Chapter One

Sometimes, the rescue business was just one long endurance test.

Scott Tracy stood behind the pilot's seat in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, squinting past the throbbing pain of his headache at the relentless fall of the rain. Weariness burned like hot grit behind his eyes, every muscle in his body ached – he'd been running on fumes now for more hours than he could remember. If it hadn't been for a liberal dose of one of Brains' more closely-guarded secrets, the cocktail of natural stimulants his brothers Alan and Gordon had dubbed Rock It Power (which they swore they hadn't engineered on purpose to get that oh, so encouraging acronym), he seriously doubted he'd still be on his feet at all. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he and his father had overcome their initial doubts and decided to okay the concoction for testing back when their chief engineer had first proposed it. Rigorous training and the maintenance of a high level of fitness would always remain an International Rescue operative's first lines of defense, but sometimes you just had to do what you had to do to stay in the game.

Sixty feet below him the great green transport's forward floodlights bathed the Costa Rican jungle in a fierce blue-white glare. He felt the knotted tension in his shoulders relax a little as he saw what he was waiting for – the mud-streaked outline of the Firefly trundling slowly into view up what was left of the trail, the downpour sluicing chunks of dirt and clumps of leaves and twigs from her yellow paintwork. They weren't out of the woods yet, though, literally or figuratively – despite her massive weight and low center of gravity, the Firefly still struggled for traction on the critically oversaturated ground. As Scott watched, she slipped sideways, scooping a foot-high wall of water and thick, greasy mud before the edges of her caterpillar treads. After a moment's hesitation, she dug in, ground forward a few more feet, and slipped again.

Scott opened his mouth; remembered almost immediately that he'd lost the military grade microtransmitter mounted behind his right ear in that last unplanned immersion in the muck. Making a mental note to talk to Brains about a modification, he raised his left arm instead, scraping off a layer of mud so he could more or less see the screen of his wristcom. "Firefly from Scott. How's it going, Virg?"

Virgil had his screen off, which meant he was concentrating hard and didn't want to deal with distractions. Scott could hear how tight his brother's jaw was. "We'll make it. And if Alan tells me one more time that the secret to driving in mud is momentum, I'll feed him a yard of this crap personally."

Scott smiled a little, feeling some of the drier layers crack at the corners of his mouth. "I'll get the RVs ready downstairs in case you need 'em."

"FAB," Virgil grunted, although it sounded more like punctuation than agreement.

"Think we're gonna have to haul her in?" Alan entered the cockpit behind Scott.

Scott took the bottle of water and analgesic pack from his youngest brother without looking round, eyes still fixed on the Firefly's progress. "Think Virg's gonna let us, after you pushed his buttons like that?" One of the painkiller tablets was broken and he grimaced a little at the bitter taste. "He'll get her up that ramp now if he has to carry her on his back."

"Hey, I know what I'm talking about. Which one of us drove the Bolivia-Chile Rally last year? Give you a hint, it doesn't start with a 'V.'"

Scott winced as the Firefly lost traction again, skewing to the right, losing several feet of ground. He could almost hear the invective Virgil was probably muttering right now under his breath. "I'm not saying you're wrong, you know."

"Whoa! Do I get to tell him you said that?"

"Depends on whether you want to spend the next forty-eight hours in the hangar hosing down every single piece of equipment we brought with us," Scott grinned. "Never pays to be the bearer of bad news."

He glanced around at Alan then, letting out a short laugh at the sight. The youngest Tracy was covered in layers of brown mud from head to foot; even his hair was stiff with it. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Al, but I don't remember you looking this bad after the Bolivia-Chile run."

"Pots, kettles, bro. Seen yourself in a mirror lately?"

Scott rolled his eyes and headed toward the door at the back of the cockpit. "I'm going down to the pod. Get ready to raise her on my signal. And keep an eye on the stabilizers – if she starts tipping even a fraction of an inch, yell."

He was right about Virgil, of course. It took him another twenty minutes to do it, but he got the Firefly up the ramp and into the pod under her own steam. His only concession was not taking the time to turn around to back her in, as he would normally have done. Scott was sure he'd considered it, though.

As soon as the pod door was up and locked and Thunderbird Two had settled back down over it like a giant nesting hen, Scott gathered his exhausted, filthy crew and started sending them through the showers in shifts.

It had been a long, punishing slog this time. Several days of torrential rain had pounded San Jose, the Costa Rican capital city, coming down at a rate of more than three inches an hour at its peak. Weakened by the deluge, the side of a mountain had collapsed over one of the city's suburbs, burying it alive. As was often the case, the speed of their craft enabled them to be first on the scene after only the most local of responders, and the IR crew had managed to use their sophisticated imaging equipment to snatch twenty living victims, including four children, from the suddenly liquid earth. After that, it had been three days of recovering bodies.

It was the children that still got to them the worst. One of the buildings destroyed by the landslide had been an orphanage that Scott remembered making the news a decade back, for being the first in the region to become completely self-sufficient using hydroponic agriculture systems. There was nothing left of it now but an anonymous pile of mud and rubble, and there had been no survivors.

Sometimes, being too tired to think could be a blessing.

Reserving Virgil for the longer leg of the flight home, Scott assigned Gordon to pilot Two for the first twenty-minute hop northward to where they had left Thunderbird One, hidden inside an old hangar at a small airfield deep in the jungle. After his initial flyby and reconnaissance of the San Jose disaster situation, Scott had realized that the ground was deteriorating so rapidly that having both Thunderbirds on scene would be more of a liability than an asset this time. A rapid consult with Eduardo Tamayo, their closest agent in the region, had resulted in his suggestion of One's current location. The airfield had apparently been built by a foreign gold mining concern more than half a century ago, but was now abandoned. "She'll be safe there," Eduardo had told them. "The locals won't go near the place. They say it's haunted by evil spirits."

"How much longer can it rain like this?" Tin-Tin sat in the rear row of seats, legs pulled up against her chest, arms hugged tight around them. Her eyes were brooding as she watched lightning trace a burning trail down the dark sky ahead. "It's terrible."

"Guess that's why they call it a rain forest," Alan deadpanned, and Tin-Tin was about to round on him when she saw the smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. She snorted and dug her elbow in the direction of his ribs, which he dodged with practiced ease. She relaxed a little, then, letting him reach out and pull her against his shoulder.

Scattered applause greeted Virgil's arrival from the galley with a tray of coffee. Scott nodded his approval as his brother handed around the mugs. "Thanks, Virg. Good thinking."

"Do I get a raise?" Virgil lowered his bulk into the seat beside him with a grateful exhalation.

"Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird Two. Two minutes out from Las Muertas."

"FAB, Thunderbird Two," John's voice came back after a second, over the cockpit speakers. "Take it easy on the way home, guys."

"Copy that," Gordon said. "I don't know about anyone else, but I'm planning to sleep for a week."

"But, Gordon, Mrs. Tracy told me she baked fresh pecan pie for us," Tin-Tin teased, her smile lightening the effect of the deep smudges of weariness under her eyes. "If you sleep that long, there won't even be crumbs left."

"Change of plan," Gordon decided. "Pie first. Then sleep."

That raised murmurs of agreement all around. Grandma dipping into her stash of pecans, picked fresh annually on her sister Laura's family farm in Oklahoma and vacuum sealed for the journey to Tracy Island, was never an occasion any of them wanted to miss, no matter how tired they were.

"Turning on final," Gordon said, shifting smoothly to the business at hand. "Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen, and return your seats to the upright position."

"Can you help me with my tray table?" Alan asked Tin-Tin innocently. She leaned close and whispered something in his ear, and he stifled a laugh. In front of them, Scott and Virgil exchanged indulgent eyerolls.

Looking ahead again as Thunderbird Two completed her bank on to final approach, Scott spotted the bright pinpoints of the portable runway lights they'd laid down coming into view directly in front of them, slowly growing closer as Two lost altitude.

And suddenly, they were gone.

"What the hell..?" Gordon said, startled.

Before Scott could even react, every light in the cabin went out.

"Gordon!" he rapped into the sudden darkness. "What's going on?"

"We just lost all power," came his brother's tense response.

A stab of lightning briefly illuminated Virgil as he rose to his feet and headed forward. "Hit the backups," he ordered. "And get the emergency lights online."

"Backups are dead, too," Gordon said tightly. "No lights, no power. No engines."

Scott abruptly realized he was right – he could no longer hear the familiar high pitched whine of Thunderbird Two's turbines.

"That's impossible!" Virgil was snapping at Gordon. "Do you know how many backup systems we have on this ship?"

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

From the brief scuffling sounds and what he could make out as his eyes adjusted, Scott figured out that Virgil had reclaimed Two's pilot seat from Gordon. Scott heard a few clicking sounds and then his brother swore softly under his breath. "Virg, what's the status?"

He didn't like the disbelief growing in Virgil's response. "Gordon's right, all systems are down. Every single one of them. Somebody get me a flashlight so I can run the loss-of-all-generators checklist."

"No can do," Alan said from the rear of the cockpit. "Flashlights are dead, too."

"That's impossible," Tin-Tin exclaimed.

"Anybody else hearing an echo in here?" Gordon's voice was too weary to relay any real sarcasm.

Scott raised his wrist...and realized that his wristcom was every bit as useless as the rest of their equipment. "Coms are down."

"Use your..." Alan's voice broke off; Scott twisted to see his youngest brother's dim outline staring at his own inert wrist communicator. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Crash positions," Virgil said tightly. "We're going down. Brace yourselves... I can't release the pod, so it could get a little rough."

The last thing Scott remembered thinking before the point of no return was that at least they'd been lined up for a landing before the power went out. If they'd had to turn to find the runway, they'd really have been in trouble.

Chapter Two

All things considered, it wasn't such a terrible landing. It wasn't even the worst he'd seen Virgil go through – that prize still belonged to those hideous few minutes on the runway at Tracy Island after the U.S.S. Sentinel had managed to cripple Thunderbird Two with a couple of well-placed missiles. Scott still ranked that experience as one of the top five worst moments of his life...and he hadn't even been on board.

They came in too fast, of course, and Virgil had no way to get the nose up for a proper flare, so when Two's five hundred ton bulk hit the runway, she did it with shattering force and a sound that boomed louder than the thunder above them. She should have broken up right there before the impact threw her back into the air in a nightmarish parody of a bouncing ball, her fuselage split into a thousand pieces. But she was constructed of cahelium, the strongest metal alloy yet known to man, and it was the runway that broke instead. The great green transport leaped skyward twice more, fell again, shuddered violently all through her frame as Earth's gravity finally captured her. Metal shrieked as she skidded sideways down what was left of the concrete, sparks arcing high in the air either side of her passage. The bright shower abruptly ceased when she careened off the end of the runway and into the grass and mud beyond, spinning with a force that nearly knocked the breath of out her passengers. Then she struck something very big and very hard to her right and it was all, finally, over.

The silence was deafening. It took Scott several seconds to realize they were down, and he was still alive. Then he was calling out to make sure the others were, too, while at the same time trying to force his jammed harness release to open. After several seconds of cursing, he saw a shadow in front of him and the glint of lightning off a dark blade, and Gordon had sliced through the webbing and freed him.

A quick roll call told him they were all accounted for – bruised and a little stunned, but with no more serious injuries than a case or two of muscle strain or whiplash. A little shaky with relief, Scott stumbled to Virgil's chair to congratulate him on pulling off a miracle, but their pilot was already issuing orders. "Gordon, Alan, check for fires. See if you can get down into the pod. Dammit, if I could only see what I was doing..."

