Hazards

Chapter 2: An Invitation to Play in Someone Else’s Sandbox.

“It’s not that I’m objecting to ferrying you around the city,” Hutch said wearily, looking across their shared desk. It was an argument that was getting older by the minute “I don’t mind you using me as a yellow-cab service. I don’t even mind you borrowing my car on occasion. But it’s about time you got transport of your own, something besides a souped two-wheeler.” Starsky’s eyes narrowed at him. “And don’t look at me like that. I don’t even object to picking you up and dropping you off daily. God forbid I should object to that; we’re partners; what are friends for? But it’s time you got yourself another set of wheels, Starsk. A car. Not a Bike. A Car with four tires and enough room to transport more than just yourself.”

Deep blue eyes regarded him. It was a look that said, without words, how could Hutch say that? Didn’t he know that Starsky had lost the love of his life? Bella was no more.

There could never be another Bella.

He heaved a sigh.

Hutch heaved a sigh, too, until he realized he was doing it as well. It had been three weeks now, and Starsky was still mourning his lost love. Mentally, if not literally, wearing black crepe.

Hutch had tried sweet reason. Now he tried a more devious approach. Leaflets of seductive literature on cars of every make, shape, and size began to appear like crocuses in springtime. Hutch made a point of reading snippets of interesting information out loud.

All that earned him was more deep, heartfelt sighs.

He tried taking his partner to showrooms and used-car lots. Walking around with him, discussing the merits of one model over another. Starsky showed no interest, and was plainly only going along to please him. On the one hand, Hutch was almost glad that his partner was now less likely to come to grief jockeying that damned bike around the city streets.

On the other hand, Hutch didn’t like to see Starsky in pain and had resorted to letting his partner choose the places to eat lunch at. Though watching him consume chili-dogs and burritos with seemingly no ill effects was educational.

And, as a bonus, with no bike to accessorize, he no longer strutted around in leathers.

Just a month before Bella’s demise, Starsky had hijacked Hutch into accompanying him to World of Leather.  It would be a while before Hutch would forget the vision that emerged from the fitting rooms.

Starsky had told him that leather was sensible to wear if you didn’t want to leave half your epidermis on the surface of the road should you part company with your bike. It protects you from adverse weather.  On Starsky though it…was possibly an indictable offense. Certainly an affront to public decency.

“Dear God, Starsky!”  

“Yeah,” Starsky grinned. “Classy gear, huh?” The black leather pants were low over his hips and molded to his thighs and butt like a second skin.

“You look like a BDSM wet dream!” Hutch stuttered.

One dark eyebrow climbed. “And how would you know that, Hutch-baby?” Starsky grinned.

Hutch was lost for words. Worse, every time he attempted to say anything even halfway coherent, Starsky would just nod, the evil grin still in evidence, until finally, he stammered to a halt with a hissed, “Shut up. Just—Shut up.”

“Didn’t say a word, Blondie….”

With Bella gone, the leathers had been relegated to the back of Starsky’s wardrobe, hopefully never to see daylight again…

“Starsky! Hutchinson! My office! Now!” The loud bellow cut off the further conversation and got them to their feet.

“What did you do now?”

“Me, why is it always me…”

“Because that was his ‘Starsky you’re in trouble bellow,’…”

“Was not.”

“Was t…”

“Today, ladies! ” The captain bellowed again, and the two detectives shared a look before heading towards the captain’s office.

“Hell. He’s going to ream us out for being late!”

“Told you you should have eaten breakfast before I picked you up,” Hutch muttered. “Wouldn’t have had to stop for the McMuffin.”

“I got extra fries so we could share,” Starsky pointed out, wounded.

“Cheese fries do not a nutritional breakfast make, pal…”

All conversation ceased once they entered the room and saw that Dobey was not alone.  Behind Dobey’s desk, in his chair, sat a woman, and the Captain was standing at her side. She wore a navy-blue suit jacket over a white, sharply creased shirt. Her hair was dark honey-blonde, drawn back into a French pleat. She looked uncompromisingly efficient.

Starsky looked at Hutch  “Government?”

“Maybe…Lawyer?” Hutch responded to the silent question with a shrug of his shoulder before standing in front of Dobey’s desk. Starsky took the spot next to him, his shoulder slightly touching that of his partner.

Dobey cleared his throat. “Gentleman, this is Lieutenant Michaela Ripley of the ATF.  Lieutenant, Detectives Starsky, and Hutchinson.”

Lieutenant Michaela Ripley looked at the two detectives before her. They were standing in front of their captain’s desk, a touch unsure of what they were there for, fidgeting as if they expected to be reprimanded.

Captain Dobey had told her two of them were new-minted detectives and already partnered. This was a tad unusual. But that might work to her advantage.

The taller of the two men was a typical California blond surfer-dude — good-looking, with a ready smile and china-blue eyes. He was smartly but casually dressed in caramel-colored cords and a white turtleneck. The butter-blond hair was carefully trimmed.

He was altogether wrong for what she had in mind. She turned her eyes to other man.

His partner, though… she regarded the young man standing at Parade Rest in front of her. He was maybe a couple of inches taller than she was and looked fit. Compact build. The wildly-curling dark hair was a shade longer than regulation. His blue Levis hugged his lean hips and looked well-worn. The Police Academy t-shirt was the neatest thing about him. His expression was a studied blank, blue eyes fixed on a point to her left. A vet, which showed in his demeanor. That is a point in his favor. She decided to sound him out.

“David Starsky. You have a few high-profile cases under your belt for a new-minted detective. Unusual.”

“I got a good partner, ma’am.” He glanced at the blond man standing beside the Captain. “Teamwork pays off.”

“I’ve read your reports. Creative writing.”

There was the flicker of a grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

“It says here—“ she consulted the file in front of her, “you sacrificed your motorbike in the course of duty.” She raised an eyebrow in query. “Care to elaborate?”

“The truck backed over her. It. Big sixteen-wheeler. She—it didn’t stand a chance.”

“So you know your way around a bike.”

“Pretty good, with the right bike, that is.  Sitting in the right saddle, I can go all …” A jab to the ribs cut him off, and he glared at his partner before turning back to the lieutenant. “Yes, ma’am, I know my way around a bike.”

The lieutenant looked between the two men again, watching the interplay between them. “I’m sure you do, detective, which is why I am here. And why I am requesting you for an assignment.” She closed the file in front of her, leaning forward in her chair, hands clasped in front of her. “We have intel on a new biker gang moving in on Black Arab territory. What their angle is, we don’t yet know. It could be drugs, could be weapons. We need to find out. Your Captain Dobey thought you might fit in.”

“Or they might simply be wanting to enjoy the glorious California weather. Ma’am.” Starsky suggested. Beside him, his Captain growled warningly.

“They might, indeed,” she said coolly, ignoring the snarky comment. She slid a folder over the desk, and Hutch picked it up, Starsky leaning close to look. “Those are the details we have so far. They call themselves the Jackals. Their leader is the Jackal himself. Mean S.O.B. Suspected in a lot.”

Starsky looked up, “But nothing ever sticks.” This was nothing new.

“Right. Drugs, weapons, prostitution, name it, it’ll probably have his prints on it.”

“So, where do we come in?” Hutch queried. ”And why now?”

“There is a rumor of a major shipment coming in, but we don’t know the when and where. We think it is weapons-related.  But it could be anything illegal.”

She passed another folder with a few pictures, this time Starsky picked it up. After a minute he whistled. The damage to the bombed-out building was extensive. He passed them to Hutch.

“That was a government complex in Kansas. Add to that general domestic terrorism across the MidWest. This group is bad news, and we need to shut them down. Since they came west, we’ve had eyes on them.   Once my contact in the Jackals  told me where they were headed, I set myself up there, as the manager, co-owner of the motel they were likely to use about two weeks before they came in. That was 6 months ago.”

“Ok, so If I’m the biker, what’s Hutch? We’re a team, ma’am.”

“The contact man will work out of the gang’s HQ. It’s a place called the Waterhole. Rundown motel complex and bar. They’re chronically short of staff, so you’d be welcomed with open arms, Detective Hutchinson.”

“Won’t they think it suspicious that I’m just walking in?”

“No. This group is pretty transitory, with members coming in and out and joining the group and such. Especially this area where they’ve set up. Independent bikers coming and going. It’s a regular hangout. Shouldn’t be too hard  for you to get hooked up with them.”

The two detectives exchanged looks. “With respect, ma’am, these guys are not your average hoodlums.”

“How do you know we will fit in, and what happened to your contact?”  Hutch spoke up next. He didn’t like government agents, especially ones he didn’t know. They always seemed to be holding the cards too close to their chest.  And this one was giving him a funny vibe, one he didn’t trust.

“No, they’re not. Not the usual run of Outlaws, either. From our intel, this is down to the Jackal himself. He’s a natural leader, which makes him very dangerous. If you can get in with him, you’ll have the advantage we need. You fit the type. Ex-military, familiar with bikes, kinda dress the part too.” She had the satisfaction of seeing them temporarily lost for words. “I won’t lie to you, it will not be a walk in the park.”

“Is it ever,” Hutch muttered. But Starsky’s eyes gleamed; he hated to put a damper on his enthusiasm.  “And?”

“You like to ask a lot of questions, Detective.”

“I do when it’s my partner’s and my butts on the line,” Hutch said, dropping the files on the desk for emphasis. Michaela didn’t flinch at the towering man in front of her: he certainly was made of sterner stuff than she gave him credit for, she thought to herself.  She watched with interest as his partner placed a hand on the blond shoulder, which the man responded to by stepping back.  There was a nod between them, and Starsky turned towards her.

“What my partner is trying to ask, lieutenant, is if there is anything you left out.  Something that might be important, like why do you need us if you have a contact already embedded in the Jackals?”

