Well, Jeff thought, glancing at the chronometer on the wall next to his desk, until tonight.

John's eyes watched expectantly from his portrait. Virgil appeared pained as he hovered between his father's desk and the painting that led to Thunderbird 2. Alan and Gordon looked apprehensively at one another as Tin-Tin entered the room followed by Jeff's mother. Kyrano and Brains were the last to file in; the former looking as though he'd had to pry himself out of bed and the latter as though he'd never gotten there to begin with.

It was three-thirty in the morning, and International Rescue was needed. The trouble was they were needed in two different parts of the world. And there were only so many Thunderbirds to go around.

"Is there any way we can drop men and equipment off at one DZ then head to the other?"

This suggestion from Virgil. Jeff looked up to John for the answer.

"I'm afraid the situations are equally dire," was John's not-unexpected response. "If you go to one," he continued, "there's no way you'll make it in time to the other."

"Dad?"

Jeff looked at his eldest. "This is the type of situation I'd hoped never to face," he said. "But you know as well as I do, we have rules for it." Scott nodded once. "John, number of victims in both locations, please."

John looked aside at one of his monitors. "Twelve at the fault line north of Sukhoy." He paused and then turned back toward the camera to face them all. "One hundred and forty-two at Merlo, just outside Buenos Aires."

"Right, then that's the decision-maker," Jeff said, looking quickly at each of his sons. "Buenos Aires it is, boys. Pod Five."

"F.A.B.," Virgil acknowledged, moving quickly. Scott's back was already against the wall that led to Thunderbird 1. He silently triggered the switch on the left lamp-post that rotated him around to 1's extending gantry.

Gordon and Alan disappeared from the lounge, racing down the hall and into the elevator that would take them to the passenger section of Thunderbird 2's cockpit.

Brains sighed. Even with everything he'd helped make possible through his work with International Rescue, it was situations like these that made him feel completely helpless. He looked up at John, who met his eyes briefly before his feed winked out and was replaced by his digitized portrait.

"I'll put the coffee on, Jeff," Ruth Tracy said, shuffling tiredly toward the kitchen.

Mumbling, "I-I'll be in the lab," Brains retreated with a sympathetic Tin-Tin at his side, leaving only Jeff and Kyrano in the lounge.

"An impossible choice, Mr. Tracy."

He looked Kyrano straight in the eye. "One I've made," he said stoically.

Kyrano nodded and moved out to the balcony. Jeff watched as slowly he descended the staircase. A quiet sigh almost didn't make it past his lips as he lowered his head and ran his hands through unkempt salt-and-pepper hair, trying in vain to correct the bedhead look and then realizing it didn't really matter anyway.

The smell of coffee from somewhere nearby did little to assuage the nagging guilt settling into Jeff's gut. He knew his sons were going to save over one hundred and forty people from one disaster, but that as a result they were powerless to save twelve others somewhere else.

Nobody had ever said, thought or even hinted that this rescue business would be easy. Hell, every one of them knew none of the people at either Danger Zone would have a snowball's chance in hell of living given the circumstances relayed to them by John. So if even one person made it out alive thanks to the Tracys and their Thunderbirds, it was a win, right?

Jeff studied the wood grain in the top of his desk. Right?

The debrief had come and gone. Air hissed through Scott's teeth as Brains applied an eight-inch strip of syntheskin to his right tricep. Easy stuff like this they could handle on the island, keeping them from having to make way too many trips to nearby hospitals. Damn the falling tree that had decided it was going to deliberately and quite intentionally fall directly on Scott Tracy's head just as they were finishing up the rescue. His eyes darted beyond Brains there in the island's sick ward, and he set his jaw firmly. Damn Virgil for having to be the one to yank him out of the early death wish he seemed to be sporting these days, too.

Christ, now he'd owe him again.

Honestly, it wasn't like Scott had purposely walked into the path of the charred twenty-foot tree trunk knowing somehow magically that the goddamn thing would choose that precise second to come down. But Virgil's right tibia and left fibula were now broken, and there was a good chance he'd concussed just enough to make his pupils decide being different sizes was the status quo.

Brains finished applying the syntheskin and pronounced Scott fit to leave the infirmary. Virg wouldn't be retreating under his own steam for at least a double-checked his brother's vitals alongside Brains. The lab-coated scientist gave him that Would you get the hell out of my way, please look that pissed Scott off no end, while at the same time making him admire his wiry pseudo-brother all the more for having the balls to stand up to him.

"All right, all right," Scott muttered, pulling a white muscle shirt on as he exited the infirmary. He wasn't surprised to meet his father ten feet down the hall.

"Virgil up yet?"

Scott shook his head. "Brains is keeping him down until he laser-seals the bone fractures in his legs."

Jeff stopped, understanding as Scott did that being underfoot in the infirmary when Brains was doing his best to patch one of them up was really not healthy. Because who would've guessed Brains had a streak running through him that could even make a billionaire sit up and take notice? Yes, genius was apparently like that, what with the fine line between it and madness, and all.

So Jeff pivoted smoothly and matched Scott stride for stride until they reached the elevator. It was waiting with doors open and true to Alpha Male form, both eldest Tracy men boarded at the same time. If the elevator doors had been deliberately designed to be extra-wide simply to accommodate two control freaks who never let the other go first, that secret hadn't actually been revealed to them.

"You know, Scott-"

"Dad, I was-"

Other than the fact that, as Virgil had so astutely observed not two days prior, Scott was becoming more and more like their dad with each passing day, it was nothing short of entertaining to both men when they attempted to initiate a conversation at the same time. Scott doubted, however, his father would be amused for very much longer given what his chosen topic was.

They left the elevator and moved the short distance from the hallway into the kitchen, and then from there across the massive dining room until finally they reached what most of them called the Office, but was for all intents and purposes to outsiders, referred to as the Lounge. Jeff seated himself on the new and much softer couch Penelope had brought with her on her last visit, insisting that if this was supposed to be a lounge, it needed more than a settee that disappeared into the floor and a bunch of armchairs and tables to sit on.

Scott joined him and felt a little prickly on his neck, because bringing up this subject never went over well.

"What's on your mind, son?"

"I want to have that talk again, Dad. The one about expanding operations."

Jeff's friendly and open blue-gray eyes turned into tightly closed bank vault steel in a nanosecond. Scott felt frustration mount.

"You know my position on that. You know the what and the why."

"Yes, Dad, I do," Scott said with a curt nod like he might've given an Air Force cadet who'd just said something incredibly obvious, however true it might have been, without actually giving a real answer. "That was the first simultaneous call-out we've had since we started operating three-and-a-half years ago."

"It was," Jeff admitted with a few nods of his head. "Something that surprises me a little, actually."

"Same here," Scott agreed. Good. Common ground. Now swing Dad back to the matter at hand. "If we'd had more operatives and more equipment, we could've saved all those people today."

"I won't allow outsiders, Scott, and that answer has remained the same since Day One." Jeff ran a hand through his hair, which by now was perfectly combed back thanks to having grabbed a shower as the boys were flying back from the Danger Zone. He let a huff come from his throat, but it died before being able to make good its escape through his lips.

"Scott, look," he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. "I know all the reasons for expanding and all the reasons for not expanding. The only reason that matters is the safety and security of our family and International Rescue's technology."

Our family. Oh yes, Scott had noticed this change in his father's choice of words. Usually it was 'my family,' not 'our family.' He stored that little bit of information for future contemplation. And his nod in agreement with the statement was more pensive. Really, for all intents and purposes, when you thought about the situation logically, Jeff's stance was the correct one, even if it had cost the lives of a dozen unfortunate human beings today.

The long and short of International Rescue was that the excavating and building of everything from scratch on Tracy Island had cost Jeff Tracy more than the gross domestic product of most countries. Then if you factored in not only the materials cost for building and maintaining the Thunderbirds, but the additional costs for making everything happen in such a way as to keep it top secret, well...the tab added up. It added up big.