Scott racked his brain for a solution. The flashlights were dead, and it was far too dangerous to light a match until they had verified that nothing flammable was damaged or leaking... "Alan, go get the night vision goggles from the equipment locker."

"Think they'll work?"

"It's worth a try."

He heard a grinding sound as Alan forced the cockpit hatch door to open on manual, and a couple of bangs and thuds as his brother negotiated his way through the pitch dark interior of Thunderbird Two by feel.

"What do you think happened, Scott?" Gordon said. "Some kind of EMP bomb?"

"That's the direction I was going," Scott admitted. "But I can't think why anyone would set one off over the middle of the Costa Rican jungle."

"Unless it was aimed at us."

"No luck with the goggles," came Alan's disappointed voice from the direction of the hatchway. "They're dead too."

"If it was an EMP bomb of some kind, nothing that requires power will work," Tin-Tin said. "But what about the glow sticks? They're not electrical or mechanical."

"Brilliant, Tin-Tin! Go down to the pod with Al and Gordo, bring back all you can carry."

"Right, Scott."

More banging, the sound of Gordon swearing. "Sorry, Tin-Tin."

"Watch your step," Alan said belatedly. "There's crap everywhere."

"Thanks for the timely warning," Gordon grunted. "Where were you just now?"

"Getting the crowbar from the tool locker. We're going to need it to get the doors open. I barely got out of the cockpit as it was."

"Scott," Virgil said finally into the darkness of the cockpit as the sounds of the others faded. "If it wasn't an EMP bomb...then what the hell is going on here?"

Scott fervently wished he had an answer.

It took a half hour for Tin-Tin, Alan and Gordon to pick their way through the chaos in the pod and locate the locker where the glow sticks were stored. Each one cast a bright greenish-white radiance that lasted for eight hours, and once they were distributed around Thunderbird Two's cabin it was possible to see each other again and take inventory of the situation. Virgil came back from a walk-through of his crashed Thunderbird without a word, and proceeded to spend several more minutes with the access doors open under the main cockpit control panel, checking wiring and connections.

It didn't make any difference. All her systems were still completely dead, and there was no obvious reason why.

"OK, let's table this for later," Scott said as his brother sat back on his heels at last with a deeply frustrated frown on his face. "We've got One sitting in that hangar back there, let's go see if her communications are operational."

"If..?" Alan shot him a quizzical look.

Scott didn't answer him. He didn't know how to explain it – nor did he really want to try – but he had a bad feeling in his gut that was steadily growing worse. "Gordon, I want you to stay here with Two, make sure she's not compromised. No, Virgil," he held up one hand to forestall the protest he could see coming, "you're coming with us. I leave you here, you'll have this all dismantled in five minutes flat, and I don't want you taking that risk until we have a better idea of what's going on here."

"Scott, what could possibly be—"

"Not negotiable, Virg." Scott shut him down, ignoring the glower as his brother's dark brows drew together ominously. He turned back to his sharpshooter. "Gordo, what do we have in the weapons locker that will function?"

Gordon met his eyes, and in that brief moment he knew that his younger brother, the only one who shared his experience of active military duty, also shared his feelings of unease. Always at his coolest under pressure, Gordon didn't comment or argue his assignment. He simply unsheathed his WASP issue Kabar, the blade eerily reflecting the green of the glowsticks. "We've got our knives, and our sidearms...and the shotguns. If we did get hit by an EMP pulse, then none of the firearms that require power will work...but standard projectile weapons should still be functional."

"OK," Scott said briskly, looking around at the others. "Let's get downstairs and saddle up."

Chapter Three

Since the reason for the total loss of power was still a mystery, for caution's sake Scott ordered a change out of uniform for everyone before their departure. No matter what might be waiting for them out there, it just wasn't a good idea to offer up easily-identifiable targets. After selecting the darkest clothing they had on board, the IR team clambered single file down the sixty-foot ladder from the cockpit level to the pod floor, and Scott broke open the weapons locker. As Gordon had predicted, none of the battery or electrically powered firearms were functional, which meant no lasers. This was going to be Old School all the way. Scott pocketed spare clips for his Sig Sauer, handed Virgil a shotgun and ammo and took the same for himself; Alan and Tin-Tin stuck with their sidearms. The guys each grabbed a survival pack and made their way over to the outer exit on the forward left side of the pod. Doing a head count as they reached the hatch, Scott realized Tin-Tin was missing. "Tin-Tin," he called back into the cavernous gloom. "Are you with us?"

"Yes, Scott," her voice came back after a moment. "Be right there."

Between them, Scott and Virgil managed to open the hatch via the manual override and quite a bit of protesting metal. Virgil went out first, taking point, and when he called back the all clear, Scott waved the others through one by one. As Tin-Tin reached the hatchway, Scott spotted the reason for her delay...slung over her shoulder was one of the military grade medic bags they routinely took into areas where they were expecting to have to treat trauma victims before they could be safely transported. She looked at him briefly, and his unspoken question was met with a look identical to the one he'd seen in Gordon's eyes in the cockpit just a little while previously. Tin-Tin was clearly dealing with her own feelings of foreboding.

That made three of them. Cold pooled in the pit of his stomach, and he opened his mouth...but she brushed past him and was gone, jumping down into the wet grass. Reminding himself that he hadn't exactly been forthcoming about his internal uneasiness either, Scott put away the questions for later and followed her.

Outside, there had been a welcome break in the rain – or maybe they'd flown far enough to hit the edge of the weather front – and there was enough moonlight to see what had stopped Thunderbird Two from skidding further across the grass of the clearing: a stand of huge, ancient trees, several of which she had felled before the rest had halted her progress. Looking at the damage, Scott said a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn't been hurt worse than she had. With any luck it wouldn't take Brains long to figure out a way to get her airborne again long enough for her to reach the safety of Tracy Island for a more extensive refit.

But they had to get Thunderbird One first. The abandoned airport buildings were just silent hulks of darker shadow against the sky a couple hundred yards back in the direction Thunderbird Two had come in from. Scott glanced at the long furrow of destruction that Thunderbird Two had left in her wake. "Let's go," he said. "Stay sharp."

Alan and Tin-Tin exchanged looks; Scott saw his youngest brother frown a little at Tin-Tin's expression, but she turned away immediately as she had done with Scott back inside the exit hatch. Virgil made a noncommittal grunt and fell into step behind his field commander.

The bad feeling in his gut grew stronger with every step Scott took closer to the long, low hangar where they'd left his 'bird. He wished he could trigger her systems remotely the way he would normally do, just for reassurance – but his wristcom stayed stubbornly dark. It occurred to him suddenly that John and their father would be wondering what the hell had happened to them. In their place, he'd have been climbing walls.

Reaching the hangar, they paused to take stock. There were no vehicles they could see, no other people in the area. Scott instinctively avoided the front, with its vast, building-height doors that faced the runway Thunderbird Two had just destroyed. He led them instead to the smaller door a third of the way down the long side closest to them.

The others behind him, Scott reached out and turned the handle. The hangar's interior was as black as the inside of a tomb. Scott waved them through the doorway, watching to make sure nothing made its presence known behind them. "Go left, One's toward the back. Wait until we're all in before you use the glowsticks, just in case."

"What's that smell?" Alan said as they filed in and Scott closed the door.

"Sulfur." Tin-Tin sounded suddenly very nervous. "Scott, I don't think we should –"

All the lights blazed on.

Scott gave an involuntary shout of surprise and pain, throwing his arm up to cover his eyes as the sudden fierce flare of white stabbed at his optic nerves. He could hear the same shocked reactions from the others, but it took a few moments to blink his vision clear enough to see what was going on.

When at last he succeeded, the sight that greeted him defied understanding.

The sleek form of Thunderbird One stood on her struts where he'd left her, near the back of the cavernous hangar. Behind her was a jet that hadn't been there before, painted black; not quite military but not quite civilian either. But what was happening in the center of the room was definitely the main event.

Someone had painted a large red circle, easily twenty feet in diameter, on the concrete floor. Within the circle, just touching the inside edge with its red points, was an image he recognized from Gordon's horror movie collection as a pentagram. Scattered across the entire interior of this bizarre piece of pavement art were arcane-looking symbols in both red and gold. Just outside the circle sat a large, ornately-decorated golden bowl filled with some dark, liquid-looking substance that couldn't be identified from this distance, beside which stood a powerful, wide-shouldered man with harsh, Asian features and a bald head. He was stripped to the waist, and in his right hand he gripped the golden hilt of a dagger with a long, curved blade. A thin red line on the palm of his left hand made Scott suddenly wonder if he knew what was in the golden bowl...

The Asian man spoke then, staring straight at Scott, his deep, heavily accented voice ringing across the empty hangar. "Welcome, Scott Tracy. I have been waiting for you and your family to arrive."

He snapped his fingers and suddenly, out of thin air, a dozen armed men and women rushed at them.

"Get out of here! Get out now!" Scott swung toward his team but before he could take even one step, an invisible force struck him out of nowhere and he was flying backwards through the air. He smacked full force into the concrete floor, the impact half-stunning him and knocking the breath from his lungs. He rolled from sheer instinct, gasping, fighting to get his feet back under him. His shotgun was gone. As he fumbled to drag the Sig Sauer out of its holster, he caught sight of Tin-Tin standing there as if rooted to the spot by some sort of shock; saw Alan shouting at her, trying to pull her backwards. Then Virgil lunged past his field of vision, arms outstretched as if to bodily sweep them both to safety. The roar of a shotgun nearly deafened him, the buckshot whipping past close enough for him to feel the wind.

Tin-Tin's scream rang out as the force of the hit knocked Virgil off his feet and slammed him into the hangar wall. Scott could only watch with horror as he slid to the floor and lay still.

Leaving the wall above him slick with blood.

Building on the encouragement of the glow sticks working, it hadn't taken Gordon long to figure out that the chemical heating tabs of their hot ration cans should be equally operational. He was just sitting back down in the pilot's seat of Thunderbird Two in triumph, hot cup of coffee in his hand, when all the cockpit lights suddenly flickered once, twice, and then came back on full strength.

He managed to avoid spilling the coffee in surprise, and then almost did it again as a familiar voice issued from the speakers behind him. "—bird Two from Thunderbird Five. Do you read me, over! Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Five, come in please. Where the hell are you guys?"

Gordon swung around toward the control panel, relieved to see the instruments all glowing with welcoming illumination. "Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird Two, reading you five by, Johnny."

"Gordon? Is that you?" John's voice sounded like it was about to crack with strain. "Dad, I've got them! I've got Thunderbird Two!"

"Yeah, it's me. Don't ask me what happened, though. One minute we were coming in for a landing and the next we had a total power failure."

"What do you mean, a total power failure?" Jeff Tracy's voice had never felt so comforting, so solid in Gordon's ears.

"Just what it sounds like, Dad. We lost everything – engines, communications, electronics, hydraulics, the works."

"But that's impossible."

"Amazing how we all wear out the same tune around here," Gordon sighed. "I assure you, Dad, not only is it possible, but we've got proof. Virgil had to crash Two to get us down."

"Is everyone all right?" The strain was audible in his father's voice, too, now.

"Yeah, we're a bit beat up but nothing a couple days in the whirlpool couldn't fix. Wish I could say the same for Two."

"Never mind Thunderbird Two, son. She's repairable. What matters is that you and your brothers and Tin-Tin are safe. Let me talk to Scott."

"He went with Virg and the others to the hangar to get One. Hang on, let me see if his wristcom is working again."

"I'll do it," John said. Gordon could hear him hailing Scott. There was a brief pause, and then John said, "That's funny. He's not answering, and I can't get a fix on his location."

Another pause, and when he came back his voice had changed. "I can't get a fix on anyone's location. All I see is yours."