“You’re right, Detectives, and you are right to ask questions, Hutchinson. It’s what I would do in your position. The undercover agent, Blackwell was his name, was embedded in the Jackals and was found three days ago.” Michaela flipped through the pictures until she found what she was looking for.  She handed a small stack of photos to the two men.  “He was murdered execution-style. We have no idea which gang is responsible. But we are down a man and have no time to train another agent. We need an undercover operative who can pass as a biker as well as a contact man who can report out. You two could fit the bill.”

She watched as the two communicated silently over the files and the pictures. She saw when they seemed to argue, though without words.  There was a nod, a scowl, a shake of a head.  Then there seemed to be a compromise as they both turned back to her as one unit. It was Starsky who spoke up.

“Ok, we’ll do it.”

“Good, your captain and I have agreed to give you a few days to prepare and wrap up any cases you have here or pass them on to other detectives and get them up to speed on those.”

“Sounds like you think this may take a while?” Hutch asked, handing her back the files and pictures.

“At least a week, at most, a month. That is if all goes well.  Agent Blackwell thought that whatever the Jackals had planned would happen quickly and soon.  He was checking a lead when he disappeared.”

“And then turned up dead a few days later. Did you find out what he was looking for?”

“No, if we had, we probably wouldn’t be here, detective, now would we.”

Her comeback rankled Hutch, She was getting on his nerves, and they hadn’t even started the job yet. Hutch couldn’t imagine being under her command for as long as a month.  He didn’t know why but he didn’t trust her and felt apprehensive about taking this case. He was ready with his own retort and to voice his misgivings, but a small touch at his side pulled him back.

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Dobey intervened, “We all know what it’s like to lose one of our own but still have to see the case through, especially to make sure those responsible are brought to justice.”

“Of course, Captain.  Now if that is all, I will leave the files for you two to look over. Are there any more questions?” Michaela asked, though it was clear by her tone she wasn’t expecting any.

“You got a bike for me, Ma’am?” Starsky asked, and Hutch rolled his eyes. “I mean since Bella went to the Great Scrapyard in the Sky….”

“I’ll see what we can do about that. Won’t be brand-new, of course, but something that would easily fit in.”

 

Chapter 3: In which Black Leather is Inappropriate.

Whoever requisitioned the bike must have been tuned in to Starsky’s wavelength. When he arrived at the AFT offices, he was first introduced to the head mechanic, who escorted him to his new ride.

It was a black and silver beast of a bike, a Harley Davidson FXE1200, as savage and menacing as a mechanical black panther. For Starsky, it was love at first sight. He prowled around it, giving it a visual checkout, savoring the real enjoyment for later.

When the Lieutenant came looking for him a while later, he was surrounded by bits of machinery, an array of tools at his side, and he was whistling through his teeth. Ravel’s Bolero, she identified the tune. He looked up at her when she cleared her throat pointedly.

“Hey,” he said, grinning. “This is one sweet lady. Gonna call her Morrigan.”

“That’s the Celtic War Goddess of Blood and Death?” she queried, surprised. Clearly, this young man had hidden depths.

“S’right,” he confirmed, and she got the distinct feeling he was laughing at her.

“Well, when you and the —Morrigan – have finished getting acquainted, and you can tear yourself away, we are meeting in the briefing room on 3. Your partner is already there,” she told him.

“Sure thing. But it might be a minute, though.”

“Why’s that, Detective?”

Well, you see, a hog’s kind of like a woman — Sometimes you have to go slow with her. And also, you don’t really know her until you’ve stripped her down a coupla times.” He winked at her, then went back to work on his bike.

Michaela scowled at him. She held her tongue, as much as she itched to take him down a peg or two. She didn’t get to where she was in the bureau by letting comments like this get to her. Instead, she turned and walked away. She had known the job would not be easy. She just hoped she had made the right choices.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️. 

“Looks like my leather pants gonna come in useful after all,” Starsky announced with a wide white grin on his face as he swaggered into the briefing room 30 minutes later.

Inwardly, Hutch groaned. The Brando-biker gear was a change from Levis and t-shirts, Starsky’s usual sartorial choice, accessorized with Adidas and Goodwill rejects, with a sports jacket for court appearances. It fit his personality.

The leather, however, turned him into something else. Something feral and dangerous. And, if anything, as Hutch overheard from the female staff in the building, devastatingly sexy.

Except for the Lieutenant.

She looked him over without expression.

“First, you look too fancy. Ditch the pants, for starters.”

Starsky showed his teeth in a wolfish grin with no humor in it. “Kinda early in our relationship, ma’am?” he queried.

She ignored him. “The look you should be aiming for is scuzzy, not fashion-plate. The jacket can stay if it’s distressed a little. The bike—”

“The bike is perfect.”

“There we are in agreement. Make sure it stays that way.”

Privately, he was glad she’d vetoed the leather pants. They were a bitch to get on and gave him jock-itch. But he kinda relished the look on Hutch’s face…

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

After a few days of preparation and briefings, they were ready to join the Lieutenant, or “Mike,” which was her preferred name on the assignment. The Lt. had been working the Waterhole ever since it had been identified as the Jackal’s HQ, masquerading as the disenchanted ex of the previous owner of the run-down motel adjacent to the bar. Her cover story had been accepted, and once she had made it quite firmly clear that she wouldn’t put out, she had become part of the furniture. She’d been there for six months.

Hutch was the first to arrive. As Henry Davenport, his story was that of a loser who was on the slide to becoming an alcoholic. After he lost his job in a diner, his common-law ‘wife’ kicked him out after he got drunk once too often. The Waterhole accepted him, pleased because they needed a short-order cook and hash-slinger. The Lieutenant introduced him as a ‘cousin down on his luck.’ He cultivated a scruffy goatee beard which gave his partner a giggling fit.

And then, a few days later, came Starsky. Who was frankly relishing his undercover role and had adopted a persona to fit.

Leaving the Morrigan parked with a clutch of others, he sauntered into the bar, a distinctly disreputable figure in tight blue jeans and a leather jacket that had seen better days. A scarlet bandanna confined a tangle of dusty dark brown hair, and a Bowie knife was strapped to his hip.

“Beer,” he said shortly and leaned back against the bar, gaze raking the other patrons, giving ‘Mike’ the once-over and a nod to indicate he liked what he saw. “Need a place to crash,” he said. “That shithole next door any good?”

“It may be a shithole, but it’s got running water,” Mike said coolly. “Looks like you could sure use some.”

He gave a bark of laughter. The blond bartender gave a grin. “She got you there, Pilgrim.”

“Cossack,” the newcomer corrected.

“Whatever you say, tovarisch.”

The Cossack necked his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gestured for another, tossing a crumpled bill onto the bar top. “So, where can I get some food around here?”

“College here can fix you something,” said a voice next to him, “if you’re not too fussy.”

“If it don’t give me food poisoning, I’m not fussy.” He regarded the last speaker, a tall, rangy individual with a shaggy crop of black hair and sideburns. “You the boss here?”

“I’m the Jackal,” came the reply, “and this is my Pack. So, yes, you might say I’m the boss. Siddown, pilgrim. College, another pitcher of beer, coupla burgers an’ a side of fries.”

“Hell, man, I just got the grill cleaned up,” the bartender grumbled. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

‘College’ brought the requested beer.

“College?” The Cossack queried, one dark eyebrow quirking.

“Better than Henry. He don’t look like a Henry, and he says he went to college,” Mike commented. “I’m Mike. Otherwise known as Ice.”

“You better believe it,” the Jackal grinned. “She ain’t been thawed yet.” Someone guffawed.

“And not likely to,” she shot back. “Until I get a better offer.” Her jeans were black, her shirt crimson fringed across the yoke. She wore her hair down, not teased into a beehive like the other girls lounging around the bar. “And I own this place, whatever the Jackal here thinks. So ante-up, pilgrim.”

“Put it on my tab, baby,” the Jackal drawled. “You ride with anyone, Cossack?”

“No, I like to have room when I ride, more than one person riding along an’ it gets a little crowded,” Starsky said, with a negative jerk of the head.

“Ah-huh. So where’re you headed?”

“What’s it to ya?” Having another beer, he took a healthy bite from the burger ‘College’ put in front of him.

“You got room for another hog jockey, Jackal? Some fresh meat?” Mike scoffed. And the Jackal smiled.

“Maybe I am, you offering, Mike?” Jackal leered at the woman and grabbed her around the waist. She was quicker, though, and slapped him across the face and stalked off to the kitchen.

A loud cheer went up. And Jackal laughed at the retreating form “Man. She has some fight in her. Whoa, to the man that tames that filly.” Jackal shook his head and turned back to Cossack. “So you never did answer my question, brother; where you heading, or do you plan on stickin’ around for a while.”

Starsky carefully avoided looking at Hutch. He knew, from their research, that the Pack didn’t seem to conform to the usual run-of-the-mill biker community. They didn’t sport ‘originals’ or anything that could be described as a uniform. He was thankful for that. An Angel’ baptism’ he would stomach if he had to, but he would rather not have to… There would almost certainly be some form of initiation, a rite of passage. He had to be ready for that. At the same time, he didn’t want to seem too eager to join.

“Well, like I said, more than one on the road is a crowd, and I don’t like crowds. But I think I’ll maybe stick around for a while and give the wheels some rest.” Starsky looked towards the kitchen as Mike came back into the barroom, and Starsky gave Jackal a smile. “Besides, it seems there’s some real estate around here that needs plowing.”

Jackal laughed in response, slapping Starsky on the back.

Hutch shook his head, and Starsky just shrugged at Hutch and grinned back at the Jackal.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

It didn’t take Starsky long to establish himself amongst the Jackal’s Pack. When not lavishing care and attention on the Morrigan, he challenged anyone up to playing him at a game of pool.

And Hutch had a front-row seat to it all. At first, it didn’t bother him, watching his partner shine. In fact, he admired how quickly Starsky seemed to settle into his role, wearing the Cossack persona like a well worn jacket. But as time went on it scared him a little, at how quickly his friend accepted the role. It wasn’t so much the pool hustle Starsky was doing but the other things that caused his partner to walk a thin line between right and wrong.