So purely from a financial point of view, after all this time of dashing in at the last minute to save the day whenever and wherever they could, this being the very first simultaneous call-out for International Rescue meant something. It meant that statistically they simply didn't get enough situations like that to warrant spending twice as much on equipment and related costs.

Not to mention, as Scott knew his father would be more than happy to expound upon, there was the gigantic and, Scott admitted to himself, daunting task of trying to find people who would be as dedicated to saving lives and to complete secrecy as Scott and his brothers were. People who could be trusted implicitly without fail and had the brains and physical stamina to do this job were not all that easy to find.

In a split second of madness, Scott imagined the headline of a full-page ad in the New York Times: INTERNATIONAL RESCUE SEEKS NEW RESCUERS...must not be afraid to risk their necks but can't tell anyone what they do for a living no matter how many times they end up in a hospital...

Jeff had watched the internal conversation...God, when he'd become that much like him, anyway...going on inside his eldest's mind. There wasn't a facial muscle that twitched; it was, as with Jeff, all in Scott's eyes. He knew what was running through his mind and that he was working through things again, probably for the hundredth time by this point, and coming to the same logical conclusions Jeff came to every damn time he ran it through the old hamster wheel.

His eyes met Scott's and he felt deep-seated crow's feet at the corners of his own crease as a smile grew. Scott half-shrugged and nodded, ending the conversation the same way it had ended every other time because really and truly, both men knew keeping who they had and what they had and leaving it at that was the only way for IR to stay IR.

But, Scott noted in the back of his own mind, it was also the only way for Jeff to practically keep his sons bronzed on a shelf instead of allowing them to scatter to all parts of the planet like dust in the wind. It was a little funny, Scott thought as he turned and headed out onto the villa's second-floor wraparound balcony, that part of why he and his brothers were all on Tracy Island was because Jeff didn't want to let them go...and yet as each and every rescue came and went, Jeff was willingly sending them all out to their possible deaths.

Talk about a walking contradiction.

Two months later?

"We've got a similar situation to that last dual call-out, boys." Jeff's face was grim, and was it just John, or had that face also developed a few more wrinkles since two days prior when they'd talked about one of Thunderbird 5's transponders?

"How far apart this time?" Virgil asked.

It was?Jeff looked at the chronometer and then did a double-take. Three-thirty in the morning? That had to be a coincidence. "Opposite sides of the world, son," he said, eyes lingering on the clock until it changed to 3:31.

"The Diavik Diamond Mine in the Northwest Territories caved in during the operation's shutdown process," John explained from the wall, "and the other's a light aircraft crash in the Andes Mountains near Machu Picchu. At the first site, they were twelve hours away from sealing the spent diamond mine forever."

As one, every pair of eyes in the Office turned to Jeff.

"Virgil, you'll take Pod Five to Peru," he said quietly, staring at the microcomputer screen in front of him. When next he looked up, his sons were gone. As Kyrano approached his desk, Jeff carefully returned his gaze to the computer screen. Kyrano cleared his throat as Scott called in requesting permission to take off.

Jeff responded on automatic pilot, giving Scott his clearance and hearing Thunderbird 1's rockets thunder to life. Kyrano had not moved away, finally prompting Jeff, as the whine of 1's engines faded into the distance, to meet his piercing gaze. "What?"

"Do not beat yourself up about this," Kyrano said quietly. "You cannot save everybody."

Jeff watched his friend's retreating form and allowed himself the luxury of a sigh.

"Thunderbird 2 from Thunderbird 1."

"Go ahead, Scott."

Scott kicked his rocket plane down to just under ten thousand miles per hour. "I'll arrive at Danger Zone in three minutes," he advised. "John patched me in with the man who was in charge of the mine shutdown."

"How's it looking?"

"Not good," Scott replied grimly. "As soon as you're on the ground, we're taking the Mole down."

"F.A.B. ETA now fifteen point two minutes."

Scott nodded, eyes glued to the screen directly in front of him. "I'll have coordinates for you to land shortly. Thunderbird 1 out."

Slowing his 'bird to five thousand miles per hour, it was barely two minutes later that he was setting her down and preparing Mobile Control for action.

"Come around, bearing one one two," Scott said from his position behind Virgil.

"F.A.B.," Virgil replied, using the controls at his fingertips to make the slight course adjustment.

"Just two minutes and we'll be on the third dike. They already had the first two kimberlite ore shafts sealed, this was the final one before this mine would be closed for good."

Virgil twisted halfway around in his seat so he could see his brother. "Did the operating manager know anything about what happened?"

"Not enough," Scott replied, his mouth in a tight, straight line. "All right, switch to one one three."

Virgil nodded and adjusted the Mole's angle once more.

"Okay, level her out and let's get this show on the road." Scott rose to his feet and brought a computer pad over to Virgil. "We're right here," he said, using the touch screen to zoom in on the base of the third kimberlite ore shaft.

Virg nodded. "And the majority of the injured are here at the base of the shaft," he said, pointing lower on the red, blue and white diagram.

"Exactly. I've already got Gordon and Alan rappelling down the shaft from above to get the three men who were trapped in the third level corridor, but it's up to us to get the rest of them."

Virgil's mouth quirked into a half-smile that broadened into a full-blown grin when Scott threw over his shoulder, "You like impossible odds."

Virgil shrugged as he donned a lightweight oxygen tank and secured the attached mask over his mouth and nose. Through its thin plastic he said, "They're the only odds worth beating."

Filthy and exhausted, their uniforms bearing the battle scars of fighting with freak-outs on the part of those they were risking their lives to save, Virgil, Scott, the Mole and every last victim emerged onto the surface of the small Arctic island from the depths of the ice pack. As soon as she'd broken through, Gordon and Alan were on-hand to help off-load the survivors to waiting MediVac helijets.

An hour later, International Rescue was heading home. Scott ran a dirty arm over his even dirtier forehead, surprised when his video monitor flipped on and showed his space-faring brother's serious countenance.

"Scott, you remember the plane crash near Machu Picchu?"

"Yeah," Scott said, trying not to think about the three lives they hadn't been able to save this time.

"I just heard from one of that plane's passengers."

"What? They're still alive?" Scott asked incredulously.

John nodded. "All three of those who survived the initial crash. A guy by the name of Jackson Browne and friends of his. They were going to parachute down to Machu Picchu when the pilot lost control. They had eight friends with them who died, plus the pilot of the Cessna."

Scott flipped a switch on the control panel in front of him. "Scott to Thunderbird 2."

"Thunderbird 2 here." Scott was momentarily taken aback by the face and its accompanying voice. "Al's fixing a nick on Virgil's hand," copper-haired Gordon explained.

"We're heading to Peru," Scott said. "Best speed."

"Peru?" Gordon frowned slightly. "The plane crash?"

Scott nodded. "John says the three survivors are still alive."

"But," John said, cutting into the ship-to-ship channel, "the plane exploded about two hours ago and caused a massive landslide. They were making their way down the Inca Trail, they're only about a quarter of the way down. The slide's cut them off completely, but I've had helijets dropping them supplies. They just can't fly low enough for their cages to be lowered."

Gordon let out a low whistle. "I might have to do some fancy harness work," he said, more to himself than to them.

"Not if I can help it," Alan chimed in as he re-entered 2's cockpit with Virgil in tow.

"Brief them," Scott said to Gordon. "I've got to get some more info from John and then inform Base."

"You got it," Gordon said, and his feed winked out.

Thunderbird 1 circled over Machu Picchu, noting the ruins scattered over the vast expanse of the mountaintop. Scott's practised eye reviewed the scans of the area. The landslide had dislodged not only pieces of the ruins, but brought a good portion of the mountain itself down right on top of the first curve of the Inca Trail.

Scott knew from the fact that the trail was nearly vertical and the rainforest surrounding it so thick, he wouldn't be able to land anywhere close. His fists clenched around the control levers of his 'bird. He manoeuvred himself nearly to Cusco before he found a spot large enough to handle Thunderbird 1. There really was nowhere for Virgil to set down.