The uneasy feeling in Gordon's gut, the one he'd known from that brief look that Scott shared with him, came back full force. "John, are you getting a location on Thunderbird One?"

"Negative."

"What's going on?" Jeff asked sharply. "Gordon, where are they?"

"Hold on, Dad. Doing a visual." Gordon glanced over at the controls for Two's external cameras, relieved to see that their status lights were a steady green. He punched up the panel, selected the one mounted on the periscope that extended above the hull directly over the cockpit. It rose slowly, sensors automatically switching it to night vision mode as it turned to point back in the direction they'd come.

He couldn't suppress a gasp as the airport buildings came into view. The hangar where they'd left Thunderbird One was gone.

Chapter Four

For a terrible, endless moment, nobody moved. Lightning flickered outside, and the rain began pounding down again, drumming hard on the hangar roof.

Tin-Tin sank slowly to her knees beside Virgil's head, reaching out to him with shaking hands. "Virgil...oh, God, Virgil..."

On his feet again, Scott took a half step toward them, froze as the guttural voice of the man by the circle rang out. "Halt, or I will command them to shoot again."

Scott didn't take his eyes off Tin-Tin. "How bad is it?"

Her face was white. "It's a mess, Scott."

"Does he have a pulse?" Scott tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. "Is he breathing?"

Tin-Tin rallied with an effort, leaned forward to touch her fingers to Virgil's neck. She nodded up at Scott.

"Check the door," the Asian man ordered. One of the men who had appeared out of nowhere – Scott's mind still skittered away from the reality of that, even though he'd been looking right at them when it happened – moved around Scott and then Alan and tested the hangar door handle. Scott saw a shotgun in his hands and felt rage flare hard in his belly.

The man stopped as though he felt it, and for the first time Scott got a good look at his face. Shock washed cold through his veins.

The eyes had no irises or whites. They were completely black.

"Who are you people?" Alan demanded. He'd seen the same thing, and the feeling of being suddenly out of his depth was making him angry.

"They are not people, Alan. Not anymore." Tin-Tin's voice was quiet. "They are demons."

"Demons?" Alan's head snapped around to stare at her. "What are you talking about? There's no such thing."

The big Asian man boomed out a laugh. "What a sheltered existence you Tracys lead. There are more things in this world than you could ever dream of. Of course, you would not welcome those dreams."

Scott felt like he was struggling to right a rowboat in a hurricane. Years of training asserted themselves finally, insisting that he focus on what he could control and worry about the rest later. Virgil was first priority here.

He looked at their captor. "I'm going to him," he said, indicating Virgil. "You do what you like."

The Asian man, surprisingly, inclined his head. "It will only delay the inevitable...but if you must."

Scott skidded to his knees beside Tin-Tin, sucking in his breath when he saw the mess the shotgun blasts had made of Virgil's back. They had all gone through EMT training, plus learned a few techniques a battlefield medic would be proud of...all of which in this case meant he had a little too much knowledge. The fear rose in his throat, tried to choke him; he pushed it down ruthlessly. Starve the imagination, feed the will. He was no use to his brother like that.

He'd lost his survival gear somewhere in the struggle that had just happened. His eyes lighted on the medic bag on Tin-Tin's shoulder. How had she known...

Starve the imagination. "Tin-Tin, give me your pack. We have to get this bleeding stopped."

She was frozen, staring up at the big Asian man, her eyes pools of jade in a face drained of all color. It was rare that he'd seen her afraid of anything, and never this much; it unsettled him badly. He overrode it, took her by the shoulders. Kept his voice firm but encouraging. "Tin-Tin, come on. We have to help Virgil here."

She swallowed, coming back to herself a little. "Yes...of course..." Still sneaking glances at their captor, she pulled the bag off her shoulder, unzipped it and handed it over.

Scott tore open a package of quick-clotting sponges. Designed for battlefield use, they were coated with substances that induced clotting and retarded bacterial infection; they could stop bleeding extremely fast and that would go a long way toward saving Virgil's life. He glanced up briefly. "Alan, help Tin-Tin, I'm going to start a line."

Alan dropped to his knees beside him. "Scott...he's lost a lot of blood...do you think he'll..."

"He's going to be fine," Scott rapped out, even though he knew he didn't believe the words. From Alan's look, he didn't either, but he just bit his lip and helped Tin-Tin hold the sponges in place as she sealed them to Virgil's back with the pressure dressings.

The bleeding was already slowing dramatically. Scott forced himself to concentrate on assessing the damage just like he was on a normal rescue, just like it was a stranger he was treating. He gave silent thanks that by some miracle it seemed, although he couldn't be sure, that all the shotgun rounds had missed Virgil's spine. He'd been fortunate that he'd been far enough from the weapon's muzzle for the buckshot to have spread out sufficiently...if he'd taken the blast full force from close range he'd have been dead before he hit the floor.

Scott didn't want to think about that. He was painfully aware that if it hadn't been for his orders, Virgil would be sitting in Thunderbird Two right now, safe and unharmed. And what would be different? he asked himself. Would you rather Alan or Gordon had been shot instead? Or Tin-Tin?

He could feel Virgil's labored breathing under his hands as he got the line started. He couldn't stop fixating on how the blood spray clung in clots to his brother's thick chestnut hair.

IV fluids and dopamine. Spike the bag. Prime the line. Slip the cartridge into the mini pump. His hands were trembling. He railed at himself to get control – how many times had he done this in the normal course of the rescue business? A hundred? Five hundred?

How different when it was one of their own.

"How touching," the Asian man had moved closer now. "How hard you work for a life I could take away like this." He snapped his fingers.

Tin-Tin's voice hissed out in Malay. From Alan's raised eyebrows, Scott figured out that it wasn't a compliment.

The man laughed. "I knew it was you, Tin-Tin," he said, his voice seeming to fill the stillness of the hangar. "I felt it the moment you walked in. An unexpected bonus indeed."

"Tin-Tin," Alan said, "who is that man and how does he know who you are?"

"He's my uncle. His name is Belah Gaat."

She spat out the name as if it were poisonous. "That's your uncle?" Alan stared at their captor. "The one who tried to kill you and your father?"

She nodded. "He hunted us for years. Until your father helped us." Despite the deep hatred in her voice, her arms were wrapped protectively across her chest. All of a sudden it was easy for Scott to see beyond the sophisticated façade to the child she had once been, constantly on the run, living in fear.

"I don't understand," Alan was saying. "What is he doing here?"

"Building a trap. A trap for us."

"But how did he...?" Alan broke off. "Of course. Eduardo. What have you done with Eduardo?" he demanded of their captor.

Belah Gaat ignored him. He was watching Scott – Scott could feel the dark stare as if it was a tangible thing, boring into him, making his skin prickle uncomfortably. He refused to look up, keeping his attention on Virgil. He took the thermal blanket from the med pack to cover his brother and got the one from Alan's pack to fold and slide under Virgil's head.

It was a sobering thought that he had now done pretty much all he could do.

"If you are finished, Scott Tracy, we have business to discuss," Belah Gaat said.

Scott slowly sat back on his heels, hands covered in Virgil's blood. He wiped them with a piece of field dressing, unable to hide the anger that vibrated through his words. "You and me? You have got to be kidding."

Gaat didn't react at all to the tone of voice. For the first time Scott had a moment to assess the situation they were in, noticing how the black-eyed people Tin-Tin had called demons stood around the far side of the painted circle, eerily still, as if they were switched off somehow until called upon. They all wore dark green quasi-military coveralls. He thought about the Sig Sauer, wondered if the weapon would have any effect on them. If not, a show of aggression like that would do nothing but get them all killed. He would have to bide his time and wait for a better moment than this.

"You have something I want, and at this point it seems that I now have something you need," Gaat continued.

Virgil made a low moaning sound. Scott checked him quickly but he didn't seem to be regaining consciousness. "Tin-Tin," he said, "keep an eye on him, OK?"

She nodded. Scott noticed that she was trembling, although he couldn't tell if it was with anger or fear. Probably a combination of both. "Stay with me," he said to her in a low voice, as comfortingly as he could manage when everything seemed to be cutting loose from its moorings inside him. "We'll get out of this."

The look on her face made his blood run cold. "You don't understand," she whispered. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."

What had this man done to her and her father? What was he capable of?

He would need to watch his step here, if he was going to get them all out alive.

"Now, Tracy," Gaat snapped.

Reluctantly, he stood up. "Scott..." Alan said, unhappily.

Scott gave him a reassuring nod. Then he turned to face their captor. "OK," he said. "Let's have it. What do you want?"

Gaat smiled. The expression reminded Scott of a hungry wolf facing down its prey. "Surely that must be obvious," their captor said, turning slightly and looking back into the hangar.

Thunderbird One. Scott's eyes closed for a moment. "So what's stopping you?"

Gaat barked out a laugh. "Come now, you think I have not tried, in the time you've been gone? You have an entry code. I want it. In exchange, I will let you return to Thunderbird Two, and perhaps your brother will survive."

"Scott...no..."

Scott swung around. "Virgil!"

The words came out with great effort. "Don't...give it to him..."

Despite Tin-Tin's attempts to restrain him, Virgil had managed to push himself more or less up on to his side. He stared glassily up at Scott, his face an unhealthy shade of gray under his tan. Scott saw him try to reach out with one hand and dropped beside him quickly, supporting his brother's body as his strength gave out and he slumped back toward the concrete. "Virg, take it easy. Don't try to move. You've been shot."

"No...kidding." Virgil tried to laugh; it choked off in a coughing spasm. "How...bad..."

There was no easy way to say it. Scott took his brother's hand reassuringly. "Virg, can you feel your legs?"

He saw the fear flicker for a moment in his brother's eyes. "I...don't know. Cold..."

"You're going into shock. Stay with me, Virg." Scott struggled to keep the fear out of his voice. "Hold on for me."

Virgil's eyes drifted shut again but Scott felt the weak pressure against his hand. He closed his own eyes to hide the sudden burning.

"Give me the code, and your brother will have a chance to live."

Scott reluctantly released Virgil's hand. Alan moved in to support their brother and Scott stood up, facing their captor again. "Why should I believe you? You said earlier that taking care of him was only delaying the inevitable."

Gaat's brows drew together. "Do not bandy semantics with me, Tracy. I can end his life at any time. I can end all of your lives."

Scott glanced back at his crew...then at the sleek form of his Thunderbird. Forgive me, Dad, he thought. But I've got no choice.

Chapter Five

"What do you mean, it's gone?"

"Gone, Dad. As in, not there." Gordon stared at the monitor, cold chills running down his spine. "It was there when we left. It's just...not there now."

"There's nothing on the satellite scan," John's voice was sharp with disbelief. "How is this even possible? It's got to be there!"

"It is there, John. Gordon simply can no longer see it."

"Come again?" Gordon grunted with frustration. He swung around to the main console vidscreen and toggled the display. The screen flickered to life and he saw Kyrano standing beside his father, who was looking up at him with an expression that Gordon thought probably mirrored his own.

Kyrano nodded, his dark eyes very serious. "It is true. Evil forces are at work here. They have caused the building to become invisible to your eyes, but it is still where it was."

"Invisible?" John's voice went up an octave. Gordon couldn't see him, but he knew his brother's eyebrows had hit his hairline.

"Evil forces?" Jeff choked out. "What the devil do you mean, Kyrano?"

"Not quite the devil, but someone of great power," Kyrano said. "I fear the situation will become worse before it is over."

Gordon felt the pit of his stomach sink a little lower. "What can we do?"

He could see the distress now, leaking through the usual Zen calm of Kyrano's demeanor. "I do not know yet, Gordon. I do not know."