In the past two weeks, Hutch had to break up a few fights between his partner and others. Each time Starsky seemed to get a rush from it, he was taking greater risks rather than be more cautious. Like playing a game of chicken with a semi, all because of a dare. Hutch almost blew a gasket over that, but Starsky was blase when Hutch tried to talk to him about it when they met up that night. It was something they regularly did, reconnecting, checking in, passing intel, and comparing notes.  And so far no one seemed to notice or care.

“What the hell were you thinking, Starsk?” Hutch said in a harsh whisper when Starsky came into his room.

“What you mean….”

“Playing chicken with a semi is what I mean.”

“Oh, you heard about that.”

“Hard to miss when the whole bar was crowing about it tonight.”

“Aw, come on Hutch, I knew what I was doing; no one got hurt.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point, Babe?”

“I don’t know.” Thinking. Hutch sat down on the edge of his bed; he was quiet for a bit.

Finally, Starsky came over and sat next to his partner. In the two years he had been partnered with Hutch, and even before that while at the academy, he knew Hutch was a thinker, always mulling things over before acting. The opposite of himself, who generally jumped in regardless and then asked questions. It took a while, but they had found a rhythm and were able to balance each other. Starsky knew if he waited Hutch would say what he was thinking.

And he didn’t have to wait long.

“I feel like this is a big waste of time.” Hutch stood up again and started to pace. “We’ve been here for two weeks, and what have we gotten.”

“You mean besides a couple of scrapes and bruises.”

Hutch gave his partner a withering look “Yes, besides cuts and bruises. It’s like a game of hurry up then wait.”

“Well, we’re just layin’ the groundwork. It’s not like I could just walk in here and be excepted with open arms. That’s not this kind of crowd, Hutch…”

“I know that, it’s just I thought the way they were talking…the way Mike laid it out, they already knew a lot of what we’ve given them in the last few weeks. I don’t see anything here except a potential turf war that we could get caught up in if we’re not careful.”

“And what if it is? Maybe that is the big thing Agent Blackwell stumbled on….”

“A run-of-the-mill turf war…come on, Starsk, even you can’t believe that.”

“Well, what’s the benefit if one or the other gains full control? 15 is a thoroughfare for not-so-nice activities. Right now the Black Arabs have the most control. But what if the Jackals took control? What I’ve seen so far, the Jackals, while a little disorganized, would be a far worse choice to fill that void if the Black Arabs went away.”

“True.”

“Have you talked to Mike about this?”

“Yeah, we met about an hour ago while closing up the bar. She thinks you are doing a stellar job by the way.”

“Of course.”

“Shithead.”

“Takes one to know one.”

They both laughed a little, then fell silent.

“C’mon, Blintz, what else is on your mind?”

“I feel — restless, like something is going to happen and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“Sounds like you have undercover jitters.”

“What?! under..”

“Undercover jitters, Blaine told me about it. Said everyone gets it. It just means you’re human, Hutch. You just can’t let the fear control you. This job has dangers; we knew that coming into it.”

Hutch scrunched up his face in confusion. “You make it sound like we’re newlyweds on the first night of a honeymoon.”

“We are, in a way. Besides that undercover at McKinnley High School a few months back, this is our first undercover assignment. McKinnley was a blip compared to this, shorter too. That high school job was all of a week, if that, long.”

“So this is our trial by fire, survive this, and we can survive anything.”

“Yeah, sure if that is how you want to think of it.” Starsky nodded his head. “Besides, I think our wait may be over.”

“How so?”

“That’s why I came.   Right after closing, Jackal asked me again if I was planning to move on or stick around.”

“And?”

Starsky shrugged, “I told him I liked being around here, and wouldn’t mind sticking around. He said that was good, and there would be a meeting in the morning to talk about my membership, so to speak, and would let me know after what I have to do to join and if they’ll let me join at all.”

“So now it’s the waiting game.”

“Yeah, I guess so, but it is a step in the right direction anyway.” Starsky stood up. “Look, I think I’ll head out.” Hutch nodded, and Starsky reached for the door.

“Starsk?”

Starsky turned back around, and Hutch crossed the distance to the door, gripping Starsky’s shoulders hard. “Be careful, okay?”

The silence between them stretched out, and finally Starsky nodded, “Always, Babe.” He opened the door, looked both ways, and slipped quietly out of the room.

The ominous click as the door latched shut, and Hutch leaned heavily against the door, feeling like he was sending his friend off to slaughter. “Maybe Starsky’s right; I just have a bad case of undercover jitters,” he said to the empty room before starting his own preparations for bed.

 

Chapter 4: Enemy Territory 

When Hutch was selected for the role of the Watering Hole bartender, he thought it was a chump assignment, just a way to appease Starsky so that he would take the job. However, once in place, Hutch quickly found his role had advantages.

For instance, they figured because he went to college that, somehow, he was a  purveyor of all things, from facts great and small and everything in between to counsel and advice giver.   And also that somehow ‘college’ meant he knew how to get his hands on a variety of stuff. He could do this because of his connections to Huggy, Mike, and the department.   In the last few weeks, Hutch gained a new appreciation for their friend Huggy Bear and made a note to tell Huggy that the next time he saw him.

The biggest advantage Hutch quickly found, though, was that he was all but invisible to the Jackals. As long as he was there when drinks or food were needed, no one seemed to care what he did in his off time or while working.

So the following day, Hutch made it a point to be in the bar room when the Jackals met in the morning to discuss his partner’s role in the gang. If someone did think to ask, he would tell them he was getting the bar ready for the day.

But they didn’t, and Hutch was able to listen in as the Jackal gathered his ‘council’ to discuss this newcomer.

“He’s bad news,” Buck said. “Sooner he moves on, the better.”

Hector agreed. But Crazy Horse shook his head. “He’s got class,” he said. “I say we give him a try-out.”

Hutch felt his gut clench. It clenched even more when he heard the plan.

The Outlaw gang who called themselves the Black Arabs, laid claim to the territory along Hwy 15 east of Victorville headed to Barstow and beyond, and the Jackals were making moves to expand. There was a sort of give-in-take in their skirmishes as they battled for supremacy over the area.

In one of these skirmishes a few days prior,  the Black Arabs had taken back some of the area northeast of the town not far from the Jackal’s hangout. That had been Starsky’s first outing with the Jackals as an unofficial member, and he returned with a few scrapes. Hutch was livid at the risk Starsky took, but his partner said he was fine. Hutch would find out later from Mike that the Jackals had lost two riders in the rumble.

Listening to the council talk now, Hutch heard that this loss didn’t sit well with the Jackals. They wanted to teach the Arabs a lesson and perhaps wipe them off the map for good.

Their plan was simple; a lone rider would head into the Arab’s territory, get to their hideout, and do some damage to their bikes. Just cause some mischief. And to prove he had been there, bring back the Arab president’s gear, the distinctive jacket bearing the patches and insignia. This would cause the Arabs to lose face, showing they were not impenetrable as they thought, that they had weaknesses and that the Jackals knew their flaws.

A shot across the bow.

And just like Hutch had said the night before, it would probably start an all-out turf war.

Hutch didn’t think the plan would do much but possibly cause harm to the one going into the Black Arab’s territory. It seemed childish and a foolhardy way to incite the Black Arabs. But it seemed a good plan for getting a non-member to prove his worth, though Hutch didn’t like it either way.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Starsky had 3 hours to complete the task. Something he scoffed at, thinking he could finish the task in half the time. That was until he pulled up within a distance of the Black Arab’s lair.   Riding down Hwy 15, the hideout was easy to spot. It was right off the road, according to the Jackal, and he was right. Using the few cars on the road as cover, Starsky passed the hideout before pulling off just past it. Here the road curved up and over a small hill before descending again and continuing into the desert towards Barstow.

Laying down on the small ridge above the target and pulling out his binoculars, Starsky peered at the Black Arab compound below. There were no trees or other places to find cover, so this was the best spot to survey the land. The hideout for the Black Arabs wasn’t like the Jackals’ refuge. From what he could tell, it was an old junkyard or scrapyard.

There were junk cars, buses, and other scrap scattered about, some in stacks at least three cars high or just an abandoned car or old pieces of equipment. In the center of it was a one-story house, if one could call it that, Starsky thought to himself. It looked ready to fall over, with windows punched-out and some boarded up. The roof on one side was sagging. An old concrete building that looked like it was a service station at one point in the distant past stood to the left of the house. To the right, and scattered amongst the stacks of cars and junk, Starsky could make out makeshift shelters in what he assumed were lodgings for the lower-ranked members of the gang.

Surrounding the compound was a chain-link fence fortified with stacks of old cars to hold it up. In places along the top was razor wire.

Starsky gave a low whistle. “Not as easy as you thought, huh?” he laughed and rested his head on folded arms, giving himself time to think. After a minute or so, he peered through the binoculars again to search the surrounding area and the compound. There had to be a way in; he could not simply ride up the front gate and ask to be let in. Though the thought had crossed his mind, thinking maybe he could pretend he was looking for parts for his bike. But looking over at his motorcycle and then back at the scrapyard, he doubted it had anything that would fit his relatively new bike.

What he did discover, however, was that the small ridge he sat on sloped away from the road into a small gully or wash that bordered the compound on one side.

As Starsky pulled the Morrigan further off the road and concealed it behind some tumbleweeds, following the wash to the compound. He was thankful for the stack of cars along the fence line that kept him hidden from those inside the compound.

He walked along the fence looking for an opening and found it around the backside of the fence line. The fence had fallen outward at this spot, leaving a stack of old cars a good ten feet high blocking the way. A quick test proved the pile was too unsteady to climb, but Starsky saw a space between where the fence ended, and the stack began. If he got on all fours, he could get in. Pushing more of the gravel and dirt out of the way to give him more room, he quickly scrambled between the cars and fence.