"Thunderbird 1 to Thunderbird 2."

"Four and one-half minutes out, Scott," was the reply.

"There's nowhere you can land," Scott said solemnly. "And from the looks of the big boulders near the top of the mountain, those three people are nearly out of time."

"Are the boulders threatening to come down?" Alan asked.

"I'd say yes, so when you lower the rescue cage, you'll have to keep altitude higher than normal."

"No problem, Scott," Virgil said smoothly.

"I'll be handling things from the cockpit," Scott advised as 2 appeared on radar from the west. "Winds aren't bad, so you should have an easy time of it."

"Says the one who sits in his 'bird while we dangle by a thread over a rockslide," Alan retorted.

Scott grinned as Virgil replied, "Get down there now or you'll have things dangling you didn't even know existed."

Jeff leaned back in his chair with a smile he couldn't hide as Kyrano walked into the Office with two steaming mugs of black coffee. "You appear," the Malaysian man said as he set one mug down in front of Jeff, "triumphant."

"I am," Jeff said, lifting the mug and letting the liquid scald his upper lip before it seared its way down his throat. "The boys finished at the mine and have made it to Peru in time to rescue the three plane crash survivors."

Kyrano's eyebrows hit his hairline as he cupped his mug in both hands. "So they are able to be in two places after all," he said over the rim, before taking a sip.

Jeff looked sharply at him. "Scott's got everything under control."

His friend returned the look placidly. "I'm quite certain he does."

It had happened faster than the time it takes for a single breath to be drawn in. Scott watched in horror as Thunderbird 2 rocked back as though her nose had been hit by something. Virgil quickly had her righted again, but the cage with the three victims and two of his brothers had been ten feet off the ground when the microburst hit, and the cage was now swinging wildly into the jungle canopy that surrounded it.

"Outflow front from a microburst!" Virgil reported.

"Virg, winch them up now!" he bellowed, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.

There was no reply, but Scott could tell from his scans that the cage was indeed rising, while still swinging wildly. He brought his own ship's VTOL to life and rose quickly into the air, gently easing the powerful rocket plane toward Machu Picchu. He had visual inside a minute but before he could hail them again, voices came screaming through his speakers in a panic.

"We've lost Browne!"

"I'll go after him!"

"No way, Al."

"Keep the other two stable, winch them up, Virg!"

"I'm not winching them up without you!"

"Goddammit, Virg, they're critical!"

A string of curses came forth from Virgil's mouth as Scott tapped into the channel. "What the hell's happening over there?"

"One of the victims was thrown from the cage," Virgil explained, his voice tight. "Alan dropped down to get him."

"Alan, come in," Scott said, jaw set squarely. Goddamn kid never listened. "I mean it, Al."

"No problem, Scott, I've got Browne, but...he's not doing very well."

A frown creased Scott's forehead. "Report."

"Bad head injury from that fall," Alan advised. "He's not conscious, pupils fixed and dilated. Breathing steady, pulse erratic. Virg, you'd better get that cage back here."

"F.A.B.," Virgil replied quietly.

"Dammit," Scott swore, grinding his teeth. "What the hell good are 2's microburst sensors if they can't give you enough warning to do something about it?"

Virgil growled in response. "Only a foot more, Gordo, I can't help you offload."

"I'll let you know as soon as I've got them out," Gordon replied.

Scott watched on his central view screen, hands gripping the controls of 1 so hard his knuckles had gone white and his fingers had started to ache. Two minutes later, he heard Gordon's voice again.

"All clear, Virgil."

"F.A.B. Lowering cage now. Heads-up, Alan."

"Left two degrees," Alan directed.

Scott felt adrenaline coursing through his body. He cursed his inability to do anything, chest heaving as he breathed harder and faster.

"All right, straight down from there, Virg, keep it steady."

"What the hell do you think I'm doing?" Virgil barked.

Over and over it rang like a mantra in Scott's mind. Hurry it up, Virgil...hurry it up!

"How's it look, Brains?"

"Well, ah, Mr. Tracy, from the, ah, scans Scott sent, I'd say the region's unstable enough that e-even at that height, Virgil could accidentally dislodge a-at least the largest of the three, ah, boulders in question."

"Not what I wanted to hear."

Jeff ground his teeth together as he, Grandma, Brains, Tin-Tin and Kyrano listened in to the rescue. He could feel the beginnings of a throbbing headache and rubbed his temple.

"Alan, how's Browne looking?"

"Worse, Scott. Lips are turning blue, I'm pretty sure he's got brain damage, his pupils are different sizes. I'm getting...oh, shit!"

Jeff's every muscle tensed.

"Alan, report!"

"He's seizing, Scott!"

"Alan, the cage is nearly to you."

"I see it, but I have to get him through this seizure!"

"Alan, you'll have to chance it. Get him in the cage. If 2 gets hit by another microburst, that whole mountain could come down and bury you both."

"F.A.B., Scott."

Jeff's eyes shifted slightly and caught Kyrano's. "Your boys will be fine," Kyrano said, probably for about the thousandth time since International Rescue had begun operating. Jeff's response was a tight smile, same as always.

Everything was a dance, Tin-Tin thought, watching the thoughts fly back and forth between her father and his best friend. The rescues were a dance intricate and beautiful, harrowing and ageless. Emotions ran strong in the Tracy family to begin with; who better than the one in love with their youngest member to know that intimately?

They were able to hold what Tin-Tin was convinced were entire conversations without a single word being spoken. They worked in the field like they lived and loved: honestly, fiercely, bravely and without reservation. Her eyes moved to the Tracy matriarch, and she thought how tired Ruth suddenly looked. When the older woman turned toward her, Tin-Tin tried her best dazzling smile to wipe the look of concern from the lined face, but the look remained.

Ruth was worried. They all were. Brains fiddled with his glasses. Kyrano inched closer to Jeff's desk as though being ready for anything should the unthinkable happen. Tin-Tin closed her eyes and prayed with all her might for Alan's safety. All she wanted was to see him emerge into the hall from the elevator, dirty and dishevelled...and alive.

"We're both in, Virgil, winch up."

"Reeling you in fast, Alan, hang on."

Tin-Tin held her breath, her world narrowing to the sound of silence over the airwaves.

"Steady as she goes, Virgil," Scott said quietly.

Minutes seemed to stretch into hours as everyone waited.

"Nearly there," Alan reported.

"I have the other two passengers strapped into beds, I'll help you with Browne."

"Thanks, Gordo."

And then more silence.

"Cage is clearing hatch."

"F.A.B., Gordon. Virgil, as soon as that hatch has closed, get the hell out of there. Am transmitting nearest emergency services location to you now."

A sliver of silence.

"Got it, Scott."

"All right, cage in. Closing hatch," Gordon said.

The tension in the Office decreased immediately. Postures slackened and Kyrano moved unobtrusively away from Jeff's desk. Ruth finally took a sip from the now-cold cup of coffee she held, but seconds later it flew from her hands as she jumped in fright.

"Goddammit!"

"Virg, what the hell-?"

A loud and unmistakably Gordon-sounding yelp froze everyone in mid-movement.

"Scott, report!" Jeff roared.

"Another microburst, only this one hit 2 from dead above! Virgil, get away from the mountain!"

"Got her, Scott." Tin-Tin could hear the strain in his voice.

"What the hell is happening down there, get out of there!" Jeff said, rising to his feet.

"Virgil, we need to get to a hospital, and I mean fast."

"Gordon, explain."

"Al was halfway out of the cage when that burst hit us," Gordon said. "He slammed into the bulkhead and I'm not even getting anything with smelling salts."

"I've got it under control, I'm going up to twenty thousand feet, we're on our way. Gordo, can you get Alan and Browne up here?"

"One at a time, I'm bringing Browne up now."

John's voice joined the fray.

"I've got Clinica Ricardo Palma on stand-by, Virgil, they'll have the helipad cleared by the time you arrive."

"F.A.B."