Scott crossed the concrete floor to Thunderbird One, trying not to feel like a man headed for his own execution. Gaat followed closely behind him; despite the other man's proximity, Scott's combat trained mind couldn't help looking for angles, for some way to get the upper hand. If it had just been the two of them, or even if they'd all been able-bodied... But Virgil's situation changed the equation completely. Any plan Scott made now had to include a way to get his injured brother out alive.

They reached the ladder at last. Gaat waved him up. "Open the hatch."

Scott turned toward him. "What assurance do I have that you –"

"None," Gaat rumbled.

Scott desperately wanted to wipe the smile off the other man's face with his fist, but he got a hold on his temper with a supreme effort. "Then why in hell am I doing this?"

"Because I will kill you if you do not," Gaat said.

"I'd like to see you try." Scott couldn't keep his teeth from baring. Let the bastard come at him. He was ready.

Gaat actually looked like he was considering it for a moment. Then he shook his head impatiently. "I have no time for this foolishness. I will take your ship and be gone." He gestured at the ladder. "Open the hatch. Now."

Out of options, Scott started climbing. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what Gaat would do when he got into the cockpit seat and discovered that One, like all the Thunderbird machines, would remain completely inert unless her scans recognized the person in the pilot's seat to be a living, breathing member of the team. If he didn't immediately order someone killed on the spot out of sheer rage, the best case Scott could come up with was that Gaat would try to force him to be his pilot...and Scott didn't want to think about what might happen to the others after he was gone.

The Sig Sauer was burning a hole in its holster, itching to be in his hand. He'd have to act fast. Maybe once Gaat was in the confines of the cockpit he could pull off a head shot before their captor could activate his henchmen.

He could feel Gaat's impatience, knew he could stall no longer. He keyed in the code and the hatch slid open.

"There," he said. "She's all yours." The words tasted bad in his mouth.

Gaat threw his head back and laughed in triumph, a booming sound that echoed around the warehouse. As Scott jumped down and stood aside, bracing himself for what he knew was coming, the Asian man climbed the ladder and reached up to pull himself aboard the silver rocket plane.

And howled in pain, snatching his hand back. "What is this trickery?"

Scott had conjured up a whole raft of scenarios in his head for what might happen after he opened that hatch...but this hadn't been one of them. He could only look at Gaat blankly.

Gaat tried again to reach through the open hatch, only to pull back his hand once more as if it had been burned. He looked closely at the metal surrounding the entrance, then scowled. "This hatch is warded! Who is responsible for this?"

"It's what?" Scott asked, totally confused.

"Do not play games with me!" Gaat thundered. "Someone has placed wards on this aircraft that prevent me from entering it! I want to know who has done this!"

"Listen, buddy, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. What the hell is a ward?"

Gaat swung around, stared across the hangar at Tin-Tin, who was standing now, meeting his gaze. "Your father," he said, slowly. "Your father did this! I will punish him for daring to obstruct me!"

Tin-Tin said nothing. Gaat strode back toward her. Scott stayed with him, one eye on the silent henchmen, getting ready to pull his weapon if necessary.

"You will remove this protection at once," Gaat rapped at Tin-Tin. When she didn't move, he snapped his fingers and one of the demon figures came to life, moving swiftly around the painted circle to his side. Gaat pointed at Virgil and the demon produced a sidearm, aimed it at his head.

Horrified, Scott tried to get past him, but Gaat held up a hand and it was like he'd run into a brick wall. "What the hell..?"

Gaat never looked at him. "Do it," he said to Tin-Tin. "Do it or I will have him killed."

"No!" Alan burst out. He stepped over Virgil, blocking the demon's weapon with his body.

Tin-Tin was shivering violently, lost in her uncle's black gaze. "I can't," she whispered at last. "I don't know how."

Gaat stared at her. The moment stretched out until Scott thought something would break inside him and he'd just start screaming. Then suddenly Gaat threw out his arms, threw back his head and roared one word. "KYRAAAAAAAAANOOOOOOOOOO!"

John quickly arranged a secure conference vidcall with Eduardo Tamayo, Agent #305, which produced the unwelcome information that he hadn't spoken to anyone in their organization in the recent past. He'd just arrived home from a three week trip to Rio de Janeiro with his wife, he explained, and expressed honest surprise when he found out International Rescue had been in Costa Rica. "Mr. Tracy, sir, I had no idea! Where did you say 'I' told Scott to leave Thunderbird One?"

Jeff rubbed his temples. "Gordon?"

"A deserted airfield out in the jungle a couple hundred miles northeast of San Juan," Gordon responded. "You...he...said there used to be a village here, but it's all gone now. He called it Las Muertas."

"Las Muertas?" Eduardo's brow furrowed. "I am not familiar with that place. I will have to look it up."

"You do that," Jeff rumbled. "There's something strange going on there and we need to get to the bottom of it, and fast."

"Something strange?" Eduardo's eyebrows raised a little.

Jeff hesitated, glancing up at John's live feed. John stepped in. "The hangar seems to have...disappeared," he said.

"Disappeared." Eduardo repeated the word.

"Our chief engineer is working on it," Jeff said. He could hear how stiff he sounded, as if the entire conversation was causing him pain. "But so far he hasn't been able to come up with a logical way this could have happened."

There was a long silence. Eduardo's expression became even more serious. "I see. Perhaps... Mr. Tracy, there is someone I can consult who might be able to tell us something more about this situation."

Jeff suppressed his surprise. He had expected a completely different reaction. "Do it. And let us know if you need any assistance."

Eduardo signed off. "I'll start digging into that place some more," John added. "There has to be some reason they were taken there."

A loud crash, followed by a shriek of distress from the direction of the kitchen made Jeff start. "Mother! Hang on, boys."

He scrambled out from behind the desk and raced across the lounge to the kitchen doorway. "Mother! What's wrong?"

The answer became obvious the moment he entered the room. The broken remains of a tray of coffee cups were scattered across the polished stone floor, and Ruth Tracy was bent over the limp form of Kyrano. "He just collapsed, Jeff!" she exclaimed. "I was looking at him when it happened. He was just bringing you some coffee..."

All Jeff could do was look at Kyrano. Despite his unresponsive state, the other man's eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Chapter Six

Years before, when Scott and the other members of the team had been going through their own privately-arranged EMT training in advance of IR beginning operations, one of the medics who taught the course had warned them there would be times when no matter what they did, they wouldn't be able to control the outcome of a situation. To illustrate, he'd told them a quietly horrifying story about when he'd been a young paramedic and he'd been called to transport a pregnant woman who'd just gone into labor. Everything appeared perfectly normal...until it took a sudden left turn into the stuff of nightmares. No matter what he did, he couldn't stop it all from falling apart. Shit's just going to happen, the medic had said, his expression making it quite clear that the incident still haunted him, and sometimes there won't be shit you can do to make it stop.

Watching Gaat walk away, dismissing them as a threat so completely that he turned his back on them without hesitation, Scott knew the meaning of those words up close and personal. He had seldom in his life felt so utterly powerless. Virgil lay on the concrete nearby, very probably dying. And now, although Gaat had been thwarted in his attempt to steal Thunderbird One, the consequence of that was Tin-Tin frozen in place like a mannequin, staring ahead through blank eyes, not responding to anything either Scott or Alan did or said.

And with two of his team now out of commission, the odds had just gotten infinitely worse of Scott ever getting them out of this mess.

He forced himself to take inventory anyway. Concentrate on what you have, not on what you don't. Their wristcoms were still completely dead, regardless of the bright electric light that burned in the hangar. Thunderbird One sat tantalizingly close, although she might as well have been on another planet for all the good she did them right now. With the medical supplies they had, he could keep Virgil going for a little while yet, provided something worse wasn't lurking, waiting to strike.

With a cold wash of fear, Scott suddenly remembered Gordon, who they'd left sitting back in Thunderbird Two. Was he still there? Had he been captured by these people as well? And if he hadn't, then why hadn't he tried to make contact somehow? Surely he must have realized by now that something was very wrong...

"Sonofabitch," Alan growled from behind him. Scott turned, saw his youngest brother clench his fist. "If I could get hold of that bastard right now, I'd..."

"That makes two of us," Scott said. Between them, he and Alan managed to get Tin-Tin to sit down against the wall, although she still didn't give any sign that she knew they were even there.

"It's like he put her into some kind of trance," Alan said, worry acute in his expression. "I don't know what to do, Scott."

Something was niggling at the back of Scott's brain. "You know," he said slowly, "this is beginning to remind me of something. Lake Anasta, when Tin-Tin and Brains went looking for that treasure with Professor Blakely. When we answered the distress call, Virgil said he found her in the trailer looking like this."

Alan looked at him sharply. "Scott...do you think this guy – Tin-Tin's uncle – could be the same one who keeps turning up at our rescues and trying to steal our secrets? Could he be the same guy who nearly killed Gordon and Brains at Lake Anasta?"

Scott didn't like the way the math added up. It made his stomach churn uneasily. "Are you suggesting that Tin-Tin knows more than she's told us about all this?"

"No, of course not. Tin-Tin wouldn't hide something like this from us..." Alan trailed off. When he spoke again, he sounded a lot less certain. "Would she?"

A quiet, choked-off groan from Virgil made Scott scramble quickly to his side. "What is it, Virg? What can I do?"

He took his brother's pulse as Virgil tried to look up at him. It was getting weaker, his breathing growing more labored. His skin was gray and felt clammy under Scott's fingers and he was in very obvious pain. "M'kay," he managed to grunt.

"The hell you are." Scott attempted a smile, failed miserably. "Virg, I'm going to put you on a low dose of morphine, OK?"

Virgil's head slid up and back in a nod. The very fact that he didn't even attempt to argue spoke volumes about his condition.

Scott fished in the med bag, found the morphine. Only two milligrams at a time...he couldn't risk any more for fear of depressing his brother's respiration too much. It was a fine balance...the stress of the pain vs the slip towards unconsciousness. Scott knew there was probably internal bleeding, but he had absolutely no way to either measure or treat it. All he could do was try to maintain Virgil's life until he found a way out for them all.

The morphine hit his brother's system; he saw the relief loosen the clenched jaw, the lines of his face relax. Scott took Virgil's hand, keeping his voice steady. "Stay with me, Virg. Tell me how you're doing."

Virgil murmured something incomprehensible, managed a small squeeze of Scott's hand.

"What is he up to?" Alan muttered.

Scott looked up; realized that Alan wasn't looking at him or Virgil. He followed his youngest brother's gaze to where Gaat was emerging from the smaller jet tucked in behind Thunderbird One. He strode back to the circle with a black case that looked very much like a doctor's bag. He put it on the floor, taking out several objects that were hard to make out at this distance and placing them in the golden bowl. Then he began to chant slowly in a guttural, unfamiliar language. Scott started to wish John was there; he might have known what the language was. Then he realized what he was wishing for and took it back in a hurry. The last thing he wanted right now was any more of his family members in harm's way.

A tangible stir went through the demon ranks grouped around the circle. They watched Gaat with rapt attention, as if they were anticipating something. Scott didn't want to know what.

A sense of urgency made his eyes stray, not for the first time, to the side door they had entered through. If he could just get to it while Gaat was distracted... No, not him...there was no way in hell he was leaving Virgil. But maybe...

"Al," he said, in tones barely above a whisper, pretending to adjust the field dressings on Virgil's back.

Alan looked at him. Scott waited a moment, then he flicked his eyes toward the door.

Alan glanced briefly at the door, then at Gaat. "But...Tin-Tin..."

"The sooner you bring help, the sooner we'll get her and Virgil out of here."

