Strenlich saw the ex-mercenary's face grow red with anger as the news of an escaped prisoner was read out loud, then watched as Kermit turned and headed for the detective's squad room.

Falling into his chair, Kermit began rapid-firing his fingers on the computer keyboard. The resident computer expert was steamed at the news that Thomas Morgan had escaped from the federal penitentiary two days ago. No one at the precinct would be likely to recognize the name except maybe Paul Blaisdell and one other.

A knock on the door brought Kermit to a halt. "WHAT?"

Detective Blake opened the door. "It's me, Kermit."

Kermit eyed the electronics expert warily. 'Yeah, he'd know about Morgan, too.' "Come on in, Blake," Kermit stated, his tone not as menacing.

Blake walked in, closing the door on their fellow workers' silent questions. "Just heard the announcement. When did he get out?" Not waiting for Kermit to change his mind, he sat in the empty chair that stood in the opposite corner of the small room.

"They were transferring him and some others to Statesville when apparently the bus overturned. Report said they took about fifteen prisoners and two guards to the ER. They didn't realize he was missing until about an hour later when some official's got to the hospital and did a roll call. That was a day ago, Blake. He could be anywhere by now." Kermit removed his sunglasses and tossed them on top of the desk, then rubbed his eyes.

"You gonna call the Captain?" Blake asked, forcing the memories of his and Kermit's shared past to stay out of his head.

"Phone lines are down. Paul took his cellular, but I can't get through. Must be in a shadow area… signal can't hit a relay tower. Peter's cellular is here, said they wouldn't need both."

"Lines are always down and Paul probably didn't turn on his phone. Doesn't mean Morgan is up there." Blake was trying to convince himself more than Kermit.

"Damn it, Blake! Something's going on. I can feel it just as much as I can feel the keyboard." Kermit jumped up, reached into a small filing cabinet, and pulled out his Desert Eagle. "Tell Frank I'm going up there."

Blake stood up, ready to protest, hoping that Kermit's gut instinct was wrong in this case. Morgan was known to the three ex-mercenaries and to most Secret Service agents as a killer who enjoyed killing. Blake remembered the private reserve in Africa that Morgan had owned -- remembered finding that instead of hunting tigers and elephants, Morgan hunted humans.

Shaking away the memory, he said, "I'll come with you."

"No, I need you to stay here, see what all you can get. If you don't hear from me by morning, call the Company." Saying that, Kermit holstered his gun.

Strenlich watched in astonishment as Kermit walked out the door.

"Where in the hell does he think he's going?" Strenlich yelled at Blake.

"Fishing," was all Blake answered as he went back to his own desk, not bothering to offer further explanations.

Peter jumped out of the boat, turning Paul's body over so the older man's face wouldn't be in the water. He scanned the woods for movement, listening for any sound of the shooter. The birds began their singing again. Taking that as an 'all clear', Peter pulled the limp body of his foster father onto the bank.

Paul wasn't moving or breathing. Peter started rescue breathing, something he'd been taught over the years and hoped to never have to use. After several ventilations, Paul coughed and attempted to roll onto his side.

Peter watched as each cough brought up lake water from Paul's lungs.

Thoughts of Paul dying ran through Peter's mind. "Paul? Can you hear me?" Peter pleaded. Running his hands and eyes over Paul's body, he noticed the thin fingers of red running from Paul's right shoulder to his side. Unbuttoning Paul's shirt, Peter saw the inflamed edges where the bullet tore through Paul's body. "Oh, no. Paul, come on. Wake up." Peter took off his jacket and stuffed it on the bleeding wound. The coughing had subsided and Paul's breathing seemed less stressed.

Paul moaned and opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut for a brief moment in an attempt to clear his vision. "Peter, w-w-what happened?"

"You were shot, Dad. Listen, we need to get you to the cabin. I think whoever did this is gone, but he may come back. Do you think you can walk?"

"I don't know." Paul's head spun and Peter's words sounded muffled, "I'm c-cold."

"I know. I'll get some blankets on you, but first we have to get to the cabin. Come on," Peter encouraged, putting his arms under Paul's and pulling him up.

Paul leaned on Peter, concentrating on making his legs support him. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"We have to get back. Just try and breathe slow." Peter looked around. 'Pop, where are you when I need you?' Placing Paul's arm over his own shoulder, Peter readjusted Paul's weight, then said, "Come on."

The distance from the lake to the cabin was only a hundred feet, but to Paul and Peter it was more like a hundred miles. The thin pathway became hard to travel as the two walked side by side, Paul leaning more and more into Peter, pushing him off the path into the brush.

Getting into the cabin was harder; Paul could not walk any further. The blood had started coming faster, each breath keeping the wound open. The water that Paul had aspirated added more strain to his lungs. Peter half-drug, half-carried him up the steps. "I sure do wish you were a little lighter," he commented, but his attempt at humor fell on deaf ears.

Laying Paul on the bed, Peter went to call for help. "Damn, phone lines are out. Let me see if I can pick up someone on the radio," he mumbled as he went out to his car. He had tried Paul's cell phone earlier at the water; his dunk into to the lake had ruined it.

Broken glass on the passenger side sent Peter into police mode. His senses went on alert: eyes watching for any movement, ears listening for any unusual sound, nose smelling any strange odors. Looking into the car, Peter found the radio had been pulled out. The multitude of wires that had connected it to the car battery and antenna were left dangling from the underside of the dashboard.

In its place was a letter addressed to Blaisdell. Peter made a quick scan of the area again as he opened the letter addressed to his foster parent.

'Blaisdell,
It is time to finish our game of big game hunter. You have until dawn to be traveling before I come after you. Shooting your son will be an added bonus. Make no mistake: I will make sure his death is slow, while you watch.
Morgan'

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