He made his way toward where he saw the cluster of shacks and makeshift quarters. Figuring if someone spotted him coming from that direction, no one would think twice about him. They’d think maybe he was one of the new recruits. He had to duck behind a car or shelter a few times as someone passed the closer he got to the house. More than once, he wished Hutch was with him, even if it was just an extra set of eyes. He hated doing this alone, but there was no way around it.

As soon as the council had made their decision, they rousted him out of bed, gave him a map that showed him where the Black Arabs were staying, and sent him on his way.

At least they let him get dressed, Starsky grumbled, pulling his leather jacket around him. Even though it was the desert, it was still the end of January, which meant it was cold.

He was now at the last shelter before the vast space between the house and stack of cars and junk. He had two choices, go back, or walk across the area and act as if he belonged. The first choice was out of the question because he highly doubted he would get a second chance to join the Jackals. More than likely, they would kill him. Starsky valued his life, so his only option was to finish the task.

Standing up from his crouch, Starsky straightened his jacket and stepped out into the open.   A shout erupted at that moment, and someone crashed through the bay window in front of the house. Starsky stepped back into his hiding spot and watched as the guy got up, brushed himself off, and charged back through the window. There was more shouting, and to his surprise, men started coming out of the shacks he had just passed by. They streamed past him, ignoring him, and headed towards the shouting and noise of things breaking coming from the house.

Starsky did not hesitate to take advantage of this distraction. Saying a thank you to whoever was watching over him, he entered the fray.

 

Chapter 5: Enter The Cossack 

Hutch looked up from his spot behind the bar as someone came in through the front door, then scowled when it wasn’t Starsky.  He looked at the clock. His partner had only been gone two hours. Hutch set the glass down that he was washing and drying for the umpteenth time and served the newcomer.

The customer took himself and the drink to the group gathered in a corner booth.   Laughter erupted, with a few whoops and hollers that drew Mike out of her office.  She looked at the group and then walked over to Hutch, who had resumed cleaning the bar and preparing for the afternoon crowd.

She leaned against the bar, surveying the room before turning her attention to the detective.  She had been impressed with his ability to take on this role and fit right in easily.  She didn’t think someone, who she assumed came from money, was cut out for this work. Everything she read about the man, raised in the midwest to an upper-middle class family, best schools, college educated, a brief stint in the military, on his way to medical school, before dropping out and becoming a cop. For all accounts and purposes, someone on the fast track for greater things. Someone more suited for an office somewhere, not in the trenches.

She had misjudged the book by looking at its cover.

In the same way, she had misjudged his other half as well.  His outward appearance only hinted at his streetwise smarts and covered the intelligence that equaled that of his book-learned partner.

Equals. These two were as opposite as they could be, but fit together like…like…she didn’t quite know.  Whatever it was, it worked, and to her that is all that mattered. Getting results and this case wrapped up.

“Has the prodigal returned yet?”  Mike queried, when Hutch finally came over to her.

“No,” was his only response as he continued his duties.  She wasn’t surprised. It was clear he hadn’t liked her from the beginning.

“You don’t like me very much, do you, College?”

Hutch looked around the bar to see if anyone was listening. They weren’t. At least she used his cover name.  “Nope, can’t say that I do.”  Hutch figured this conversation wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, the Jackals and the regulars knew her as the ice queen, and one more person seeing her that way would only add to the image.

“Well, that’s appreciation for you, considering I gave you this job.”

“That you did, ma’am, but even the Trojans made the mistake of excepting gifts.” He smiled and waited on a patron that came to the bar before returning.

She narrowed his eyes at him. “We’re on the same team,” she whispered harshly.

Hutch wiped up an imaginary spill, placed the towel over his shoulder, and leaned on the bar so that he was right in front of her, face close. “Yes, but you can’t see the trees for the forest.  And this is going to burn us both, I just kno….”

There was a rumble from outside, and Hutch turned his attention toward the door.

“That’s him.” was all he said before coming around the bar and heading towards the door. Mike grabbed his arm as he passed.

“How do you know?”

Hutch just looked at her for a moment. “Just do.” he yanked his arm out of her grip and headed out the door, with Mike and the others following close behind. The Jackal pushed his way to the front of the group as Starsky pulled up.  With the Jackal in the lead, the group surrounded the bike and rider.

Dismounting stiffly, Starsky went to the saddlebags that hung from the sides of his bike.  He pulled out the hard-won jacket from the bags, and brandished the prize up for all to see.  A cheer went up and Starsky’s grin grew wider. The Jackal took the jacket from him, and Starsky felt pats on his back as the Jackal carried the prize back into the bar, leaving Starsky to follow behind.

He sought out Hutch with his eyes in the crowd and found him standing near the door.  When he reached the first step into the bar, he could see the concern and relief cross his friend’s face, as his partner checked him out from head to toe, taking inventory of the bumps and bruises that Starsky knew he had.  The adrenaline was wearing off, and his body was making sure to remind him of the abuse he had taken in the Black Arab’s brawl.

Hutch’s eyes came back up to meet Starsky’s. “You look like shit.”

“Feel like it too.”  Starsky silently responded.  All he wanted right now was a chair, and something to take away the pain in his head and that matched the rest of his body.  “How about a drink for the Conquering….”    That was all he got out before everything went black.

Hutch caught his partner as he went down quite suddenly, a puppet whose strings had been cut. Mike reached them first. “Over here,” she ordered crisply. “Get the first-aid kit from behind the bar and some towels.”

Laid out on two of the bar tables, Starsky looked a bloody mess. Although it soon became evident that the blood was not all his, the man had certainly taken a beating, and had fought like hell. A large gash below the hairline had masked his face in blood, and there were four clear scratches livid from temple to jaw. As if a wildcat had gone for the eyes and missed by an inch.

Taking the first aid kit and towels, Mike began a cursory inspection of the damage as Hutch tried to wake his partner.  “Hey, Cossack, wake up.” Hutch coaxed, rubbing a closed fist at the center of his partner’s chest.  Starsky’s only response was a groan and a slurred word that sounded like he was calling his partner. Or it might have been an obscenity.

Mike and Hutch shared a glance, knowing it would do no one any good if, in his confusion, Starsky started calling for his partner.

“Nothing serious,” Mike stated quickly to cover. “College, you and Trapper get him to his room; let him sleep it off.”

Hutch was about to protest, wanting to call an ambulance or something for his partner.  It was obvious to him that it was serious and that sleeping it off was not going to fix it.   “Now, College! Get this idiot out of here, I have a business to run.”

Translation, we still have a case; clean up your partner and get to work.

Hutch glared at her but did as he was told.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Having deposited Starsky on his bed, Hutch convinced Trapper that he could cope and that if the man wanted to help, he might check the Morrigan, that being the first thing the Cossack would want to know about. “I’ll clean this moron up,” he added. And set about assessing and treating Starsky’s injuries.

It was mostly bruising, Hutch discovered, checking the unconscious body, and vacillating between relief and fury. “You don’t do things by halves, do you, babe,” he muttered. Bactine and butterfly plasters dealt with the wound on the hairline—scalp wounds always bled like crazy—and the claw marks were superficial.

By the time he was done, Starsky was stirring. Hutch waited until the dark lashes lifted and the uncertain gaze steadied and fixed on him. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked.

“I lost count at 15.” Starsky groaned as he rolled over to his side, realizing his mistake as the room started to spin. “Christ, my skull’s split….” He sat up carefully, cradling his head.

“Not quite. What did you get hit with, a brick? I got Tylenol if you want them.”

Starsky started to nod, then thought it was best he didn’t move, and opted to continue to keep his head from falling off and rolling away.  “I got there, and there was a fight going on. I did some ducking and diving until I spotted the leader, he was bellowing like a bull, and when he tried to brain me with a chair, I faked the fall, rolled under a bench an’ waited until the fuss died down.  And wouldn’t you know, there was the leader’s gear just laying there waiting for me to grab.   When the fight moved outside, I took my chance and grabbed the Jacket.  Some girl screamed blue murder, and then there was this guy with a baseball bat, I think, who tried to hit me for a home run… Guess I forgot to duck. Everything kinda blurs after that.  I couldn’t see because of the blood, and I kinda collided with their bikes before heading back here. Guess they were too busy fighting each other to realize I was there.”

Hutch handed him the pills. “You know you’re a certifiable idiot, don’t you? I was sweating blood here. And I’d like to know why the Jackal picked you for this suicide mission.”

“C’mon, Hutch, you heard them this morning; it was a test. A trial by fire. And I think I passed.” He swallowed the pills and chased them with a glass of water.

“What we should be doing is getting you to the hospital…..”

“And what? Blow this assignment? We can’t do that.  This is our first big case, we pass this with flying colors, we’re set.”

“Even if it kills one of us or both?”

“Hutch.” Starsky looked at his partner, who was kneeling before him, and put a hand around the back of the other man’s neck. “Nothing is going to happen, I promise, okay?”

Hutch studied the face in front of him for a moment.  Every alarm bell was going off, telling him he needed to turn tail and run and take his partner with him.  Instead, he gave in, nodding in agreement.

“Good, Now I think I gotta lie down. I’m wiped out.” Starsky rolled away, turning his back to Hutch.

“Hey, Starsk…”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll agree for now, but the next call is mine; if I say were out, we’re out, okay?”

Starsky tiredly waved an arm at him in response. “Sure, Blondie, whatever you say.”

Hutch covered his friend with a blanket, then sat on the edge of the bed and, reaching out, ran a hand through his partner’s curls. A hand batted it away. With his own tired smile, he got up to leave, and as the door closed behind him, he hoped Starsky was right; everything would be okay.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Starsky’s position in the Pack hierarchy had gone sky-high by the time he woke, aided in no small part by Mike and Hutch ‘recounting’ what Starsky had apparently told them. When he put in an appearance the next day, after checking his beloved Morrigan, he was greeted by grins and high-fives and treated to adulation worthy of a pop star. He got kissed by every female in the room and fielded more than one offer to go further. The jacket and the rest of the gear were exhibited, and the evening turned into a riotous celebration that went on into the early morning.