Alan nodded, reluctant but understanding. "OK."

"On my signal," Scott murmured.

Alan squeezed Tin-Tin's hand. He drew his legs up under him, making it look as if he was moving to help Scott.

Gaat threw his arms up in the air and gave a great shout, which was echoed by all the demons around the circle. Flame exploded from the golden bowl, searing both Tracys' eyes with its brightness. "Go!" Scott hissed, and Alan came up off the floor like a runner from the starting blocks.

It was going to work. The commotion around the circle was holding Gaat's attention; nobody had seen Alan's bid for freedom. He was at the door now, wrenching it open.

Immediately he reeled back, gasping in shock. Scott sprang to his feet, clearly able to see the open door from where he was.

It framed something thick and black and howling, shot through with spears of lightning. As Scott stared in disbelief, long fingers of that blackness reached in as if alive, headed for his brother. Scott was beside him in seconds, trying to drag him back, but the vortex or whatever the hell it was had them squarely in its gravitational pull, sucking them both relentlessly toward the opening. Scott threw all his weight backward but resist as they both might, they were slowly losing ground, and the force beyond the doorway was growing stronger and stronger.

Abruptly, the door slammed shut. The resistance gone, Scott and Alan collapsed backwards to the floor. Gaat's voice boomed out. "Do not do that again."

Breathing hard, Scott rolled over, cursing himself silently for having underestimated their captor. Of course Gaat didn't think he had to watch them...he'd already cut off their escape. How, Scott couldn't even fathom.

Before he could even try to figure out what to do next, his overloaded senses got yet another shock. In the middle of the circle, where nothing had been a few moments before, there were now three newcomers, all men. They seemed to be distentangling themselves from one another, as if they'd been in the middle of a fight or some kind of physical struggle.

All of them looked very surprised to be there.

"The hell, Crowley," said one, a very tall young man whose shaggy hair brushed the collar of his green army surplus jacket. "Now what have you done?"

Chapter Seven

"More demons?" Alan muttered. "What the hell is he doing now?"

Scott shook his head. He was way beyond trying to predict anything at this point.

The shortest of the men was also the oldest by Scott's reckoning; he guessed at early forties. If that kind of thing counted with a demon, that was...his experience of them was a little limited. The man wore an expensive, tailored suit in contrast to the casual jeans and jackets of the younger two, and when he spoke his accent was British, leaning more to toward Lady Penelope's melodious tones than Parker's East End delivery. "Not everything is my fault, Moose. I expect you'll find this underdressed gentleman here is the responsible party."

He nodded toward Gaat, although it wouldn't have been too difficult for the other two in the ring to identify him from that description. The third man pulled an exasperated face. "He summoned you? At a time like this?"

The one called Crowley spread his hands. "So sue me, Dean. It's not as if he made an appointment."

Sizing them up automatically as possible threats, Scott noted that the older man was a couple of inches under six foot, but both the younger two were well over that mark. The shaggy-haired one in particular looked like he might be getting on for as tall as Grandpa Tracy, who'd been six-foot-five. Neither of them looked like they were strangers to taking care of themselves in a fight.

Crowley addressed Gaat. Scott recognized the tone...a guy used to being in command, conceding what he had to, to get the situation handled in the least possible time. As though Gaat was his dry cleaner and had showed up at an inconvenient time wanting payment for an overdue bill. "All right, whoever you are, make it quick. What do you want? Riches? Fame? A better wardrobe? I'd definitely think about that last one, if I were you. Considering."

Gaat stared back at him, unflinching. "Do not be dismissive with me, demon." He jerked his head to indicate behind him. "I want you to break the wards on that ship so I can steal it."

Crowley looked past him at Thunderbird One. So did the younger two. "Wow," the one called Dean said. "That's quite a ride."

"Hmmm," Crowley said thoughtfully. "Unless this is Area 51 and the military has severely relaxed its dress code, I'd say we're not in 2010 anymore."

The younger two men looked at each other. "Great," Dean sighed. "This gets better and better."

"Again, not responsible," Crowley pointed out. He looked back at Gaat. "And what do I get for helping you?"

Gaat's thick brows drew together. "Get? You are a demon, I am your summoner. You must do my bidding or I will not release you."

Crowley glanced around him. "Such a lovely invitation. And you've done such great things with the place, too - very minimalist. I think I like it."

He smiled at Gaat then. It was an unsettling expression, and his tone slid toward a matching darkness. "I'm not just any old demon, my friend. You've got a tiger by the tail. Tell him, boys."

"Uh, we're not with him," Dean said. "No matter what he says."

Crowley clapped a hand over the general location of his heart, the humor back in his voice. "Dean, you wound me," he said, although he clearly didn't mean it.

Gaat folded his arms. "I am not a patient man," he said, warningly.

Unmoved, Crowley continued to take in his surroundings, glancing over at the Tracy group. When he met Scott's eyes briefly, Scott felt a chill deep down inside that made him catch his breath.

"Who is that?" Alan hissed. Scott looked at him, realized he'd felt the same thing.

"So whose rocket are we stealing?" Crowley said. "Is this one of those military espionage things? I do love a bit of intrigue."

"That is none of your concern," Gaat growled.

Crowley shrugged. "Just making conversation, don't get your knickers in a knot."

"Can we get this moving?" Dean asked. "We were kind of in the middle of something, in case you'd forgotten..."

Crowley arched both eyebrows. "You too? Maybe you'd like to help this gentleman out?"

"The wards," Gaat reminded them in a voice like gravel.

Crowley walked to the edge of the circle. "A little hard to see them from here," he remarked. "If I could get closer..."

Gaat laughed. "You cannot trick me that easily, demon."

Crowley's tone turned to the depths of winter. "That's King of the Demons to you, you insignificant piece of shit!" He roared. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

Scott thought he felt the ground rumble; glanced at Alan, whose expression showed him he hadn't imagined it.

If Gaat registered it, he gave no sign. "I may speak to you any way I wish," he came back, raising his voice to match. "You are the king of nothing when you are in my circle. You must do what I command!"

The one called Moose stepped forward, hands up. "Look, guys, we get it, you're both badasses. But can we skip the part where we drop our pants and get out the ruler? Crowley, just break his damn wards and we can get back to business."

Crowley folded his arms to match Gaat's stance. Moose dropped his head in frustration. Lifting his chin again, he looked for the first time towards Scott and the others, then down at the circle surrounding him. "Uh, Dean...we don't have to, uh..."

Dean looked down as well, then made a "duh" expression. "We'll be back," he said to Crowley, who ignored him, as did Gaat.

That overconfidence was going to be their captor's undoing, if Scott had anything to say about it.

He and Alan exchanged surprised glances as both of the younger newcomers walked casually out of the circle and headed toward them. The Tracys quickly placed themselves between the approaching men and Tin-Tin and Virgil. Scott slid the Sig Sauer out of its holster, saw Alan follow suit with his own sidearm.

The newcomers halted a few feet away, evaluating the warning. "I know it's an overused term," Dean said, lifting his hands. "But we're the good guys."

"Who are you, and how did you get out of that circle?" Scott asked warily.

"We're not demons," the one called Moose said. "The circle does nothing to hold human beings."

"If you're human, then why did you wind up in there?" Alan demanded.

"We were caught up in the moment, you could say," Dean said. "Sometimes when you're touching a demon and it's summoned, you go along for the ride." He looked around at the hangar. "How come we never get to go somewhere nice, like Cancun?"

"I'm Sam Winchester," Moose said. "This is my brother, Dean, who has never actually been to Cancun. Would you mind telling us where we are?"

"And when," Dean added. "When might help."

Scott hesitated for a long moment. "Scott Tracy. This is my brother, Alan."

"We're in the middle of nowhere in Costa Rica," Alan supplied. "And it's 2029."

"2029?" Dean whistled. "How the hell did that happen?"

Moose/Sam indicated Gaat. "Must have been something he did."

"You think?" Dean shook his head. He walked up to Tin-Tin, bent forward and snapped his fingers in front of her face. She didn't blink. "Trance?"

Scott nodded, jerking his head at Gaat. "His work."

"Could come in useful," Dean said, semi-admiringly, then shut down the expression immediately at Alan's glare. "You're the boyfriend. I get it."

Sam crouched beside Virgil, looking at the dressings on his back. "What happened to him?"

"This is our brother Virgil," Scott said. "He's in a bad way – he needs a hospital and soon."

"One of them shot him," Alan said angrily. "And we can't leave to get help. Gaat's done something to this hangar. We don't know what, or how."

Dean and Sam exchanged glances. "Done something?" Dean asked.

Scott briefly recapped their experience with the howling vortex. "It would have pulled us both out if Gaat hadn't slammed the door. Closest I can describe it, it was like looking at the wall of a tornado."

"Seen a few of those," Alan said. "We're from Kansas."

"No kidding. So are we!" Dean perked up. "Whereabouts?

Sam cleared his throat. "Let's stay on track here. From the sounds of it, that Gaat guy has somehow taken this place out of the time stream. That would explain why he wound up accidentally summoning the Crowley from our time instead of the one from today."

"Assuming we haven't already killed the one from today," Dean said. "A guy can hope."

"We hunt things like them for a living," Sam explained.

"You didn't look much like you were hunting that one," Alan said pointedly, indicating Crowley.

Dean smiled, but the lightness didn't reach his eyes. Scott had seen that look during his time in the service; this man had witnessed a lot of death. "It's complicated. Crowley and us...we go back a ways. It's nearly impossible to kill a demon that powerful. But you can sometimes persuade them to help you out."

"That's what we were doing when that guy over there summoned Crowley," Sam said. "Persuading him to help us out."

"Are you saying we can't kill those things?" Scott said, nodding towards the demons surrounding the circle.

"It's easier with the rank and file," Dean said. "You can kill the meat suit. That forces the demon to leave."

"Meat suit?" Alan asked.

"What you're looking at over there are people who've been possessed by demons," Sam explained. "They call the human body they're wearing a 'meat suit.'"

"So...you're saying that to get rid of the demon, you have to kill the person it's taken over?" Scott frowned. "And the demon still escapes?"

Dean nodded. "That's about the size of it. Unless you have one very special gun...and that kills the person and the demon."

"Shit," Scott said heavily. He had a sudden, ugly flashback to being on the ground behind enemy lines in Bereznik, a wounded wingman to protect and the prospect of killing a lot of enemy "meat suits" before they found their way back to freedom.

He'd thought he was done with all that.

"There is a way to send the demon back where it came from and free the person," Sam added, off Scott's expression. "But it takes making it sit still and listen to a lot of Latin. I can't see that happening in a situation like this."

"But even if you just kill the suit, at least the demon's out of the game for a while," Dean said. "You gotta count that as a win."

Scott glanced back at Crowley and Gaat, still arguing. He was very far away from counting any of this as a win.

"Go ahead, John." Jeff settled heavily into the chair behind his desk.

John's portrait morphed into Thunderbird Five's live feed. "How's Kyrano, Dad?"

"I don't know, son. Brains has looked him over but he can't find anything physically wrong. It's like those episodes he used to have, but worse. Brains thought it might be a stroke at first but apparently his scans are clear. If he doesn't improve in a little while we may have to transport him to the mainland and consult a specialist."

He shook off the nagging feeling of foreboding with an effort. "What have you got for me?"

"Let me get Gordon on the line," John said.

He looked away from the screen for a moment, then Virgil's portrait on the lounge wall flickered and became Gordon in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two. Jeff could easily see the stress lines around his second-youngest's eyes and mouth. Gordon hadn't taken it well when Brains' attempts at using a remote scan of the hangar area had failed to produce even the slightest sign of the building that he knew had been there. Jeff had forbidden him to leave the relative safety of Thunderbird Two to investigate in person until they had a better idea of what they were dealing with, and the signs of his son's unwilling obedience made themselves clear in the bunched muscles of his jaw.