"How's Alan?"

"Hang on, Scott, I'm just strapping Browne into a bed, I'll be back with Al in a sec."

"Base from Thunderbird 1."

"We've been listening in, Scott," Jeff said in a hushed voice.

"I'm accompanying Thunderbird 2."

"Understood." Jeff looked around at the island residents surrounding him. "Your grandmother and I will be joining you."

"Mr. Tracy!" Tin-Tin protested.

"And Tin-Tin," Jeff added hastily. He couldn't keep from looking at Kyrano one more time, half-expecting he'd ask to join them. But his friend remained silent and motionless, so Jeff took his mother's elbow and hurried her as fast as he dared out into the hall. Tin-Tin sprinted ahead to call the elevator. Soon they'd be on their way to Peru.

'Soon' wasn't soon enough for Tin-Tin Kyrano. Even if Jeff took Tracy One and kept her running at the maximum speed of Mach 5, it'd still be just under two hours before they reached Peru. Two hours in which anything could happen. Somehow Tin-Tin knew she wasn't going to have any fingernails left by the time they arrived.

Three months and twenty days later...

Scott glanced at the throng of people that surrounded Mobile Control in a semi-circle. They were curious as crowds always were, but were respectfully keeping their distance as the rescue played out before them. The situation was tense, but Scott had every confidence that Virgil would soon have the rubble cleared away so Gordon and Alan could get into the storm cellar to rescue a family of six.

The family had taken refuge to escape a series of tornadoes that had whipped across western Oklahoma just two hours northwest of Oklahoma City. But so much debris had collected on top of it, local authorities feared it would collapse onto them before their equipment could get all the rubble moved off so the family could escape. It was a simple operation for IR, Scott knew, but all the same he was on edge, monitoring Alan's vitals through his wristwatch.

Alan's injury had been severe enough to require a few days' hospital stay, but caused no lasting damage. Unfortunately the victim he'd risked his neck to go after hadn't been so lucky. Last they'd heard, Jackson Browne, son of a wealthy New York investor, suffered from seizures and was unable to do the most basic of tasks for himself. He'd been left mostly helpless, and not for the first time Scott had found himself wondering in the ensuing months whether it would've been better for Jackson Browne to have died.

The other two survivors made complete recoveries, and after a tour aboard Thunderbird 5 for a month, Al had been cleared for active duty by Brains and Scott himself. But it had been three weeks before this call-out had come, and Scott was taking no chances.

A shadow fell across Mobile Control's main panel, and Scott looked up, squinting in the bright sunlight that the person's head was only partially blocking. He rose to his feet. "May I help you?" he asked, turning volume on his brothers' radio chatter down.

"International Rescue?" the man said.

"Yes." The man thrust his hand out. In it, was a sheaf of papers, which Scott automatically took. He looked down at them and immediately noticed they were enveloped in a blue piece of paper which curled around the two top corners, held securely by staples. "What the hell is this?"

The man just smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You've been served." With that, he turned on heel and walked away.

Scott heard his brothers talking about letting the family out of the storm cellar. The rescue was a success. But as he skimmed the paperwork in his hand, he paled. He looked up to see if he could find the man who'd served him. But the server was gone.

Jeff reached out and shook the hand of the thirty-something man before him. His dark blonde hair was wavy and worn with a gel-infused mussed look. Light blue eyes were serious, yet Jeff sensed that life had been good to him. He'd never before met the son of his old friend, but that old friend had insisted he could be trusted one hundred percent.

"Paul Drake, the Third," the man said, eyes crinkling as he smiled and returned Jeff's handshake firmly.

"Jeff Tracy, a pleasure," Jeff replied as they parted. "Your father tells me you're trustworthy."

"Completely," Paul nodded. "I've worked a few cases that would have made Heads of State lose the 'head' part in a heartbeat if I wasn't."

Nodding in return, Jeff gestured to the conference table behind them. Situated in the large conference room on the top floor of Tracy Villa, the table was long, made of glass and rectangular with rounded edges. A dozen black leather executive chairs were spaced evenly around it, with one at the head and one at the foot of the table.

In the middle of all this was a flat touch-screen computer monitor that took up half the table face and burned bright with an electronic copy of the document Scott had received at the Oklahoma rescue. "Here's what we have," Jeff said as Paul seated himself right next to the screen, planted his elbows on the edge of the table and eyeballed the words. He began to read them aloud.

"State of New York, Jackson Browne, Sr. and Linda Brown, Plaintiffs. Versus International Rescue." Paul spared Jeff a glance as he seated himself in the next chair. "Defendant, International Rescue, Secret Organization operating from an unknown locale. On or about February 19, 2029, Defendant International Rescue responded to a call for help from Jackson Browne, Jr. in the mountains near Machu Picchu, Peru."

Jeff met Paul's steady gaze, then the younger man turned back to the screen and continued reading.

"On or about February 19, 2029, Plaintiff-in-Lieu Jackson Browne, Jr., while in the exercise of due care, was involved in a crash of the Browne family Cessna 1020 Titan at Machu Picchu, Peru. 9 of the 12 persons aboard were killed. Browne, Jr. and two friends survived. Browne initiated a call for assistance."

Paul shifted in his seat, moving his finger over the screen and sliding upward to scroll the text.

"A rescue vehicle operated by the Defendant International Rescue did negligently cause life-altering injury with a lack of control and safety measures when a rescue cage owned and operated by Defendant malfunctioned during rescue of Plaintiff-in-Lieu Jackson Browne, Jr. on said date."

Paul shook his head as he scrolled the screen up one more time. "I remember the news reports on this," he said, then continued to read.

"Plaintiff-in-Lieu Jackson Browne, Jr.'s damages consist of:

A. Expenses for medical treatment and hospitalization

B. Future expenses for medical treatment

C. Loss of Wages

D. Future loss of wages and earning capacity

E. Conscious pain and suffering

F. Future conscious pain and suffering

G. Permanent injuries to the affected parts

H. Permanent incapacitation."

Running a hand down his face from nose to chin, Paul leaned back in the chair and contemplated the words. "So," he said after a few moments, "why do you need a PI? It's not like there were any witnesses besides your organization, right?"

"No, there weren't," Jeff said. "The other two victims weren't cognizant at the time of the rescue. But that's not the angle I'm after," he finished, turning the chair and leaning forward just a bit.

Paul mimicked the gesture, eyes sparking with intrigue. "Then what is the angle?"

"I want to know everything there is to know about Jackson Browne, Jr.," Jeff said.

"Know your enemy," Paul offered.

"Partially," Jeff said, leaning back and steepling his fingers in front of his chest. "But also because this is the first time we've been sued, and Browne's case is flimsy at best. To me, that means there's something else behind this."

Looking thoughtfully into Jeff's eyes, Paul narrowed his own. "Could it simply be an attempt to out your identity?"

"We thought of that," Jeff replied. "But revealing who we are isn't a necessary component to the lawsuit. If we settle, an anonymous wire rerouted throughout the world from one safe bank account to another would mean we don't have to."

"What about actually showing up at the hearing?" Paul asked. "Surely that would reveal everything."

"No," Jeff shook his head. "We have any number of agents we could send into that courtroom who have nothing to do with our family personally, nor would there be any trace of their connection to IR other than the fact that they show up claiming to represent us."

"So it's got to be about money."

"Yes," Jeff nodded. "But as I stated, the case is flimsy. We could even choose not to respond at all and there would be no direct consequences to IR."

"I'll have some of my guys tail the Brownes, I'll get more info on Junior's injuries and I'll start doing some digging into both Junior and Senior."

"And the wife," Jeff added.

Nodding, Paul rose to his feet and stuck out his hand. "I'll have something to tell you in a few days."

"Thank you," Jeff said, reaching out to shake Paul's hand. He suddenly reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small, thin rectangular object. "This is a secure communicator that feeds to my watch," Jeff explained, handing Paul the device while lifting his left wrist to show the gold modified Rolex strapped to it. "I don't want you trying to reach me any other way."