The next day everything seemed to be back to normal, except now Starsky was part of the pack. And over the next week, Hutch saw very little of his partner. As the newest member, Starsky now went riding with the pack on different errands.

There was one errand where he was gone for two days.

Two days with no word, Hutch was about to climb the walls, drilling Mike on where the Jackals could have gone, when they showed back up.

Starsky looked like he had been fighting again and sported a bruised cheek and a bandage around his hand.  When Hutch asked what happened later, Starsky just said he was fine; it was just a small drug run, making deliveries, collecting money, and scaring people. By the far-off look his partner got in his eyes when he said that last part, Hutch knew he really didn’t want to know what that meant. Starsky clammed up about it, and Mike was no help. When Hutch confronted her in the manager’s office, she just told him, “You read the files I gave you; you know what they’re like.”

“So why don’t you arrest them if you know what they’re like?.”

“Because that’s not what we’re after.  That stuff is minor to the bigger picture. We want to know who is funding these guys and why they are in California.”

“And what if there isn’t any ‘Mr. Big’? You’re willing to let innocent people get hurt or, worse, killed, because of some —fantasy?”

“It’s not fantasy, detective; this gang is dangerous and….”

“Could be working on their own and not part of some conspiracy, just a run-of-the-mill biker gang out for some thrills and a good time.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No.” Hutch cut her off, leaning across the desk and pointing his finger at her. “You’re the clueless one here, lady. What about that statement ‘just scaring people,’ hmm?”

“They’re fine.”

Hutch’s eyes widen in surprise. “You do know what happened?”

“Yes, and that is all I will tell you. Now you have a job to do, Detective, and I suggest you do it.”  The tone in her voice left no argument that the conversation was over, so Hutch left. But not before he made sure the door slammed behind him.

Three days later, he found an article in a local newspaper about a family of four who had been run off the road, taken out in the desert, harassed by a bunch of bikers and left with very little water.   It was by pure luck they had been found because of an anonymous tip.  Hutch didn’t doubt where the tip came from, and Mike was right, the family would be alright. If you called two kids being traumatised watching their parents get beat up and assaulted ‘alright.’

He threw the paper on the bed next to his partner.

“You want to explain that?”

“Explain what?” Starsky picked up the paper, looked at it, then tossed it aside. “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. Why didn’t you do anything?”

“And just what would you have me do, Hutch? I reported it as soon as I could.”

“Why didn’t you stop….”

“And then what? It would have gotten me killed.  Hell, I’m the reason they are still alive; I convinced the Jackal not to kill them. The Pack were in such a frenzy, they wanted to kill them and leave them out there and watch the buzzards eat them. Somehow, I got them to stop before it got that far. When the Jackal and the crew walked away, I gave the family the water. When I got to where the Jackal was, he laid me flat. That’s where I got this to add to my collection.” Starsky reached up and touched the now-fading bruise.  “Told me if I ever did anything like that again, he’d skin me alive. And a second later, it was like nothing happened, and I was his best pal again. The guy’s schizoid.” Starsky got up from the bed, swaying a bit but brushing Hutch’s hand away that tried to steady him as he started digging through his bag.

“What you looking for?”

“Some aspirin; my head is killing me.”

Hutch looked at him with concern, then reached around Starsky, picking up the bottle of aspirin that was right in front of him on the dresser. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Starsky took the bottle, shook two aspirin out, and, using the remnants of the beer he was drinking earlier, swallowed the pills.

“You think that’s wise?” Hutch spoke up. When his partner looked at him in confusion, Hutch pointed to the now empty beer bottle, “Mixing alcohol with the aspirin.”

“I’ll live.” Starsky shrugged, pulling on his jacket, “C’mon, Blitz, I’m hungry; ya think you can fire up the grill and make me one of your famous burgers everyone is raving about?”

“Starsk, it’s two o’clock in the morning; I just closed up for the night.”

“Perfect! then I don’t have to share.”  Starsky’s exuberance was contagious, and Hutch couldn’t deny his partner at that point, and wondering where his partner got his sudden burst of energy, followed him out the door.  It was going to be a long night.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

After that, Hutch watched his partner more closely and kept away from Mike; he trusted her even less than he did before. It was subtle at first, the changes Hutch noticed in his partner.  Now that he was looking for something, he could easily spot it.

First, he noticed Starsky was still having headaches, and Hutch wasn’t sure the pills he was taking were all as innocuous as aspirin. Then there were times Starsky seemed at a loss for words or just stopped mid-sentence, then when Hutch nudged him, he would blink a few times confused, then keep right on with the conversation like nothing happened.  Or when Starsky would look straight through him like he didn’t know him at all.

And that scared him, but Starsky said he was okay. “Just getting into the role, partner, no worries.”

But Hutch was worried, and Mike didn’t seem worried enough.  If anything, she seemed to enjoy this new, fully involved Starsky.  And no amount of convincing her otherwise was working. It seemed the longer they were under, the more his partner disappeared, and the Cossack took over.  His partner simply wasn’t there at times.

One minute Starsky was friendly, then the next, flying off the handle.  Quick to fight at anything he saw as an insult, that under normal circumstances, he would have let go.  When Hutch had first met Starsky at the academy, he was a fighter then too, but he was still not quick to pick a fight.  In the time since graduation, through probation and finally being partnered together, Starsky had calmed a lot, and his temper rarely came out.  Usually, even at the worst of times, all it took was a touch or glance from Hutch to quell whatever fury was building up in his partner. Lately, though, that didn’t work.

This became apparent one afternoon when Starsky was doing his best to antagonize Buck, the Jackal’s second in command.  Something he was doing on a regular basis, much to Hutch’s frustration.

The bar was more crowded than usual for an afternoon.  On most days, the Jackals cleared out by noon and didn’t return until close to sunset.  Hutch found himself breaking up a few scuffles and again making notes to tell Huggy how much he appreciated the skills of their bartending friend.  From his spot behind the bar, he could watch the crowd easily and, in particular, watch his partner, who was holding court with the other leaders of the gang in a corner booth.

“Cossack seems to be finally getting with the program; got quite a following he has there,”  Mike said, putting some empty bottles on the bar.  Hutch grabbed the bottles and tossed them in a nearby trashcan.

“Yeah, so I see.”

“That’s a good thing, you know.”

Hutch just shrugged as laughter erupted from the group in question.

“Hey, College, how about some more drinks over here? We’re getting thirsty. And tell Ice Princess there to deliver them.  We need some entertainment.”

Mike rolled her eyes, collected the bottles, walked over, and placed the bottles on the table.  She was turning away when she felt arms wrapped around her waist as she was pulled down onto someone’s lap.

“Now, that wasn’t much of a show from a pretty lady like you,” Starsky said, nuzzling her neck.  Catcalls and laughter roared around them, and Mike saw red.

“Paws off, Cossack.” She stomped on his foot, causing him to release her, and she spun around to slap him, but he grabbed her hand in mid-swing.   “Now, that isn’t the way to treat a paying customer. Now is it?” The voice was low and made the hairs on her arms stand up, but not in a good way.  She looked into the eyes of the detective she brought in on this case, but it wasn’t him she saw staring back.  No, these eyes were cold, hard and…and… she didn’t know what else.  All she knew was she was frightened by it and wanted to get away.  For the first time in a very long time, she was scared.

Mike struggled against the grip holding her arm,  “Let go, Cossack, you’re hurting me.”

“Aww, Ice, I thought you were thawin’….”

The crowd got more boisterous, and she was able to break away; in her peripheral vision, she could see Hutch coming around the bar. “For a Russian reprobate like you? Dream on, boy,” she scoffed and then screeched as Starsky pulled her to him and hoisted her over his shoulder, preparatory to carrying her off, caveman-style. “Put me down, dammit!”

He answered that with a pat on her butt, the whooping of the Pack clearly encouraging him. “And I’m Polish, not Russian. Though I guess we had things in common when it came to carrying off captive maidens.”

“Put her down,” came the snarled command as Buck loomed in front of him, his face flushed turkey-cock red. “You heard the lady, Polack!”

“Nothin’ doing, Bucky-boy.” Starsky grinned, all teeth, as he set Mike on her feet again but kept a hold of her wrist. He knew that Buck had been trying to get her into his bed but had failed. Buck was not a favorite with the ladies, a fact that clearly rankled when the Cossack was quickly becoming the top rooster since the raid two weeks before. “I think it’s time to show this filly what a real man can do.  Cuz clearly, you don’t know how to, boy.”

Starsky was ready for Buck’s attack, ducking his infuriated swing and getting a pile-driver punch to the ribs, and it would have escalated further if Jackal hadn’t hauled Buck back, as Hutch had grabbed Starsky.

The Jackal was grinning. “I’m getting kinda tired of you two marking your territory. Trying to work out who is the alpha male. You want to settle this outside, once and for all,” he said. “A duel, our way.”

“Hell, yeah,” Buck shrugged free of the Jackal’s grasp, looking daggers at Starsky. “I’ll take the bastard down!”

“You can try,” Starsky said cockily. “Winner gets the girl.” Mike glowered at him, she was not going to be anybody’s prize, least of all a cocky detective.  “C’mon, Ice Princess, you know he’s been trying to get into your pants since you took over. We’re gonna settle this like gentlemen….” Which earned him a howl of laughter from the Pack.

It was jousting Seventies style. Hogs instead of horses, leathers instead of armor, and a variety of weaponry. Buck was swinging a length of a heavy bike chain, grinning nastily. He was a veteran and victor of a dozen such duels, earning him his place in the Pack hierarchy. Starsky had also come up the hard way, from his boyhood in New York, his stint in the army, and his Academy training. But he’d never fought from the saddle before.