"I have you both on screen now," John said, somewhat unnecessarily. "I've been looking into this village Scott and the crew were lured to, Las Muertas. It took me a bit of digging, but it seems that isn't the whole name of the place. It's actually called Las Muertas Viviantes. It means—"

"The Living Dead," Gordon interrupted. "Very atmospheric."

"It didn't always go by that name," John went on. "It was once a village of five hundred or so people. The details are a little sketchy, but apparently a foreign mining company wanted to dig for gold there, back in the 1970s. Made friends with the locals, promised them gold for their temple if they helped them. Said they'd honor their gods."

"I take it that didn't happen?" Jeff said.

"No. And worse, these people had been pretty much isolated for a long time. They had no immunity to western illnesses, and they'd had no vaccinations. The mining company people introduced them to whooping cough. A huge number of the children died, we know that because of the testimony of one of the employees who made it out of there to try to get them some help. Apparently his request was refused by the head office. Then the company lost touch with the mining operation, and eventually they sent in a plane. By that time it was all over. It looked like the villagers had risen up against the mining company in revenge for their children, and they'd managed to wipe each other out."

"That's a terrible story," Jeff said. "You're sure it's the same place?"

"Quite sure, Dad. The native people in the surrounding area won't go near the village. They believe the spirits of the dead rise and re-enact the killing of the mining company employees." He hesitated for a moment. "I also found a website that talked about a film crew that went out there to make a movie about it back in 2014. It's probably just an urban legend...but the website claims they were never heard from again."

Gordon raised his eyebrows. "More good news," Jeff said. "Good job, John...I just wish it got us closer to figuring out what's happened to Scott and the others."

"We'll put the pieces together, Dad," Gordon tried for a reassuring tone; fell a little short. "It's only a matter of time."

Jeff found himself wishing fervently that he believed him.

Chapter Eight

"What about her?" the demon named Crowley said, nodding his head toward Tin-Tin. "A little goodwill gesture, sweeten the pot?"

"No!" Gaat's voice was exasperated. They'd been arguing for fifteen minutes, and Scott got the distinct impression that Crowley was enjoying himself.

The demon shrugged. "Well, I can see your point. She's pretty hot, as Dean over there would say."

"She is my niece!"

"Ah!" Crowley tilted his head to one side, raised one eyebrow. "Is the rest of your family this dysfunctional?"

Gaat roared in frustration. Crowley just winked.

"He has that effect on people," Sam said as they watched, shaking his head.

"Seriously, folks," Dean said, "this is normal. One of Crowley's nicknames is "The Salesman." He can keep this up all night."

Scott scrubbed at his temples with his fingertips. He wondered if he was going out of his mind. "We have got to get Virgil out of here," he said. "He..." The words had sharp edges, it was difficult to get them out. "He doesn't have long."

He could feel Alan's gaze on him. But he couldn't look up, couldn't deal with one more person's pain right now, even his brother's.

"Like I said, Crowley can keep this up all night. Which gives us time to come up with a game plan," Dean said.

Scott glanced at him, trying to keep the frustration tamped down. "I've been trying to do that since we got here. All the scenarios I come up with go down in flames in the same place. We have wounded. With a sufficient diversion, I could get to my ship, but I can't move fast enough if I try to take Virgil with me. And if I leave him behind, he's a hostage. And I don't know what Gaat is capable of, let alone his crew over there."

"We could take the demons," Dean said. "Between us we have the firepower, and Sam and I have beaten worse odds than this. But you're right, Yul Brynner over there is a wild card."

"And in any case, we can't get out of the hangar," Alan reminded them.

Sam chewed on his lip. "Sometimes when you kill the spell-caster, it kills the spell as well."

"What's the catch?" Alan asked.

"Sometimes it doesn't."

"There has to be a way," Scott said, stubbornly. "There's nothing alive that doesn't have a weakness."

Sam was watching Gaat. "If only I had some way to do the research. I know I could figure out something." He fished what Scott figured must be a cellphone out of his pocket, although it looked thick and bulky to his eyes. "What I thought, no signal. Too far from our own time period."

Alan frowned. "Wait... You're saying you can get a cellphone signal even if you're out of the timestream?"

"Not with this much of a gap," Sam said.

"No, no...I mean, you're saying it's possible? You're saying it's possible to call someone?" Alan stared at Scott, a wild look in his eyes. He fished in his pocket and came up with his cell.

"Not call, text," Dean said. "It works quite a lot of the time. Well...nearly half the time, anyway. It all depends on whether he's moved you to the future or the past...and how much he's moved you."

"Voices are almost impossible to transmit clearly," Sam added. "But texting usually works."

"Gordon!" Scott hardly dared hope.

Alan took a deep breath and looked down at his phone. He let out a gasping laugh. "Four bars!"

Dean let out his breath. Scott turned his body so he was blocking Gaat from seeing what he was doing, if he even looked in their direction. He slid his own cell out of his pocket and stared at the reassuring green of the signal indicator.

Then he selected Gordon's number, and started praying. Gordo. Can you see this?

There was a moment of such tension that Scott thought his heart couldn't take it. Then a miracle happened. The incoming text tone sounded.

Scott hastily shut off the ringer. He sneaked a glance at Gaat and Crowley but they were still arguing back and forth, oblivious, and the demons were watching them like they were children at the circus.

Scott! Where are you? Are you all right?

"Well, how do you like that?" Scott murmured. "All this time and we could have just sent a text!" He allowed a small spark of hope to grow inside him. Maybe they would get out of this after all.

"Don't feel bad," Dean said. "It wouldn't have done you any good."

Scott frowned at him. We're in the hangar, he texted back to Gordon. We have to get out of here fast. Virgil's been shot and he needs a hospital.

Uh, there's a problem with getting you out. We can't see you!

"He can't see us," Scott said. "Damn."

"That's what I'm saying," Dean said spreading his hands.

What do you mean? Scott answered Gordon.

We can't see the hangar. Kyrano said it's still there but it's invisible.

Scott felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him as he suddenly imagined their father trying to wrap his mind around this situation. He stamped on it, got a hold of himself.

Sam reached over and took the phone from him. "Where is this guy?"

"He's right outside," Scott said. "In another one of our ships."

Sam nodded. Scott watched as he typed. Gordon, my name is Sam Winchester. I'm trapped in here with Scott. Listen very carefully. I need you to find me and my brother, Dean. We'll know what to do.

Come again?

Sam smiled, and began to type as fast as he could.

John Tracy was no stranger to finding things and people, and quickly, but locating the Winchester brothers turned out to be a serious test of his skills. He went through all five of the contact names Sam had given to Gordon with no luck – the first three were dead and the fourth and fifth had either disappeared or were on the road somewhere, to parts unknown. Very little trace of any of them could be found in the usual areas...government and city records, credit cards, utilities. He got the impression that flying under the radar was not only common in their profession but vital to their survival. Lead after lead looked promising at first but led nowhere except a maze of voicemails.

"Dad, I'm sorry, but this is taking a lot longer than I thought. These hunters seem to move around quite a bit and leave no forwarding information, which I guess makes sense given what they do. I've gone back to their family, done some research on their known associates in Lawrence...seems Sam and Dean's mother, Mary Winchester died in 1983 in a fire, and after that their father John and the kids left town."

As he spoke, Ruth Tracy was entering the room with two mugs of coffee for herself and Jeff. She put one of them on her son's desk. "Mary Winchester? Was she Mary Campbell before she was married?"

John frowned, glanced down at something they couldn't see. His eyebrows went up. "Yes, she was, Grandma. How did you know that?"

"One of the Campbell clan married my cousin Angus. I remember meeting Mary when I went with him and his wife to a family reunion. Pretty girl, blonde. She was engaged to a real handsome young man, if I remember. That was probably the John you talked about." She shook her head. "Terrible thing, that fire. Her children were so young!"

Jeff leaned forward. "Mother, finding Sam and Dean Winchester might be the only way to get our boys and Tin-Tin back," he said.

"Let me make some calls."

Chapter Nine

John finally caught up with the Winchesters at a gas station off Interstate 40 near Forrest City, Arkansas. "International Rescue?" Dean's deep voice had an edge of gravel, as though he was recovering from a cold. "Is somebody in trouble?"

"You are," John informed him. "And your brother. And four people from my...organization."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Dean asked sharply.

"No, sir. We need your help urgently. And...so do you."

In the silence that followed, a truck horn sounded somewhere, and John could hear laughter and car doors closing. "OK, I'll bite," Dean said at last, cautiously. "But I need some kind of proof that you are who you say you are. Turn on your vidscreen."

"I will if you will," John negotiated.

A pause, then a sigh and the image flickered to life. In the harsh lights of the gas station, Dean's creased and weathered face looked older than the fifty years of age John had calculated he had to be by now, which wasn't surprising considering the life he'd led. The bones were still good, though... he'd been handsome in his youth and it was clear he could still cut a swath with the ladies. Behind him, by the pumps, John could see the front grille of a car Alan would have flipped over, a black 1967 Impala.

"Your turn," Dean prompted.

John switched on Five's video feed. Dean looked instantly impressed. "Well, what d'you know, you really are International Rescue." He waved at someone off to the right. "Hey, Sam! C'mere! It's International Rescue!"

Another face appeared beside Dean's. Sam Winchester, too, looked lined and weatherbeaten, his shaggy hair shot through with gray and almost reaching his shoulders. "You're kidding." He stopped as he saw John's uniform. "You're not kidding."

"We need your help, and there may not be much time," John said. "Four members of my organization are trapped in a warehouse in Costa Rica with...you two, and someone called Crowley, who's apparently a demon. What I've been told is that the man who's holding our operatives captive summoned Crowley from the year 2010...and you two came along for the ride." He paused. "You don't know how ridiculous I feel saying all that."

Dean snorted. "Sounds like just another day at the office to us, buddy."

"One of ours was shot," John added bleakly. "We need to get him out of there and to a hospital, and soon."

The screen bounced as Dean and Sam headed back toward the car and settled into the front seats. "OK, Mr. International Rescue," Dean said. "Tell us everything...'we'...told you, and let's see if we can figure out how to get all of us out of this mess."

Virgil's pulse was slowly getting weaker, his breathing more labored. Sick with fear for his brother, Scott sat with him, holding his hand, talking to him – as though with sheer force of will he could keep Virgil with him. Once in a while Virgil managed a response, but his words were getting harder to understand and further apart.

"I liked them better when they were arguing." Dean crouched down beside Scott, nodding toward Crowley and Gaat.

Scott followed his gaze. The demon and his summoner weren't arguing at the top of their lungs on either side of the circle wall any more...they now seemed to be deep in some kind of intense discussion. "I know what you mean."

"How's your brother?"

Scott exhaled noisily, looked back at Virgil's mostly unconscious form. "He's hanging in there. I don't know how." He managed to crack a smile. "He's always been stubborn as hell."

"I've got one like that, too." Dean's mouth quirked as he glanced over at Sam, who was sitting with Alan and the still blankly unresponsive Tin-Tin. "Don't give up yet...there's still a good chance you'll get him out of this. Damn, if I could tell you the troubles I've gotten Sam out of...you probably wouldn't believe me."

"I wish I had your confidence," Scott grated. "I can't do much for him here but try to keep him comfortable. We have a fully stocked medbay on Thunderbird Two, and we could have a doctor online like that." He snapped his fingers. "But I can't get him there, dammit."