He walked into the small theater located at the back of the villa's ground floor. As the door slid shut behind him, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. Shadows flashed on the maroon walls and the unmistakeable sounds of an action-oriented movie filled his ears. Moving forward slowly, he wasn't surprised to find his eldest was the room's only occupant. He looked up at the screen and knew he should recognize the old flick Scott was watching, and then realized as soon as he saw the red skin-tight suit what it was.

Jeff made his way down to the front row and slid into the seat next to his son. "Spider-Man?" he said, loudly enough to be heard over the soundtrack.

Scott nodded and for some reason Jeff suddenly clued in to the words being spoken by the green guy, whose super-villain name he couldn't recall at the moment.

"...the one thing they love more than a hero is to see a hero fail, fall, die trying. In spite of everything you've done for them, eventually they will hate you."

A sharp look at his boy as the full meaning of those words hit home. "Ned's helping us get the media under control."

His eyes stayed glued to the screen, and Jeff knew exactly what was running through his head. "There's no telling what we'll be facing next time we go out, Dad."

"I know," Jeff said, leaning back in the chair and squaring himself with the full-sized screen as a female character fell from a bridge. "I expect to hear from Paul today or tomorrow. We'll figure this out." Scott didn't reply, so Jeff got up and left the theater, wondering what exactly he was going to do to get them out of this one.

The next afternoon...

Every resident of Tracy Island was seated around the conference table. Both the table's giant monitor and a similar-sized one hanging on the wall opposite the double doors were on and covered with scanned photos, articles, bank statements and any number of other items. Against the far wall from Jeff's spot at the head of the table was a half-sized screen from which the face of Paul Drake, the Third could be seen.

"So as you can see from the investment reports and bank statements I managed to get my hands on, the senior Jackson Browne is in serious financial straits."

"I never would've guessed," John said, using his right index finger to flit from image to image on the table screen. "Everything I've read or heard has his worth at hundreds of millions of dollars."

Alan looked down upon them from a screen behind Jeff's head. "Well, what about the divorce you mentioned?"

Paul nodded, making some motions off-camera that resulted in the wall screen flipping to a new image. "Yes, this is the final judgment on the divorce dated only last week. Seems Browne's the one who filed, citing irreconcilable differences."

"Lamest excuse in the book," Gordon said as he read the first few lines of the judgment.

"I don't get it," Scott said, interlacing his fingers and then turning them inside-out. His knuckles all seemed to pop at once, a sound that almost echoed off the conference room walls. "Linda Browne's family is loaded. She's got an investment portfolio that rivals Dad's, for God's sake."

"Not so much," Paul said, bringing another series of scanned documents on-screen. "Her portfolio's been dwindling over the past year to the point where if she's got a hundred grand left, she's lucky."

"Where's the money been going?" Jeff asked.

"Cash withdrawals, never more than ten grand at a time," Paul replied. "No way to trace them, but I've got a team looking at security videos on the dates and times in question, see if they can't find out whether it was Linda who made the withdrawals, or someone else."

Tin-Tin looked thoughtfully at the wall screen. "If Mr. Browne was having financial trouble, he could have been raiding Mrs. Browne's investments to try and get himself out of it."

"If that's the case, he obviously didn't use her money to pay off his debts," Alan said. "Otherwise his accounts wouldn't still be so severely overdrawn and past due."

"Have you accounted for why he was having financial problems?" Jeff asked.

"Not yet, I have a couple leads I'm going to follow up on," Paul replied. "But I still am not a hundred percent sure what the Brownes' financial or marital problems have to do with the lawsuit against you."

"He needs money," Kyrano said quietly and simply.

Jeff looked down the table at his friend. "It sounds like he's desperate, launching this thin excuse for a civil suit against us. He can't possibly think he'll get anything."

"Maybe," Virgil spoke up for the first time, "he doesn't really expect the money to come from us." All heads turned to stare at him. "What?" he said, somewhat defensively.

"I'll bite if you can come up with an alternative," Jeff said.

"What could he expect to be getting if not the ten million named in the suit?" Scott asked. "There's plenty of publicity, but I don't see how that helps a man who's neck-deep in hock."

"Wait a second," Tin-Tin said, staring at the table computer monitor. She rose to her feet, waiting until Gordon and Scott shifted their chairs, parting the way for her to approach it. Her fingers flew across the screen from a search engine to cycling through eight resulting web pages before she found a ninth and waited while it opened. She scanned the first few lines, then tapped one perfectly manicured fingernail on the tabletop. "I knew it," she breathed.

"Knew what?" Alan asked from the wall.

"Just look," she replied, motioning to the room's occupants to join her.

Virgil was directly over her shoulder as he read the words. "Help Jackson Browne," his warm, deep voice said into Tin-Tin's ear. "Brain-damaged through the negligent acts of International Rescue, this fund has been set up for donations to help his cash-strapped family through the difficulties of caring for this tragically injured man."

Scott's teeth ground together, as did John's and Jeff's. Kyrano swore he could actually hear it in the ensuing silence. "It seems to me," Kyrano said when the grinding teeth became too much to bear, "he goes to an awful lot of trouble to convince people publicly that his son's state of health is the fault of International Rescue."

"Does seem a bit repetitive, Kyrano," Jeff agreed, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "He's definitely playing up both his son's injuries and our supposed guilt."

"I-If you'll pardon the interjection," Brains said, and all eyes turned to him, "i-it would seem Browne is, ah, going to great lengths to deflect attention onto, ah, International Rescue, if, ah, the use of our name sixteen times on the, ah, home page alone i-is any indication."

"I get it," Paul said, and all in turn looked at his video feed. "The more attention you get, the less attention he gets."

"Sounds like maybe there's something in all of this he doesn't want anyone finding out," Scott concluded, waving his hand over the conference table monitor. "But what?"

"I don't think we've found it yet," Jeff said. "Keep digging, Paul. The key's got to be here somewhere."

"I'm on it," Paul replied, and then severed the connection.

"Jeff, I think I'm really behind the eight-ball here."

He looked across the table. "What do you mean, Mother?"

"Well," she said, rising to her feet and leaning her hands on the table, "aside from not understanding how it is Brains here took the leap that suing International Rescue is nothing more than a decoy, the fact of the matter is, there is a legal case that's going to be heard in front of a judge, but not a one of you has addressed how you're going to handle it."

Jeff glanced at Kyrano, who met his gaze. "Actually, Mother, we just so happen to have a plan."

Three weeks later...

Scott could feel Virgil on his right, heard the other two enter from hall not far behind. The quiet footsteps of Kyrano followed by the flip-flop smacks of Tin-Tin. And finally the shuffling of Brains' feet as they all came to stand in a sloppy semi-circle around Jeff's desk. On instinct, Scott turned his head and eyed John's sombre face looking out over them from his place on the wall. Scott's gut twisted as he looked back at his father.

The sigh was barely heard in Jeff Tracy's voice when he spoke. "We have another dual call," he said quietly, then nodded across the room.

"One's in Arkansas," John said, "and the other's Mumbai. Mumbai's the larger number."

"Pod 2, Virgil. You'll start out in Mumbai and with any luck the locals can keep the handful of people in Arkansas alive long enough for us to make it after."

Pivoting to make his way to the painting that would ferry him to his craft, Virgil was more than just a little surprised to feel a hand grip his left forearm firmly. It stopped him mid-step, his head turning to find the hand belonged to Scott. Scott, whose eyes were locked with their father's. He let his foot drop and returned to his original stance. Scott didn't remove his hand.

A puckering frown settled upon his dad's face. Virgil turned his head just enough to see Scott's eyes and nausea took up permanent residence. What was he doing? He couldn't be-

"No."

That single, short word spoken in his clipped Field Commander voice made the hairs on Virgil's neck stand on end.

"I said Pod 2, Virgil."

Even if Scott's vise-like grip wasn't rooting Virg to the spot, the look on his brother's face would've done the job. Swallowing once, his eyes never left Scott. Surely any second now, Scott would let it go...let him go...and then Virgil would head for his chute.