The arena was a wide sandy bowl back of the motel, and the available space was restricted. Starsky paced it out, checking for rough ground. Hutch, self-appointed second, stood with Mike, his hand on her shoulder, the Morrigan gleaming at their side.

For God’s sake, Starsk, be careful!  

The silent admonition brought a wry smile to his face.  Not gonna be that easy, Blintz.

Well, no one ever promised us easy…

He crossed to where Mike and Hutch stood, “Wish me luck,” he said, with confidence he didn’t entirely feel, and swung into the saddle.

Then the powerful machines were roaring towards each other, Buck’s chain a whistling blur of silvery metal that struck like a snake, slamming into Starsky’s ribs like a solid bar of iron. The impact was enough to lose him the length of a pipe he’d chosen to act as a lance, the Morrigan swerving, so he was forced to wrestle her back on course.

First blood, so to speak, to Buck.

And now he had no weapon. But he did know what to expect. Buck’s modus operandi was the all-out attack. Starsky kept low on the turn and aimed the Morrigan directly at Buck’s machine. Off-balance, Buck swung the chain again. If it had connected, it would have taken Starsky’s head off. Instead, Starsky snatched at it and, using the Krav Maga skills he’d learned and honed in the Special Forces, caught it and dragged Buck off his bike. Muscle memory took over—and Buck had no chance against the lighting-swift sequence of strikes that followed. The bikes lay abandoned, the conflict now hand-to-hand, and Starsky whipped the chain across Buck’s face, opening a bloody furrow from temple to jaw.

It should have finished the fight, but it didn’t. Instead, Starsky dropped to his knees on Buck’s chest, crushing the air out of him, the chain now held taut between his hands, pressing it across the vulnerable throat. The vanquished enemy choked, face congested.

Hutch darted forward, grabbing his partner’s shoulder. “Leave it,” he hissed. “He’s finished—“ The look Starsky turned on him was feral, that of a predator deprived of its prey, teeth bared, eyes dilated, and Hutch took an involuntary step back.

The Jackal’s voice commanding. “Stand down, Cossack. Now .”

There was a moment when no one moved — then Starsky pushed himself to his feet, leaving the bloodied Buck on the ground. His gaze raked his audience, daring anyone to make a challenge.

“To the victor belongs the spoils,” the Jackal drawled. “Take him away, Mike, and -uh- take care of him.”

Mike squared her shoulders at the order. She was still defiant, and she wasn’t about to be anyone’s prize, no matter who fought over her.  She was about to say just that when Hutch took that choice away from her.

When the Jackal gave Starsky over to Mike, Hutch saw claws come out, as her body language clearly showed what she thought of the fight and the Jackal’s order. And knowing Starsky’s current state of mind, he knew nothing was going to happen, no matter her feelings.

“Be like tangling with a grizzly,” Hutch thought, “ for the both of them.”  He stepped forward to help his partner.  When Mike came to help, he shook his head. “I can deal with him better than you, I think,” he whispered and, throwing an arm around his waist, hauled the man to his feet.

Mike watched the two hobble away towards the hotel and then looked around only to find she was the only one left at the jousting arena. Confused and a little shaken by the turn of events, she decided to go to her room rather than return to the bar.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Hutch opened the Cossack’s door, pushing Starsky through it, but as he turned to lock it, Starsky wrenched away from him, eyes blazing, fists bunched.

“What the fuck…!”

“You need to calm down, pal,” Hutch said, closing in to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Starsky snarled, wordless, and swung at him. It took Hutch by surprise, and he backpedaled, tripping on the rug and going down. The next thing he knew, Starsky was on top and fighting. Hutch didn’t want to hurt him but wasn’t going to let Starsk beat him either, so he used his wrestling skills and then delivered a right cross that stunned his friend momentarily. Using that advantage, he hauled Starsky off the floor into a fireman’s carry, got him into the bathroom, and dumped him in the tub, turning the shower full on.

“What the hell…?” Starsky spluttered. “First you hit me, and now you’re trying to fucking drown me?”

“It was the best way to get you to cool down. Besides, you swung first.”

“So that makes it alright?!”

“In this case, yes.”

“You’re a fucking bastard, Hutchinson!”

“Oh, full name. Maybe you need to stay in a little longer.”

“Fuck you!” Starsky was trying to stand up, but the tub was slippery. He sat there and glared at Hutch.

Hutch cut the spray off and returned the glare. “You know what you almost just did? You almost killed that guy.”

Starsky got his feet under him and stood up, drenched and dripping. “What the hell do you know about it?”

“Enough to know that’s not you. It’s not what you are.”

“Then you don’t know much, Blondie.” It was a sneer. “Just get out, wilja? Don’t need to go lecturing me on what’s right or wrong.”

“You’re walking a razor edge, Starsk.” He tossed a towel to him. Starsky picked it up and rubbed at his wet hair.

“Leave it alone, Hutch,”

“Starsk—”

“Leave it alone, I said. I’m fine. Just get out. Get the hell out.”

Luckily for them both, Hutch took the hint. As soon as the door closed behind his partner, Starsky sat down hard on the bed, feeling the shakes begin. The come-down from the adrenaline rush hurt almost as much as the bruise Buck’s chain had inflicted.

What I just did… It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken a life. Lost my cherry in Vietnam. Can’t remember who I killed. It was him or me. Charlie with a machete… got under his swipe and gutted him. I do remember puking like a sick dog afterward.

It got easier. Too easy. I had to exorcise that demon when I got back to the World… 

He hurt emotionally and physically, the constant pain wouldn’t go away now, no matter what he did.  He needed Hutch, he would know what to do, and he struggled to get up from the bed. Only to be brought down again as he remembered the look on Hutch’s face just now.

He hurt him.  Why? Starsky asked the empty room. When He didn’t get a reply, the silence was worse. Wrapping his arms around himself and pulling his knees close, he shut his eyes against the pain. “I’m sorry, Hutch.” He let the darkness pull him under.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

A few hours later, Hutch was washing glasses when he heard the familiar roar of the Morrigan and caught a glimpse of the bike and her rider peeling out of the lot and onto the road. Mike sidled up to the bar.

“Where’s he going?” she asked quietly. Hutch shrugged, not wanting to show how worried he was.

“Guess he just needs his space.”

“So long as he doesn’t wrap himself around a telegraph pole….”

An hour later, Starsky sauntered back in, and Hutch started breathing again. There was no chance to talk, as the Jackal invited Starsky to the motel’s roof. It was clearly a favorite spot – the gang leader could often be seen up there on an evening, perched like a gargoyle next to the crumbling parapet.

 

Chapter 6: You and I are Going to Take Over The World 

“Those were some sweet moves you used on Buck, Cossack.” The Jackal’s Leader said as he stepped out onto the roof, a bottle of Jim Beam in hand and Starsky close behind.

“Army,” Starsky said shortly, taking a swig of the bottle the Jackal handed him before finding a spot to sit. He looked out across the desert; the sun had just set, giving the sky a mix of reds and oranges to the west, which faded into the deep blues and black of the night to the east.

Jackal studied him for a minute, then pulled a small case from his jacket. “Thought it had to be something like that. How long were you there?”

“Two years and some. You?”

“Went out in ’69. Man, that was some serious shit….” He took some small papers out of the case and a small bag, which Starsky quickly identified as not a typical cigarette-making kit. He took another drink of the whisky, watching Jackal as the man rolled the paper and lit the makeshift “cigarette.” Starsky identified the scent of marijuana. Jackal’s profile was dark against the now star-scattered sky. “FUBAR,” he said softly, tilting the joint in a toast.

Starsky tipped his bottle back. “You got that right.”

Jackal leaned against the Hotel’s roof’s short wall along the edge, raising the joint to his lips again. “Off the plane, handed a rifle, and the next thing you know, you’re in-country. And little brown brother doesn’t take kindly to Uncle Sam being there. I was LRRP. You?”

“Got tagged for Special Forces. Made up to three stripes an’ counting down the days when the VC got me.”

“Tough.”

“Yeah. Wasn’t keen on the accommodation, so got out, me an’ three others.” Starsky let the memories wash over him as he swirled the whisky in its bottle.

Accommodation. A six-foot-square bamboo cage and a bunch of guards who got their jollies beating the crap out of us. We made it, though Jerry lost an arm to jungle rot, and we were none of us in very good shape when we made it back.

“Where was that?” Jackal’s voice interrupted the memories.

“Fuck if I know.” Starsky washed them away with the last dregs of the bottle. “Forty clicks south of Hell, an’ thirty past Purgatory.”

“Sounds familiar.” The Jackal said, offering Starsky his joint before rolling another for himself. “I was ready to quit, too, but little brown brother just didn’t want me to leave,” he added acerbically. “I was a POW for six months. Then, when I got back, no one wanted to know. My girl had married someone else. My family was ashamed of me. Peaceniks.” He spat.

“Been there,” Starsky agreed.

“Buck was my number two,” Jackal said after a while. “I figured he was angling to take over if he got the chance. So you did me a favor there, Cossack. He took off soon as his old lady patched him up. She’s plenty pissed. You interested?”

Starsky rolled the joint between his fingers. This is what the whole case was about—getting accepted by the Jackals, finding out how they ticked, and finding out what they planned to do next. Leapfrogging from lone biker to a valued member of the Pack was a massive stroke of luck. “Why not? Sounds fun, and I got no plans to move on right now,” he said easily.

“I think this calls for a celebration, Cossack. You and I are going to take over the world.” Jackal nodded with a laugh, slapping Starsky on the back and leading him down off the roof and towards the small roadside bar.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Hutch watched the lone figure slumped over the table in the shadows, trying to calculate how much Starsky had had to drink. Hopefully, just beer — Starsky on hard liquor was unpredictable at best.

There had been a noticeable increase in the typical nightly festivities and activities among the crowd. Based on what he heard, the celebrations were associated with his partner being completely accepted into the Jackals. Not only accepted but made second in command when Buck had taken off soon after the jousting match.