"Seems to me he wouldn't be here at all if you hadn't already done all this," Dean said, gesturing at the bandages that covered Virgil's back and the bag that pumped fluids and medications into his body. "What are you guys, anyway? Some kind of medic team?"

Scott hesitated for a moment. What the hell, Tracy, none of you might get out of this alive. "International Rescue," he said.

"Doesn't sound familiar," Dean admitted. "Should it?"

Scott gave a tired smile. "2010, right? Check back with me in sixteen years."

"That's a promise." Dean nodded. "As long as I remember all this. You never know with time travel. Sam thinks we create alternate time streams all the time, even when we have to make decisions – let alone when something like this happens. You should hear us arguing about The Terminator."

"Gordon loves that shit," Scott said. "He'll screen a time travel movie and then spend the whole time talking about how it doesn't make sense. It can get interesting sometimes. Our resident genius back home...seriously, he's the kind you think has to be a different species, the way his mind works...he likes to get into it with Gordo, and you should see him play the quantum mechanics card when he's losing. Unfair advantage...he knows nobody else has any idea what he's talking about."

The thought of Gordon brought the present moment back into sharp focus: the hard concrete floor, Virgil's labored breathing, the feeling of being in some kind of terrible, hopeless limbo, like a fly in slowly setting amber.

An image which, he supposed, probably wasn't far from the truth. He glanced over toward the hangar wall in the general direction of Thunderbird Two.

What was taking so long?

Gordon read the list of instructions for the fourth time, trying not to feel like he'd stumbled into one of the discs in his own horror movie collection. "Do you have it all, Gordon?" his father asked anxiously. "Are you ready?"

"Four photos of the warehouse from Thunderbird Five's surveillance backups, check. Four rocks from the ground the warehouse sits on, check. Blood..." Gordon moved the Kabar out of the range of the vidscreen and carefully sliced his palm open. Four drops of blood, one on each photo. "Check."

He applied a quick-clotting sponge to his palm and closed his hand around it. Moments later he'd wrapped the hand, resheathed the knife and was back to work. He carefully folded each photo around one of the rocks, then loaded them into a canvas bag. He picked up a flashlight and a piece of paper on which strange words were printed. "OK, let's get this show on the road."

"Be careful out there," Jeff warned.

"I will be, Dad. John, I'm going outside. Stand by with the grid."

"FAB."

Gordon scooped up the helmet he'd readied and placed on the console beside him, checked his sidearm and headed for the ladder to the pod floor.

The night was still and calm as he exited through the hatch. The storm had passed and the sky was clear, the stars vivid in this place so far from the ambient light of civilization. Gordon donned the helmet, pulled down the clear visor. "Ready, John."

The visor came alive with glowing green lines. Gordon looked toward where the warehouse had been – where it still stood, according to Kyrano's earlier words. All he could do was trust the traces he was seeing on his visor, which stood in for the building's actual dimensions. Red tags marked each corner, where he would have to deposit the stones.

Here goes nothing, Gordon thought. He set out toward the first tag.

Jeff sat at the desk, feeling like he'd aged ten years since this whole situation had begun. In the space of what he realized with surprise had only been a few short hours, four of his sons and Tin-Tin had made a crash landing in Thunderbird Two, all of them but Gordon had become trapped in a warehouse with Kyrano's half-brother, Belah Gaat...and one of Gaat's henchmen had shot Virgil, leaving his life in the balance. And to put the cherry on top, Gaat had somehow also managed to make the whole hangar and all its contents invisible.

Invisible. Jeff ran his fingers through his hair. And now Gordon was walking around a building he couldn't see, planting rocks with blood-covered photos wrapped around them at each corner and chanting some ancient gobbledygook that these Winchester brothers...who were also somehow inside the building at the same time, only twenty years younger...had assured them would make the structure visible again.

And Kyrano had suffered another of his fits, only this time it was more like a trance. He was still lying motionless in the sickbay downstairs, eyes open and staring up at the ceiling.

Jeff needed a drink. Hell, he needed a whole bottle.

The beeping of an incoming transmission drew his eyes to John's portrait, which switched immediately to a live view. "Father, I have Eduardo on the line. I think you should hear this."

"Put him through, John."

Eduardo's face appeared on the screen. "Mr. Tracy! I am afraid I have some very bad news about the place where your sons crashed."

Jeff frowned at his agent's dismayed expression. "Go on."

"That man who pretended to be me shortened the name, which is why I had trouble finding it. The full name of the place isn't Las Muertas, it's Las Muertas Vivientes!"

"We know that, Eduardo," Jeff said. "John's already filled us in."

"There's more, Father," John put in.

"If you know the story of Las Muertas, then you know that the people from the surrounding areas believe the dead still walk there," Eduardo said, speaking so fast he was practically tripping over his words. "I consulted with my friend who is a shaman. He says your sons are in great danger...they must leave the area immediately!"

"It's not that easy, Eduardo. You see –"

Eduardo was nearly frantic. "Mr. Tracy, you must listen to me! He says the dead have heard the one who uses the dark powers to summon evil! They have heard and have awakened." He crossed himself quickly.

Even as Jeff's mind told him he wasn't being rational, his stomach did an uneasy flip. He looked up at John.

"Gordon's out there, doing that...spell stuff the Winchesters told us to, right now..." John said, his expression mirroring the way Jeff's insides felt. "I know it sounds crazy, Dad, but..."

"Senor Tamayo is right. You must tell Gordon to seek safety," a familiar voice came from the entrance to the lounge. "Quickly!"

"Kyrano!" Jeff exclaimed, hurrying to his old friend's side. He put his arm around Kyrano's shoulders to steady him. "Are you all right?"

"I will be fine...but Gordon—"

"Father, I can see them!"

Jeff's head swung back toward John's live feed. John had gone deathly pale.

"What, son? See what?" Although Jeff was very afraid he already knew.

"Look!" John switched through the feed from Thunderbird Two's external cameras. They could all see dozens of shadowy figures, gray against the darkness, emerging from the depths of the forest and moving around the ship toward the location of the warehouse. They seemed to be solidifying as they went.

"John, get your brother back inside Thunderbird Two right now!" Jeff barked.

"Yessir!"

Jeff stared at the monitor. He'd never felt so helpless in his entire life.

Chapter Ten

Gordon had reached the last corner now, the one at the back of the hangar furthest away from Thunderbird Two. Or at least the back of where the hangar supposedly still was, although he couldn't detect anything at all, even a disturbance in the air. Something held him back, though, from actually stepping over the boundaries marked by the green lines on his visor.

Just in case.

He was really glad he was doing this alone...he felt equal parts ridiculous and nervous. There was a weird kind of gravity to the words on the paper, said out loud, even if there hadn't been time to really do anything but learn them phonetically. But surely this couldn't work. The logical part of his brain rebelled against it.

But it had to work. If it didn't...

He cut off those thoughts. Concentrate, Tracy, You have to get this right. He laid the fourth photo-covered rock down; read the words one more time, slowly and clearly. Then he stood back and waited.

Nothing. He made himself breathe in and out, release the tightness in his chest, stay calm. The air was heavy and warm, still wet from the rain, and now that the storm had passed the ever-present songs of the cicadas and frogs had returned.

Something moved.

Gordon's heart skipped a beat. At first he thought he was imagining it, but no...there it was again! A faint, insubstantial line had appeared where there had been nothing but air. He pushed up the visor in case it was a transmitted artifact, but it was still there. He backed up a bit more; watched with mouth open in astonishment as the hangar building returned to visibility, like watching a slow fade-in on a movie screen. "Dad! John! It's working! It's working!"

John's voice came back instantly. "Gordon, we've got a situation. You have to get back to Thunderbird Two right now. As fast as you can!"

"But Johnny, I can see the building –"

"Get back to Two right now!" John shouted.

The hell...? But Gordon knew better than to argue with that tone of voice. He took off running down the side of the building toward the front and the runway. It took only a few seconds before he rounded the corner –

– And skidded to a halt, face to face with the stuff of nightmares.

"What the hell..?" he hissed out. "John..."

"We think they may be zombies, Gordon," his father cut in. "Seeking revenge on the people who murdered them."

"Zombies?"

"Well, we're not sure they're zombies, Dad," John broke in. "They might not actually—"

"Just get out of there!" Jeff shouted. "Get back to Two!"

Easier said than done. Gordon sized up the oncoming figures, which were between him and safety. If Thunderbird Two was safe from them.

It was like looking at something out of a black and white movie. They were eerily colorless, all shades of gray and white; their faces looking like they'd been smeared with pale warpaint and their eyes impenetrable dark holes. Some wore menacing looking carved animal masks, equally devoid of color. They shuffled slowly toward him, moving as though in a trance, but completely silent. He had to suppress a seriously cold shiver when he looked back toward the back of their ranks and saw how they seemed to just materialize out of nothing, first as wispy gray puffs of smoke and then slowly taking solid form as they drifted forward.

The trees were full of them.

This couldn't be happening. Gordon was sweating hard now. He backed up from the corner of the building, out of sight. Maybe if he put the bulk of the hangar between them... Could they walk through walls?

He ran back down the side of the building to the corner where he'd just been, paused, and risked a quick peek around. The rear of the hangar was clear so far. He raced down it.

As he reached the other corner a loud bang made him skid to a halt. What the hell? The sound came again, and again, growing louder each time. It was coming from the other side of the hangar.

He braced himself, then slowly put his head around the corner.

There were dozens of them now, moving ponderously down the ruined runway toward the hangar. "John," he hissed into the wristcom. "What are they doing?"

"They're all going to the front," John said slowly, the disbelief still thick in his voice. "They're banging on the doors. Trying to get in. Gordo, you gotta get our guys out of there."

More and more of the eerie gray figures joined in the slow, rhythmic banging until the noise echoed off the trees surrounding the airfield. The sound made Gordon's blood run cold.

As he watched them pass, his eyes fell on the side entrance to the hangar, two thirds of the way down the wall. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had to risk it, no matter what his orders had been. If he retreated to Two now, he might not get another chance to help his brothers.

The best defense is a good offense. Gordon took a deep breath and ran for the door.

Virgil didn't have much time left.

Scott sat with him, talking to him, but it had been many minutes since his brother had answered. His pulse was very weak now, his breathing shallow. With quiet desperation, Scott tried to prepare himself for the idea that he was very likely going to lose the man who was not only his closest brother but his best friend, here on this concrete floor in an abandoned aircraft hangar in the middle of nowhere. He would have done anything at that moment, given anything, if it could change the terrible inevitability that was staring him in the face.

Where the hell was Gordon?

"How is he?" Sam Winchester crouched down beside them, nodding at Virgil.

Scott could no longer find words. He knew the misery in his eyes would tell the other man all he needed to know.

"I'm sorry, man," Sam said, and Scott could tell from his expression that he meant it sincerely. "If there was anything—"

The first bang on the doors startled everyone, reverberating through the hangar. Even Gaat and Crowley broke off their verbal battle to look back in that direction.

The banging came again. It slowly grew louder, as if the numbers of whatever was causing it were getting larger. There was an odd, staggered rhythm to it...like dozens of metronomes, all perfectly regular in their own motions, but some of them slightly out of step with the others.

Sam looked at Dean. "Zombies," they said together.

"Zombies?" Alan said.

Scott scrubbed his fingers through his hair. "Zombies. Well, why not?"

"Look on the bright side," Sam said. "If the zombies can see the building..."

"...then the building's back where it belongs!" Alan finished. "Gordon did it!"

Scott threw caution to the winds. He lifted his wrist. "Thunderbird Two from Scott. Come in, Gordon. Do you read me?"

