using a little emotional blackmail when necessary, and he knew Roy to be susceptible to guilt.

Now Roy sighed. “Maybe you’re right.” He looked at his partner, something else troubling him. “Johnny, what exactly did you say after those guys came in to rescue us?”

“I don’t really remember. Why?” Johnny gazed innocently at his partner, starting to put his left arm behind his head, and then repenting of the idea as the movement woke the throbbing in his fingers. Except for his toes and fingers, he didn’t really feel too bad at the moment, now that the Demerol had kicked in.

“Whatever you said really set that big, blond guy off.”

Johnny shrugged as if it were unimportant. “I don’t remember a lot of things about what happened. Something in the language of my fathers, probably.”

Roy stared at his partner, wanting to believe. But, just how much did he really know about Johnny’s past?

The arrival of the rest of the crew precluded any further discussion of the topic. The CIA had not allowed Roy and Johnny to have any unsupervised non-hospital visitors until this day. An agent had been posted outside each of their rooms in the ICU, and had accompanied the medical personnel whenever they needed to tend to their respective patients. Not even Joanne had been permitted to see Roy privately.

“Hi guys!” “Hi Johnny!” “Hi Roy!” the voices chorused as the engine crew from Station 51 trooped into the room and stood around the foot of the two beds.

After the usual inquiries regarding the health of the two men, the rest of the crew expressed their concern about what had happened. Chet broached the topic that no one else seemed willing to voice aloud. “So, what really happened, you guys? They just told us you were kidnapped. Why?”

Johnny and Roy exchanged a glance, deciding by unspoken agreement how much to say and how much to leave unsaid. Debriefing interviews and psychological counseling with the Agency had already provided Roy with guidelines about how much of the truth could safely be revealed. And, of course, Johnny already knew.

“Have a seat,” Roy gestured to the uncomfortable hospital-issue metal chairs at the bedside.

Cap and Chet each pulled up a chair while Mike lounged against a wall and Marco remained standing by the foot of Roy’s bed. They listened with rapt attention as the two paramedics described the run and briefly talked about the encounter with Aleksei and Dmitrii, leaving out most of the gory details. Even Chet knew better than to ask; he could see the evidence with his own eyes.

“So, it was a case of mistaken identity?” clarified Cap.

“I’m telling you, they thought I was a Russian spy,” Johnny grinned as much as his face would allow.

“Gage, that is about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” snorted Chet. “No one would mistake you for a spy. You're just too goofy."