“C’mon, pal,” Hutch said, switching off the last of the lights and the strip lighting above the bar. “You can’t sleep here.”

Weary blue eyes lifted to him, and Hutch realized that it was not the crazy Cossack looking at him, but now it was Starsky. He found it strange to see the composite of the real man overwritten by a different personality. Hutch had found the Cossack fascinating— he certainly livened things up at the Waterhole. He was a rabble-rouser, a rule-breaker, someone who just didn’t fit in society.

But he wasn’t Starsky.

Hutch found he missed the guy, irritating though he often was. Starsky would have his back, always. The Cossack, not so much.

“C’mon,” Hutch said again, looping an arm around his friend’s waist and Starsky’s arm over his shoulder. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

“You’re my pal, Blondie,” Starsky slurred.

“Yeah, but will you respect me in the morning,” Hutch quipped. “Always.”

Hutch replied with a snort that was a cross between a laugh and annoyance as he manhandled his inebriated partner across the parking lot to the hotel.

By the time they got to Starsky’s room, Hutch was ready to dump him on the bed and let Starsky fend for himself. It was apparent his partner had a few shots of whisky or something else, and based on the smell lingering about him; the man had been smoking more than simply cigarettes.

Those two bits of information kept Hutch from just closing the door on Starsky and leaving him. It didn’t feel right to do that, and Starsky didn’t object when Hutch sat him on the bed to tug his boots off and shed his jacket without a murmur. Seeing Starsky wince when he struggled to pull his t-shirt over his head, Hutch caught sight of the blackening bruise across his back, evidence of the punishing blow Buck had inflicted at the beginning of the duel.

“I’ll get you some Tylenol,” Hutch volunteered, “but you’re going to be stiff in the morning.”

“Jackal, I mean JC, says Buck took off soon as he could….” Starsky accepted the pills and swallowed them dry. “You were right, Hutch. I went too far. Lost control. I could have killed him.”

“But you didn’t.” Hutch pulled the only chair in the room closer to the bed facing his partner.

“No. And it got me a promotion. I’m number two in the Pack. Council meetings, the works.” He gave a jaw-cracking yawn. The room swirled and tilted a little, and rubbing at his eyes seemed to lessen the effect. The dull ache in his head was just a slow throb, softened by the mix of alcohol and hash. It was relief from the jackhammers and the pressure he felt on most days. “I think this is our big break, Hutch….”

Hutch listened as Starsky told him of the brief conversation on the rooftop and later in the bar. Some of it Hutch already knew from overhearing the Pack celebrating this evening. As always, he was invisible to them, as was Mike. But there were gems in the rubbish. As second-in-command, Starsky was going to be privy to all the Jackal’s plans. Hutch was mulling over what he was being told when he realized that Starsky was no longer talking but was an abandoned sprawl on the bed. Shaking his head, Hutch pulled the comforter over the sleeping man, then kicked off his shoes, stretched out on the other bed, and soon followed Starsky into sleep.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Fever scorched his blood. The raw stripe on his back, the result of the last savage beating, throbbed and burned in time with his heartbeat. The cramped confines of the crude bamboo cage denied him any position save the fetal crouch he was in. The filthy ground under him was awash from the incessant rain, a breeding ground for the insects that buzzed and crawled and fed on his cringing flesh…

He whimpered, stifling the sound because if he made any noise, they would come with the bamboo canes and beat him again…

Someone was calling his name. 

“Starsk? Starsky, wake up; you’re dreaming!”

That was an illusion; his reality was here in the cage…

Hands on his shoulders, a voice, urgent, insistent. “C’mon, Starsk, wake up, huh? You’re having a nightmare.” Starsky fought to break free, but his wrists were firmly grasped. And the cage was gone, and the bugs, and the only thing left was the sore stripe across his shoulders and the man kneeling beside the bed, blue eyes focused on his, concerned.

“H-hutch?”

“You back with me, huh? Starsk?”

Hutch saw recognition return and loosened his grip, choosing instead to ease an arm under the man’s shoulders. Instinctively Starsky turned towards him, face burrowing against his neck, and both hands came up and clung desperately to his shirt front, his breathing ragged. Hutch wrapped both arms around him, holding tight.

“You’re okay, Starsk. You’re safe. I got you.” A litany of reassurance to cancel out the terror.

“G-god, Hutch. I was back there….”

“I know, pal. I know. Lie back down, huh? I’m right here with you.”

Starsky let Hutch ease him back but didn’t let go. The sweat of horror was acrid, he could smell it on himself. “He was in Nam, Hutch. JC. He was POW, like me.” He was shaking a little in the aftermath of the nightmare, hanging on to Hutch as if his partner was a lifeline.

Hutch made no attempt to disengage the tight grasp, but his knees were complaining. He slid onto the bed, and Starsky sighed and relaxed against him. “Go back to sleep,” Hutched suggested quietly. “I’m right here.”

Hutch woke abruptly in the still hours before dawn to find Starsky sleeping peacefully. “Gotta go,” he said in response to a drowsy mutter of the complaint. “I got hungry mouths to feed.”

“Waffles,” the Cossack mumbled.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Hutch promised with a smile, letting himself out.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Several hours later, Hutch had wiped up the spills and decided that his shift had ended for the morning. The morning rush hadn’t shown up, and neither did Starsky. Given the celebration and amount of booze poured out, he doubted anyone would be rising before 1 pm. Handing the bar duties over to one of the waitresses and Mike, he left the bar, heading for the motel room he’d claimed as his own, and much-needed sleep.

There was noise from the garage area, occasionally followed by grumbling and a few choice words that told Hutch that the tinkerer could only be his partner. He detoured to investigate and found Starsky and the Morrigan, the latter in several pieces.

“Hey,” he said. Starsky startled a little but didn’t stop what he was doing.

“Slow Morning?”

“Yeah.”

Starsky held out a hand without looking, and Hutch handed him a wrench from the array laid out like a set of surgeon’s tools. He got a grunt of thanks. Hutch crouched down beside him. After a moment – “I wasn’t hungry.”

“What?” Hutch questioned, taking the wrench held out to him and trading it with another tool.

“You were going to ask why I was out here and not getting those waffles I asked for. I wasn’t hungry.”

“Would that have anything to do with those ‘special’ cigarettes you’ve taken to smoking?”

“Nothing ‘special’ about them.” Starsky dropped the tool he’d been using and picked up another. “Nothing ‘special’ I can’t handle, I mean. Besides, those make you hungry, not lose your appetite.” What Starsky didn’t want to tell his partner, has he hurt all over, more than what a normal hangover made him feel. And he felt out of sorts, like his skin was too tight, like he was outside his body but inside it as well. Watching the world happen around him, but also being a part of it.

Hutch studied his partner for a minute, watching as a series of emotions crossed his face before squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, Hutch didn’t see his friend anymore; Cossack had taken his place. “Starsk…” Hutch tried to find a way to express his concern, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’m worried, okay?’

Starsky slid from under his touch, continuing to order the tools and put them away. “I’m good, Mom.”

“Starsk…”

“Hey, don’t get on my case, okay? A few tokes of Mary-Jane not gonna kill me.” He closed his eyes, tamping down the anger he felt rising inside. Hutch didn’t deserve his wrath; he hadn’t done anything but be the partner he always was and Starsky expected him to be.

The scent of marijuana in the thick humid jungle air combatted the stink of sweat and fear. 

“I’m sorry, Hutch, it’s just the guys need to kick back and mellow out sometimes.” Blue eyes, indigo-dark, fixed on his face. “Any of them — Ratso, Renegade, Trapper — any of them could have been me. When I got my discharge papers, Hutch, I didn’t head home. I spent a week in a cheap hotel room, trying to decompress. Stoned or passed-out drunk most of the time.”

War hero, spat at on the street. Baby-killer. 

“Was Uncle Al who found Bella. We fixed her up together, and I took to the road. So I know where they’re comin’ from. I’ve been there.”

“But you came back, Babe.”

“Yeah. I came back.” Starsky leaned his head against the cool rim of the bike, partly to soothe the ache behind his eyes and partly to let the past wash over him

Almost didn’t. Hadn’t been for John Blaine and Maggie, I might be just another disillusioned vet…

He and Bella were heading back to LA from San Francisco when Bella tangled with a truck, resulting in a bent front axle and, for her rider, a broken ankle. He didn’t realize it was broken until he tried to stand…

The big red pickup pulled in beside him. “Dave?” said a familiar voice, and Starsky looked up into the face of his uncle’s neighbor, John Blaine. The man who’d taught him to fight. Starsky had never been so happy to see someone in his life, “Rose said you’d gone north to visit with an Army buddy. What happened?”

“Got side-swiped by an 18-wheeler,” Starsky managed, grimacing as he tried to get up. Pain shot clear up to his groin. “Musta sprained my ankle when I came off….”

“And that’s not all, by the looks of you. Want a ride home, son? Hey, Pete, give me a hand here?” And his traveling companion had assisted in loading the injured Bella into the back of the pickup while Blaine got Starsky into the front seat. He was white and sweating, bruises and abrasions making themselves known, and Blaine had detoured to the nearest ER, where X-rays revealed a complicated ankle break.

Six hours later, Starsky was delivered to his Uncle’s house to be received by the exclamations and fluttering of his aunt and was in no condition to appreciate them. The next day, he made his way to Blaine’s front door on borrowed crutches.

“Came to say I’m sorry,” he told the man who had rescued him. “Guess I was kinda obnoxious last night. “

“Don’t mention it, Dave. Come on in, take a load off..”

And in the following six weeks, John Blaine became a friend, mentor, and role model…

“I was one of the lucky ones, Hutch. I got family. And John convinced me to go to the Academy….”

He looked up into concerned blue eyes. “I’m okay, Hutch. Really. I’ve faced worse. Hell, we both have. But this isn’t our first undercover operation, and it’s not gonna be our last, that’s for sure.”