Any second now that would happen.

His eyes darted down to the white-knuckled fingers. Yes, any second now their owner would pry them away.

He swallowed again and it hit him like a cartoon anvil on the head: Scott wasn't going to back down this time.

"And I said no," Scott replied. His grip tightened that much more.

Virgil's eyes darted to their father, but his face was a mask. The mask cracked just a little as his eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead.

"If we hadn't tried to be two places at once," Scott said. "If we'd had another unit we could've sent to go after Jackson Browne, rather than stretching ourselves too far..." He paused and took a deep breath, shaking his head. "Unnecessary fallout, unnecessary injuries, unnecessary deaths. And lawsuits. If Browne had just died because we didn't show up, that would've been one thing."

"What's that got to do with you keeping Virgil from following an order?"

Virgil knew he'd have five oval bruises on that arm tomorrow.

"We're not doing this again."

"Doing what again?"

Scott's body went rigid, and Virgil suddenly realized this was a whole new level of tense that he'd never seen in his brother before. "Trying to be in two places," Scott replied. "Trying to do our jobs in an impossible way."

"That's not your call."

Jeff punctuated each word in a way that allowed for no argument. Scott seemed to stand that much straighter and taller and clench Virgil's arm that much harder. Definitely going to be five bruises.

"It is when it involves the health and safety of my team, and the security and reputation of this organization."

Virgil had always thought the phrase 'his eyes flashed' was nothing more than a writing device used to show the reader a person was pissed off. Until just now, right when he would swear he saw his dad's eyes do just that. His own eyes widened as their father rose to his feet, fingertips pressing so hard on the top of his desk Virgil half-thought it might actually break.

"I never pegged you for insubordination, Scott."

Virgil's eyes darted back to Scott. Fucking tennis match, he thought and could pretty much feel the anger pouring off Scott in big, huge goddamn tsunami waves. Insubordination? Jesus Christ.

"If we don't expand our operation, we're going to risk the same thing we're going through now," Scott said.

Virgil was surprised when their father seemed to relax at that statement. "I thought we agreed on our position where that was concerned."

"I'm not putting the team through what might be out there waiting for us unless I can tell them relief's on the horizon."

Virgil's arm started to hurt like hell. Why was he just standing there when people needed them, while his father and older brother had a pissing contest? A question whose answer could be found in the left forearm muscle that belonged to him but was currently in the possessive and, Virgil knew deep down, protective grip of said older brother.

It hadn't occurred to Virgil until right now, as thick tension filled the Office slowly like cold molasses, that he hadn't a clue whether the rest of the family was still there. A quick turn of his head and he found nothing in his right peripheral. A slow turn to the left found the whole bunch of them, sans Grandma and Tin-Tin, were about two feet from escaping into the hallway. Lucky bastards.

There would be no escape for him anytime soon, he groaned inwardly. Not with the vise threatening to shatter his radius so it could cozy up to his ulna. He had Scott's back, really he did. And not by the spine, either, he groused to himself.

"Why did you start International Rescue?"

The shuffling of feet that had told Virgil the rest of them were about to make it out alive and unscathed halted the instant Scott had spoken. Virgil turned his head and as much of his body as he could to face his brother, because he had to see Scott's face in the aftermath of something like that to believe he'd actually asked.

"I hardly see how that's relevant, Scott. Now we have two rescues to perform, let's get on with it," Jeff said with a finality that made Virgil think maybe, just maybe, Scott would give him Jesus, this hurts some relief. He heard their dad lower himself back into his desk chair and tensed, readying himself to head for the painting once again.

"Why did you start International Rescue." It really wasn't a question as much as it was demanding a fact.

Jeff's head whipped up. "Look, Scott, now is not the time or?"

Scott cut him off. "Now is exactly the time and exactly the place."

Virgil had to suppress the gasp of relief that gurgled in his throat when Scott released him at last and took a step forward. But he would absolutely not rub the spot where those five black-and-blues were going to make his arm look like his palette. He wouldn't, because to whoever might or might not be looking, he wasn't going to admit Scott had actually had hold of him that hard.

"We're not able to do it, Dad. Not anymore, not with double calls escalating, not with only a handful of 'birds."

Virgil noted Jeff kept his eyes firmly trained on his microcomputer.

"She wouldn't want us spreading ourselves that thin, losing people because we were too goddamn stubborn to admit it. We. Need. Help."

At last Virgil felt like he could step away from Scott without the threat of what had felt like a cyborg hand crushing any other part of his anatomy. Somehow, just like that, the bomb had been diffused.

Jeff took a deep breath, sat up straighter and folded his hands on the desk. "Lady Penelope and I have started a short-list of potential new team members," he said evenly.

Dad's acting like this has been his plan all along, Virgil thought with a frown.

Scott's eyes went wide. Virgil's followed suit and without looking he knew every single other pair of eyes in the room had, too.

Jeff's eyes flicked to Virgil. "Pod 2, son. Mumbai."

Virgil would later deny it vehemently-if, that was, he was ever actually asked about it. But how the hell could he be blamed, after what had just happened, for flinching when Scott lifted his right hand? He puffed a breath out through his nose when the backs of Scott's fingers tapped his hip. That means go! Virgil shouted triumphantly in his own mind. In a flash, he was back-against the rocket painting.

In the two seconds it took for the painting to completely upend him, Virgil saw Scott head to his wall and smiled. Scott would tell him about it later, and Virgil would be all ears. Because what the hell had happened between the two of them that Jefferson Grant Tracy had just agreed to expand International Rescue?

Four months and sixteen days later...

Standing solo in front of the large mirror in the public restroom of L.A.'s Central District Metropolitan Courthouse, he knew he wasn't completely alone. After all, a team of high-powered attorneys who also happened to be agents of International Rescue were waiting at the Defendant's table inside Room 3, and those of the family who'd come for moral support were currently holed up in the East and West Presidential suites at the Beverly Hills Four Seasons. Plus, he was sure they'd commandeered a couple Royal Suites while they were at it. Tin-Tin was partial to the cheetah print armchairs in those.

He straightened the black silk tie that was flecked with haphazardly placed teal half-inch thin lines just to give it that extra pizzazz his daughter insisted he needed. The crisp, white starched shirt felt constrictive. After all, Kyrano rarely wore anything this stuffy unless you counted all the times his best friend insisted on taking him to Tracy Corporation events that required a tuxedo. The gold cufflinks had been a congratulatory token from Jeff upon Kyrano's completion of his Doctorate in Plant Breeding from Texas A&M a year ago. He couldn't suppress a grin when he looked at the symbol carved into the flat gold faces of them: the legendary American Indian Thunderbird.

A glance at the gold Rolex on his left wrist, and Kyrano knew he had only minutes left before the big showdown.

Kyrano himself was nothing more than a face to represent International Rescue. He wasn't going to be doing anything other than sitting there looking rich and important and foreign enough that it would create all kinds of speculation as to whether IR was truly international or a group of Americans or Frenchmen or Brazilians. Cast shadows, deflect attention, create speculation. Words Lady Penelope had once spoken that seemed to apply just as well to the secrecy draped over the rescue organization as much as it did over genuine Spy vs. Spy work, he mused.

As used as he was to dressing in name brand and designer clothing...at least, whenever Tin-Tin had anything to say about it...Kyrano had for years been a man of simplicity, very often making his own clothing out of material shipped from his native land, simply because he knew what he liked and knew how to make it. So as his eyes roamed from the shoulders of his jacket, down the lapels on his chest to the two buttons over his abdomen that he slowly fastened, he thought how strange he looked in a black Armani suit.

He grinned, remembering how Gordon had clapped him on the back and said he cleaned up pretty well after all. Kyrano had merely thanked him, but felt himself color a little at the compliment. Johnston & Murphy loafers so shiny it would've put Jeff's entire regiment's footwear to shame had been offered by Jeff himself. It was pretty obvious he still took pride in what the military had drilled into him all those years ago, though Kyrano really hoped he hadn't actually put spit in the shine.