The side door crashed open, banging back against the wall. "Five by, Scott," Gordon said from the doorway, taking in the situation with one sweeping glance.

Oh, thank God... "Gordon! We've got to get out of here now!" Scott jumped up, drawing the Sig Sauer, eyes on Gaat and Crowley.

Gordon glanced down at Virgil, concern clear in his eyes. "He's gonna need a hoverstretcher, Scott."

"Get one from Two. Take Al with you."

"Better take me instead," Sam said. "I've been to this party before." He drew his sidearm, looked at Gordon. "We may have to shoot our way through those things. They're pretty stupid but they're persistent."

Scott spotted Virgil's shotgun, lying on the floor a few yards away. He grabbed it and handed it to Gordon. "Any tips for us while you're gone?" Scott asked.

"Aim for the head," Sam said. "Shoot them, knock off their heads with a blade...anything you can find."

Dean reached behind him and produced a Colt .45 automatic with ivory grips and a lot of engraving. "Don't waste your time with body shots," he said. "It will only piss 'em off."

He glanced at Sam, his brother nodded, and Sam and Gordon were gone. Scott turned back into the room.

The banging was nearly deafening now. Crowley was arguing with Gaat, telling him to let him out of the circle so he could help them fight. Gaat was equally insistent that if Crowley took the wards off Thunderbird One, he'd let him out. The more things changed, Scott thought, the more they stayed the same. Especially with those two. They seemed to have completely forgotten the existence of the Tracys and the Winchesters.

Bigger fish to fry right now.

"Christ, Scott." Alan said, gesturing toward the hangar doors. "Look!"

Dents were appearing in the metal. The zombies, if that's what they were, had terrifying strength...or terrifying numbers.

They were going to need all the firepower they could find. Scott hunted around for the shotgun he'd been carrying when they'd first come in, found it up against the wall. He tucked it under his arm and checked the clip on his Sig Sauer, saw Dean and Alan doing the same with their own weapons. Alan crouched down beside Tin-Tin, who was still sitting there against the wall like a doll, staring into space. "I don't know if you can hear me, honey, but it's going to be all right. We're going to get out of here."

Scott walked over to where Dean was standing, focused on the hangar doors. "Hinges are giving," Dean said. "It won't be long now."

"Somebody here order a hoverstretcher?" Scott swung around to see Gordon guiding the stretcher through the door, Sam bringing up the rear. They both looked considerably more disheveled than when they'd left.

Sam took aim at something outside the hangar and the shotgun boomed. "Let's move, people. We have to get out of here now."

Gordon guided the stretcher to Virgil and lowered it swiftly to the ground. He and Scott shifted their injured brother, very carefully, to its padded surface. Virgil didn't stir at all as they fastened the straps; Scott tried not to think about what that might mean.

"Scott," Gordon said as the stretcher raised back up to hover height. "How are we going to get Virgil to the hospital without One?"

Scott froze, staring at him.

With a tremendous boom, the right hand hangar door tore away from the concrete and crashed to the floor. The zombies were in, and there was no more time.

Gaat thundered orders to his demon henchmen and they moved toward the incoming gray horde, shotguns at the ready. The zombies were falling over each other as they poured through the gap. There were so many of them...the demons weren't going to be able to hold them for long.

Scott glanced from them to his Thunderbird, standing ready with her hatch open and her ladder down. He raised his wristcom, triggering One's systems. Her exterior lights came alive instantly, and he knew her engines had begun to spool up. "Get everyone to Two," he rapped to Gordon and Alan. "I'll get One."

"Scott, you're crazy!" Alan burst out. "You can't do that alone! I'll come with you!"

"No, Al, you have to get Tin-Tin out of here safely."

"I'll go with you," Dean bared his teeth in an unholy grin. "Always wanted to ride in a rocket."

Scott met his eyes, nodded. "Let's go."

Scott risked a quick look behind them as they ran. The zombies had overrun the demons now and were heading for Gaat and Crowley. Gaat abruptly twisted around and started running for his own transport. Crowley jumped up and down, yelling expletives after him.

Dean swiveled, running backwards for a few steps, firing at the gray figures. He and Scott were barely ahead of them now; it was like trying to outrun the incoming tide. Scott heard him yell, swung around to see one of them hanging off his arm. He shoved the shotgun in its face and pulled the trigger, and it blew apart with a high pitched shriek.

The zombies had surrounded them now in a pincer maneuver. Scott and Dean turned until they were back to back, and started firing.

"Keep moving!" Dean shouted over the creatures' piercing cries.

Through the mass, Scott saw that several of the creatures had fallen across the red-painted circle, breaking its spell. Crowley's face broke into a predatory grin and he stepped across their bodies to freedom. For a moment he and Scott locked eyes through the throng. Crowley gave a mock-salute and vanished.

Scott couldn't even take the time to process that. There was no time even to think. He knew he must be almost out of ammo, but in any case it was hand to hand combat at this point – he and Dean were kicking and shoving and tearing the zombies off them. Then Scott's back collided with something hard and he realized to his relief that it was Thunderbird One's ladder.

A sudden roar behind him made him swing around – Gaat's jet was taxiing toward them. The zombies broke and ran toward it, trying to hang on to the wings and the tail. One scrambled over the back of another and crawled up on to the jet's nose. Gaat started zig-zagging the aircraft in an attempt to shake it off. Dean stared in fascination.

"Come on!" Scott grabbed Dean's arm, shoved him up the ladder; scrambled up behind him. They wouldn't have long before the zombies remembered that Gaat's jet wasn't the only aircraft in the hangar. Something grabbed his ankle – he didn't even look, just fired the shotgun back at it. The grip fell away and then Scott was into the cockpit and closing the hatch behind him.

"Wow," Dean was saying, looking around him in awe. "This is cool, man!"

"I'll give you the tour later," Scott said. He pointed Dean at the jump seats in the rear of the cockpit. "Get yourself strapped in."

He jumped into the pilot's chair and pulled down the harness. He switched on the viewscreens. One's engine was still spooling up. Come on, baby, come on...

Scott triggered the coms. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One. Come in, Gordon."

"Here, Scott," Gordon's voice came back, sounding both winded and relieved.

"Is everyone safe?"

"Everyone's safe. What's happening in there?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

The green ready lights blazed on at last. The ship started to rock as the zombies grabbed hold of One's struts. "Can you do anything about that?" Dean asked.

"Yep." Scott said tightly. "I can now."

He hit the ignition and Thunderbird One's massive engine roared to life. Dean let out a whoop. On the monitors, Scott could see the zombies below, trying to climb up the struts toward One's belly. He gave the VTOL jet a blast, watching the gray figures burst into flames. "That's the way to do it!" Dean hollered. "Fry those suckers!"

One was off the ground now, hovering toward the hangar doors. "Gordon," Scott said into the coms, "We're about to blast out of here. I want you to get ready to hit this place as hard as you can. As soon as you see us come out, give it everything you've got. Clear?"

"FAB."

There was a solid sea of gray figures in front of him, jumping for his ship, trying to grab on to it. Scott couldn't risk moving too fast; one collision and it could be all over. He kept her just high enough that the zombies couldn't reach him. Just another few yards... They were throwing things at him now, he could hear them bouncing off the hull. Good luck with that, guys...

After what seemed like hours, they finally reached the open doorway and Scott punched it. Thunderbird One swooped through and out into the clearing. The missile proximity warnings instantly began to blare at him and he knew Gordon had painted the hangar and was getting ready to obliterate it. Scott hit the boosters and pointed One at the open sky above the clearing. He heard Dean yell behind him, the sound immediately choked off by the g-forces.

Then the night turned white. The sound hit a moment later, a deep rumbling roar. Scott banked One through a tight turn, riding out the buffeting of the blast's shockwaves. The hangar was exploding like a fireworks factory, huge balls of fire rocketing up into the sky. Scott hit the VTOL jet and they hovered in place, watching the place of their nightmares destroy itself.

When it was over, there was nothing left but a great big crater in the earth and a shower of flaming debris that floated slowly back down. There was nothing on the proximity scanners – the zombies seemed to be gone, the forest quiet again. When he was sure it was safe, Scott finally swung One around and headed her back toward the far end of the clearing, where Thunderbird Two sat with her tail toward them.

It occurred to him then that in the chaos, he didn't know if Belah Gaat had gotten out. It also occurred to him that he wasn't going to lose any sleep over the possibility that he hadn't.

He brought One down beside her sister ship. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One, is everyone all right?"

"All present and correct, Scott," Gordon came back. "Coming out with Virgil now."

"FAB, Gordon. Nice shooting."

He stripped off the harness and got the hatch open in record time, jumping most of the way to the ground. Dean came down after him almost as fast. Gordon pushed the hoverstretcher out of Two into the open, followed by most of their little band. "Sam!" Dean called out, his voice high with excitement. "You shoulda been up there, man, it was awesome!"

Scott's heart ached at how still and pale Virgil looked. Gordon had him on oxygen and was carrying a medbag. "I'll go with you, Scott," he said. "He might need intubating in flight."

And then, without warning, there was another person there – a dark haired man in a beige raincoat.

Scott whipped the Sig Sauer from his holster. "Who the hell are you and where did you come from?"

"Cas!" Dean said in obvious recognition. "What are you doing here?"

"I would have thought that would be obvious, Dean. You told me you were in trouble. You were right, Crowley left you behind – so I have come to return you to your own time period."

"He's not a demon, is he?" Alan asked worriedly.

"Oh, no," Sam assured him. "His name's Castiel. He's an angel."

Scott closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe there was still a chance, if he pinched himself hard enough, that he'd wake up and all of this would never have happened.

"I was right?" Dean said. "Oh, you mean future me was right."

"Present you, technically speaking," Castiel pointed out. "This you and Sam are from the past."

"Let's not argue about that now," Sam said hastily.

Castiel had seen Virgil now and he approached the hoverstretcher, his face somber. "This one is dying."

Scott flinched. "Not if I can help it. I have a fast ship, we can get him to the hospital in time."

Castiel looked at him. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head just a little.

Scott felt as though his heart had frozen solid and was about to shatter into a thousand pieces. "No," whispered. "It can't be. There has to be something..."

Not this, not after all they'd just been through. To lose him now...

Castiel studied him for a long moment, as though he could hear Scott's thoughts. Then he turned back to Virgil, setting his palm flat against his chest.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Scott barked.

Dean caught his arm before he could spring forward. "Scott! It's all right. Trust me."

A glow built around Castiel's hand. It grew rapidly until it was so bright that Scott and the others had to turn away, shielding their eyes. Then, abruptly, it was gone.

And then the impossible happened. Virgil slowly opened his eyes. Gone was the deathly pallor...he looked as rested as if he'd just come out of a good night's sleep. He started to say something, lifted a hand to his face and brushed aside the oxygen mask. "Hey, what's going on here?" he said. "Why's everyone looking at me like that?"

All Scott could do was stare.

"Hey," Alan said. "Where did the Winchesters go?"

Scott tore his eyes from the sight of Virgil sitting up as if nothing had ever been wrong. Alan was right, the Winchesters and their strange friend Castiel – what had Sam called him, an angel? – were suddenly nowhere to be seen. And then Tin-Tin stepped out through Thunderbird Two's open hatch, looking very confused, running her hand through her thick dark hair. "Alan...I don't understand," she said. "How did I get here?"

She stopped when she saw the occupant of the hoverstretcher. "Virgil!"

Castiel. Scott couldn't help it – he started to laugh, congratulating himself that it sounded only the tiniest bit like hysteria. "Come on, guys," he managed to splutter. "I think it's time to call Dad."

He already knew the look on his father's face was one he was going to treasure for a long, long time.