At least he'd been allowed to pick out his own underwear and socks.

But truly, he did understand the importance of his appearance, both physical and metaphorical, and the care that had gone into constructing the man staring back at him from the mirror. Right down to the haircut that kept the sides and back of his hair very short, and the top just long enough to part on the side. With the aid of gel and hairspray, which really he couldn't fathom how anyone could wear that stuff every day, Tin-Tin had somehow managed to coax a slight wave into the mix as well. He'd drawn the line at her using temporary hair coloring to go back to his natural jet black color from younger years, however.

He was awfully glad Jeff had agreed the salt-and-pepper looked much more distinguished and fit the character they were creating out of Kyrano. He did wonder, however, whether that was more Jeff in self-preservation mode, in the hopes that Tin-Tin wouldn't try to take his salt-and-pepper away in the aftermath.

Another glance at his watch. Two minutes to ten. Show time, he thought, sparing one last glance at himself. He wasn't really sure what to expect. The judge had ordered not only no cameras or video recording equipment in the courtroom, but had also ensured every person attending the proceedings was divested of anything and everything that wasn't lip balm or facial tissues. Still, there was no guarantee the hallway wouldn't be filled with reporters and photographers just dying to see who International Rescue was.

He was surprised to find the hall completely empty, and knew either the attorneys or Jeff himself had directly influenced that outcome some time between him entering the bathroom and exiting it. He made his way along the corridor to the largest courtroom on the fifth floor. He nodded to the guards standing on either side of the double doors. One of them moved to open the right door for him. Kyrano felt himself fall into the rehearsed persona easily, confidently making his way along the aisle as every head turned and hushed, whispered exclamations and conversation drifted to his ears.

Kyrano reached the Defendant's table. The five men in suits pretty equal to the expense of the one he wore rose to their feet, allowing him to make his way to the sixth chair in their midst. When at last he seated himself, deftly unbuttoning the suit jacket as he did, the attorneys reseated themselves as the bailiff, a woman not more than five feet tall who nevertheless looked like she could take out a whole army herself, entered the room through a narrow door to the left of the judge's bench.

There was no jury. There was only the judge and the deceptively small bailiff. And the lawyers for the ones who'd had the audacity to sue IR to begin with plus Jeff's own team that now surrounded Kyrano like a big, expensive textile wall.

"All rise for the Honorable Judge Rutherford T. Elian," the bailiff said in a voice that sounded nothing like what you'd expect from her heart-shaped gloss-covered lips.

Kyrano rose to his feet in time with the lawyers and the crowd who had blissfully stopped whispering about him, at least for the moment. Judge Elian sat down and the bailiff told the rest of the courtroom they now could, too.

Leaning in to whisper in the ear of the closest attorney, one Mr. Michael Armstrong, Kyrano whispered, "Anything on the insurance policy yet?" His response was Armstrong's reluctant shake of his head and Kyrano frowned. That had been their best lead, and without really understanding everything behind it, they didn't have a leg to stand on. "Or the airplane?" he tried again. And again, Armstrong shook his head.

Kotoran, he swore to himself.

On the up side, if Paul and his operatives didn't come up with anything specific today, it would probably still be okay at least through Thursday if they let the case proceed linearly. Of course, Jeff had been hoping to immediately wow the courtroom with proof of the family's suspicions regarding Jackson Browne, both Senior and Junior, simply to put an end to the 'ridiculousness' as he called it.

The Tracys were pretty confident that IR would beat the suit. Jeff was truly treating it like it was all nothing more than an annoying fly he kept having to swat at as it buzzed 'round International Rescue's head. But Kyrano knew his old friend well enough to know that inside, he was doing his Jeff Tracy version of 'freaking out,' as Tin-Tin might say.

He tilted his head slightly. Where did these twenty-somethings get phrases like that from? He suspected it had to have something to do with the internet. Usually anything new, odd or otherwise something he'd never expect to come out of his daughter's mouth, did. That or Alan Tracy. Kyrano had long ago decided he didn't know which was worse.

Five-and-one-half hours later...

It had gone completely as expected thus far. Kyrano had been sitting with his back straight and eyes forward all day except for the one-hour lunch he'd had with the attorneys at which Paul Drake joined them to report that he thought they were close, but as yet had nothing. Even with his perfectly postured poise and ability to sit still for longer than this when meditating, Kyrano found his muscles were beginning to ache. Which, of course, made sense, because unlike during his times of peace and solitude back on Tracy Island, right now he was so tense he thought his muscles might just snap like rubber bands at any given moment.

He could sense the weariness of the judge as the end of the court's business day approached. He checked his watch. Twenty-four minutes until Elian would call recess for the day, and then the elaborately designed escape plan would be executed whereby it would take Kyrano a full hour to go the fourteen miles between the courthouse and the Four Seasons on Wilshire. In that time he would've changed into more native Malaysian clothing in the backseat of the limo, he would've switched to a new limo and then to a large, appropriately tinted-window SUV. After which he'd be spirited into the underground parking garage and emerge from the SUV wearing an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap and take the service elevator to his destination.

It had all been practiced and drilled into his head with the precision of a military exercise. Sometimes Kyrano wondered at the wisdom of placing himself in the midst of a family where half of them were ex-military and the other half were perfectly willing to go along with it. Kyrano was certain drill sergeants were less intimidating than Jeff on a mission.

Still, because of that, Kyrano knew the deception would work. Of course, tomorrow night he'd be staying somewhere else. Even he didn't know where, yet. Plausible deniability, Jeff called it. Penny had invoked the phrase 'Need to Know' and then let Kyrano know that he didn't. In some ways it was a thrill to be participating in something that seemed like it'd come straight out of a movie. Kyrano hoped, however, it didn't start mirroring one of the suspense, thriller or action genres.

It took all his willpower not to jump when everyone else in the courtroom, except for the judge, did when the door banged open. Kyrano did, however, turn in unison with everyone else to see what all the ruckus was about. There at the courtroom entrance stood a blonde-haired, blue-eyed private investigator. His eyes roamed the crowd as he walked purposefully forward until at last they came to rest on Kyrano's.

Kyrano gave Paul an almost imperceptible nod. He knew in that moment Paul had precisely what he'd been looking for.

"Your Honor, the Defense requests a five-minute recess," Pablo Ser?a, the lead IR attorney said as he rose to his feet.

"I'm more of a mind to recess for the day, Counselor, unless you think you'll be able to wrap this up in fifteen minutes after your recess."

Ser?a locked eyes with Paul for a handful of seconds, then turned his attention back toward the bench. "Absolutely, Your Honor. I'll have us all out of here in time for dinner with the kids."

Elian's face cracked into a half-smile as he raised his gavel and tapped it lightly on its matching sound block. "Court is recessed for five minutes."

Kyrano, the five attorneys and Paul Drake were quickly shown a private conference room where they could speak freely. In three minutes, Paul gave them all the ammunition they needed to put an immediate end to the case. Kyrano asked Ser?a if there was any legal motion they could make based on this new information, and after conferring with his colleagues, the answer was in the affirmative.

When Paul and the lawyers left the room to return to court, Kyrano raised his Rolex directly in front of his face and called Jeff. "We have him," was all he said. The corners of Jeff's eyes crinkled and Kyrano cut the transmission. Soon they'd all be able to go home. Which, no big surprise, was a hell of a lot nicer than smog-filled Los Angeles.

The next day...

Kyrano leaned back in the chaise lounge as the entire compliment of Tracy Island gathered around the pool for an evening of celebration. Paul Drake the Third joined them, more than honored to be there and thoroughly enjoying Tin-Tin's flirtatious nature. Deciding to let it slide because really, there was nothing he could do about the part of her that was way too much like her mother, Kyrano took the snifter of brandy offered by Jeff, who seated himself on the closest chaise and eyed his friend.

"What?" Kyrano asked, sniffing the brandy and then taking a sip.

"You never did say how you liked your first undercover assignment," Jeff said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"It was...interesting," Kyrano replied.

Virgil and Scott were walking in front of them and heard the exchange. "Interesting?" Virgil repeated. "That's it?"

No, of course that wasn't it. Kyrano had actually found it rather thrilling, but he wasn't going to admit it to anyone. "Yes," he said with a nod up toward Virgil. "Interesting."

Virgil shook his head and rolled his eyes as he and Scott continued toward the far end of the pool. Kyrano felt eyes on him and turned to look back at Jeff. "What?" he said again.

"Interesting indeed," Jeff replied with a knowing look.

Kyrano reddened and downed the rest of the brandy in one gulp as Paul, Alan and Gordon approached them.

"...don't get it, Paul," Alan was saying. "Why the hell would a guy want to kill his own son?"

Gordon gave him an amused glance. "You might want to ask Dad that question."

Scowling, Alan elbowed him in the ribs. "I'm serious!"

"So am I!" Gordon chuckled.

"Easy," Paul replied. "Jackson Browne, Jr. wasn't really Senior's son. His wife had an affair and Junior was the result of that union. That was the real reason behind Browne wanting the divorce to begin with."

"Because he found out his son wasn't really his son," Alan said.

"Yep, exactly," Paul replied, taking a swig from his longneck. "And he's in hock so bad to the mob and every other slick lender out there, he saw Junior's flight to Machu Picchu as the perfect opportunity to do him in, collect the life insurance before the divorce came through, and run with the money."

"It astounds me how cruel people can be to each other," Tin-Tin observed as she walked up and hooked her arm through Alan's.

"Yeah, sabotaging a plane is a bit of a stretch."

"I'm still surprised the Missus didn't come after IR, though," Paul said thoughtfully. "She would've had every right to continue the lawsuit under her own name."

"She didn't need to," Jeff said, draining his snifter. "Her son will be taken care of for the rest of his life."

All eyes turned to Jeff, knowing looks being exchanged. Paul whistled quietly in response.

"And the other families, in light of the whole Browne debacle, were convinced continuing their own lawsuits would only embarrass them and their sons," Scott said, joining the group with Virgil not far behind.

"That's right," Jeff confirmed. "And from what I understand, they've now launched a suit against Browne, Senior after that courtroom confession he made."

"But they won't get anything from him," Gordon said. "He's in debt up to his eyeballs."

"It's more a matter of principle," Paul said, finishing the last of his beer. He checked his cell phone and grimaced at the tenth text message he'd received in the last hour. Sighing, he shook the phone in the air. "I think I need to get back to L.A. Now."

"But the party's just begun," Tin-Tin protested.

"Attorneys who want me clearing their innocent clients get really insistent at me producing something when they pay me as much as I ask," Paul said, flashing white teeth. "Sorry to have to ask."

"Not a problem," Jeff said. "I'll take you myself." He rose to his feet and stood between his chaise and Kyrano's, looking down at his friend. "Care to give that Armani some more wear?" he asked.

Looking up, Kyrano slowly smiled. "Wear an Armani suit to fly Paul back to Los Angeles?" he queried, knowing Jeff had to have more up his sleeve than that.

"Hey," his friend shrugged nonchalantly while pulling two small card-like pieces of paper from his polo pocket, "if you'd rather I just throw these out..."

Kyrano reached up and took the tickets in hand, and his smile broadened to an all-out grin. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said, hopping to his feet. He stuffed the tickets back into Jeff's pocket and made a beeline for the villa.

"What've you got there, Dad?" Scott asked, his and his brothers' faces looking perplexed.

"Oh, nothing," Jeff replied as he made for the villa. "Just a little something I know Kyrano's been wanting to see," he threw over his shoulder.

"What?" Alan asked, taking in the look on Tin-Tin's face. "What is it?"

"I don't believe it," she breathed as Gordon shot her a curious look.

"Believe what?" Virgil asked. "What are those tickets for?"

"I can answer that, I'm the one who scored them," Paul said, setting his empty beer bottle down on a nearby table. "They're for the Pantages Theater."

"Pantages? What show?" Virgil asked.

Paul looked him dead in the eye. "Monty Python's Spamalot."

Kyrano was fairly certain, as he finished packing his overnight bag, that there was an awful lot of guffawing coming from the direction of the pool.

One year, three weeks and six days later...

Scott looked up from his spot at what used to be his father's desk in the Office. The lights in Alan's portrait eyes were flashing and he keyed open the channel. "Base here, Alan, go ahead."

"We've got a fairly simple rescue, Scott" Alan reported as he blinked into real-life existence within the white frame. "Should be a quick four hours with Two's grabs."

"That simple, huh?" Scott asked, leaning back in the chair with a thoughtful look.

"Yep," Alan nodded. "That simple."

"Hmm."

"You want to do the honors?" Alan asked, trying to suppress a grin.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Al," Scott said. "Give him a call in about forty-five seconds."

"Will do," Alan said, the grin finally breaking through and plastering itself to his face. "Thunderbird 5 out."

Scott looked at the portraits adorning the office. Lady Penelope's back and to his left, then across the room where they started with John and ended with Alan. Or used to end with Alan. He chuckled and, with a twinkle in his eye, opened the line to a new portrait that had appeared next to Alan's.

"Hi, Scott," came the voice of his father as he appeared within the portrait frame. "How are things back there?"

"Good, Dad," Scott replied. "Though I'll be glad when you're back in this chair. Have I ever told you how much I hate paperwork?"

Chuckling, Jeff nodded. "Many times."

"Well, I think I may have something for you...or at least, Alan may."

Jeff raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?"

"Uh-huh," Scott nodded. "Simple four-hour rescue with the grabs. Alan suggested Thunderbird 2."

"But you thought differently?"

"That I did."

Jeff nodded. "All right, then. Guess it's time for them to shine."

"I thought you'd agree. Alan will be calling you in," Scott looked at his watch, "ten seconds."

"F.A.B.," Jeff said as Penelope appeared behind him. "Ward Island out."

Scott laughed to himself as he tapped the screen of the computer in front of him to get it off screensaver mode.

"What's so funny?"

Looking up, Scott watched Virgil cross the room and perch on a corner of the desk. "They're going out for their first call, Virg."

Virgil's eyebrows met his hairline. "You're kidding, you're letting the rookies out of the gate?"

"Well, they have to start sometime. Come on, Virg, they were all trained rescuers before we even got our hands on them. They'll be fine."

Giving him a look Scott couldn't quite decipher, Virgil opened his mouth, then closed it and finally decided to speak. "You remember what happened our first time out?"

All color drained from Scott's face as his hand came to hover over Tracy Island's klaxon. But Virgil grabbed his wrist, holding it in place. He ducked down to make sure he caught Scott's eyes. "They'll live through it," he said quietly with the ghost of a smile on his face. "We did."

Muscles relaxing, Scott pulled out of Virgil's grasp and leaned back in the chair again. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

Virgil grinned, knowing full well his big brother wouldn't actually be relaxed until such time as the Ward Island contingent had completed the rescue and returned to their base safe and sound. His long-suffering sigh didn't go unnoticed by said big brother, who barked, "What?"

"Time to take your mind off it," Virgil said, rising and pulling Scott to his feet.

"Oh, come on."

"No, you come on," Virgil said. "We're hitting the weight room."

Scott rolled his eyes, but it was all in fun as he headed for the hall. Virgil raised his watch to his face. "Calling Jeff Tracy."

"You get him out of the Office?"

"Sure did, Dad."

"Good. No reason for my son to have an aneurism trying to deal with the team's first call while stuck behind a desk." Virgil cocked his eyebrow as his father continued, "I've got experience in that."

Nodding and chuckling, Virgil ended the call and sprinted across the room before Scott doubled back to find him. It was really happening. International Rescue had expanded, and the Moment of Truth was at hand. Nothing could've made him happier.