“I hear you. Just promise me one thing., okay? No more of your crazy stunts? I’d like to keep my blood pressure from escalating anymore.”

Starsky shook his head, wiping oily hands on a piece of cotton waste. “Can’t do that. If I’m gonna keep my rep, stay JC’s point-man, I gotta take risks.” He was quiet for a minute. Then: “She’s poised to take them down, Hutch. The Jackal, the Pack, the Black Arabs — the whole fucking shooting match.”

“That’s the job, Starsk. It’s what we’re here to do.”

“I know. So why do I feel like a Judas?”

Hutch had no answer to that.

Chapter 7: Be Careful, Starsk! 

Mike threw the pencil down in frustration and rubbed at her eyes, then stared at the reports in front of her. The words just blurred and ran together, and she gave up reading.

Nothing was going right. It was taking too long; the higher-ups were on her case to either take the Jackals down with what she had already or pull the plug. The only break was Starsky becoming second in command, which was more than the last guy did. Blackwell, fucking bastard. They almost had what the Jackals and their leader were up to. Then he slept with the wrong groupie and got himself killed. At least it didn’t cost her the case, though the higher-ups were grumbling about continuing. They wouldn’t even let her have replacements from the ranks and told her to go fishing from the local jurisdictions if she wanted to keep going.

She wasn’t about to let two years of surveillance, paperwork, and clawing her way to the top get wiped out because of a jackass who thought he was god’s gift to women. So she did as she was told and came up with Hans and Franz. “No,” she thought, that was the wrong description. While young and inexperienced, they seemed to know what to do, and stuck to the script. For the most part, anyways.

When Starsky returned from his little expedition looking like roadkill and passed out, she thought it was all shot to hell.   And when he groaned at some of his partner’s ministrations, she was on cloud nine. It wasn’t all shot to hell, and Mike wouldn’t have to explain how she got a loaner killed.

After that, Starsky got with the game and made progress. His partner, though, seemed to be not on board. If anything, became more involved than she wanted him to be. Hell, she didn’t want him here anyway. She only needed one partner, and she ended up with both. A twofer.

A knock at the office door startled her, causing her to knock over the coffee cup.

“Shit.” She quickly grabbed the papers before day-old coffee ruined them. She stuffed them in a drawer out of sight, then grabbed a discarded rag to mop up the mess.

Another knock.

“Come in.”

The blond half of her loaned team stuck his head around the door. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

“Do I have a choice?” Mike mumbled under her breath as she tossed the now soggy rag into the trash can.

“Have a seat, College.” She stated a little louder to whomever else might be in the hallway.

She watched as Hutch took a seat. “Is there something on your mind, detective?”

“I …I mean we…I think you need to pull us out or at least consider wrapping up  this case with what you have.”

“And why do you think that, Detective Hutchinson? Starsky has just got to a place that would ruin everything if we pull him now. I…we won’t get another chance to get this close again.”

Hutch caught her slip and glared at her, “What you are saying is “You” will not get another chance….”

“No, detective, I am saying we won’t get another chance.” Mike paused for a second, then smiled. “Well, I mean, Starsky and I, we don’t need you, and the Jackals will not think twice if you leave.”

“I’m not leaving my partner.”

“Then I don’t see how you have any other choice but to see this through because I highly doubt your partner would agree to bail now that we have made progress.”

“You’re not listening to me. There is something wrong with my partner.”

“I don’t see anything wrong; if anything, Starsky should be commended for how far he has gotten.”

“Yes, he is doing good, but at what cost? Starsky’s on a knife edge here, lady. You don’t seem to understand; He’s having nightmares again. He only has those when he is sick, injured, or stressed. I helped him through it the last time, which wasn’t pretty. He was POW in Vietnam.…..”

“And so were a few other men in Jackal’s gang, including Jackal himself. I read your partner’s file, I know what it says happened over there, and I don’t need to be told about Jackal’s background either. It was partially why I chose Starsky for this assignment.”

Hutch looked at her in confusion. “What he went through over there isn’t in his personal file. Even I don’t know all of it.”

“It’s not; I read his DOD file.”

“You read… Lady….”

“Look, Detective,” She said, cutting Hutch off, “Your partner is very good at what he does, and I needed the best, and he fits what I needed. He is a grown-up; if something is wrong, he can speak for himself. And as I see it, if his background gets him an in, then that is to our advantage, don’t you think, detective?”

Hutch looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but whatever he had to say to her was lost when a knock came at the door, and the subject of their conversation popped his head into the office.

“Mike, I need to talk to you…Oh good, Hutch, you’re here too. Great,” Starsky said, and grinned at seeing his partner. Hutch could see his partner had something important to say. He practically vibrated with excitement.

“Take a seat, detective.” Mike waved him to a seat next to his partner and wasn’t surprised when he decided on the arm of his partner’s chair instead. “You have something for me.”

Starsky jumped right in. “The big event you were waiting for is about to happen.”

“What? How?” That was Hutch.

“Where?” That was Mike.

And Starsky looked between the two, looking like the cat that caught the canary. “The big show, Blondie. Tomorrow, bright and early.”

Mike spoke up. “And what is supposed to happen?”

“Jackal just had a council and laid it all out.” Starsky looked down at his partner. “You were right, Hutch; it is a turf war, but not for the supremacy of the area.”

“If it isn’t about taking over the area, Starsk, what are they fighting for?”

“They’re on the same team, Hutch; that is the missing piece.”

“But they are working to….”

“No, not together…but working for the same organization. They’re like two junkyard dogs….”

“Fighting to see who will be alpha…

“And…”

“And whoever wins gets the master’s attention and the prize.”

“Exactly.”

Hutch thought about it for a minute. “Okay, I buy it, but what about this mastermind? Does he know what is going on?”

“Of course he does; he orchestrates it, or at least lets it happen. What does he care as long as the drugs and whatever else they are dealing with gets from point A to point B….”

“Gentleman.” Mike tried to break into the verbal ping-pong.

“He just waits for the dust to settle. Pawns on a chess board, his game.”

“Gentleman!”

“And he will have one less mouth to feed.”

“Exactly!”

“If you are finished, gentlemen, I would like to know what you heard. Starsky?”

The two men looked up at her as if surprised to see her sitting there. Much to Mike’s chagrin, she found herself confused that she hadn’t been able to connect the dots as they had done. They shared a glance that Mike was sure held a conversation, before Starsky shrugged, and two sets of blue eyes, one dark and one light, focused on her.

“According to Jackal, The Black Arabs have a delivery tomorrow. From what I gather, it’s a big one. A 5 million dollar shipment between the master dog handler and some guy out of Vegas. The Black Arabs were picked over the Jackals to be an escort. Which comes with a 20% delivery fee.”

“Which really pissed Jackal off?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. That’s when I put two and two together. There is one guy or organization funding both gangs. He plays them against each other. He pulls the right strings and pushes the right buttons, and they jump; he never gets his hands dirty.”

“Smart man, and has deep pockets if he can fund 20% off of 5 million,” Hutch quipped. “So what about tomorrow’s shipment, and where do the Jackals come in?”

“JC wants to intercept the cargo, take the delivery off the Black Arab escort, make the delivery, maybe take some of the shipment for themselves and pocket the money the Black Arabs were promised for playing escort.”

Mike leaned back in her chair, “That seems simple enough, but I feel like there is a “but” in there somewhere.”

Starsky’s grin grew bigger, “And you would be correct, mon chéri.” Starsky said in his best French accent. Hutch groaned and rolled his eyes. Ignoring his partner, Starsky continued, “They plan to blow up the shipment.”

The room was silent while the other two processed the new information.

“That doesn’t make sense, though, Starsk. Wouldn’t the shipper and the receiver just come after the Jackals, then?”

Starsky looked at his partner, waiting for the penny to drop into the slot. He knew he didn’t have to wait long as he watched the gears move, and he saw the penny drop, and Hutch looked at him.

“You and the rest of the Jackals are going in looking like the Black Arabs. The receiver won’t know the difference, and the shipper neither, most likely. All they know is the Black Arabs doubled-crossed them. And proceed to….”

“Wipe them off the map for their assumed double cross.”

“Leaving the Jackals top dog of the junkyard,” Mike concluded the exchange.

“Bingo!” Both Starsky and Hutch said in unison.

She looked between the two, a little bewildered that she could keep up with this exchange and come to the same conclusion they seemed to come up with, even before her train left the station. It sounded all reasonable, and with what she knew of Jackal’s ego, it was very plausible that being shunned for a run like this would put him over the edge enough to pull off a stunt like this. What caught her interest, though, was the idea of a Master handler controlling and financing both gangs. If she could bring that guy down, then….

“Good job, Starsky; sounds like this is what we have been waiting for. Even better would be learning just who is financing them and calling the shots. Did the Jackal give a name?”

Starsky shook his head. “No, just that it was some guy out of Frisco. The Jackal deals with a guy named Bates, but I don’t think he’s the boss. Just another errand boy. But give me a few days; I can probably figure out who that is too.”

“No, that’s ok; we’ll focus on that after tomorrow’s business.” She reached for a rolled-up map and spread it out on her desk. “Can you show me where the exchange is going to happen?”

“Yeah, sure.” Starsky jumped up from his spot and leaned over the desk. “It should be happening off this side road here. According to Jackal, there’s an old crop duster airstrip back there….”

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

 Later that night, after the bar was closed and all the plans were set, Hutch sat on the end of Starsky’s bed looking at the assortment of supplies JC could pull together on such short notice. “I don’t know why you have to be the one in charge of blowing up the rig, Starsk.”

“Think I can rig it to blow once everyone’s clear,” Starsky mumbled, then looked up into Hutch’s worried face, “Hey. I know what I’m doing, Blondie. Special Forces, remember. Learned a whole lot.”

“Like handling explosives?”

“Among other things. Don’t sweat it. This could be what the Lt. wants. We pull this off, then I learn who the boss is, and we’re out of here.”

“Can’t be too soon for me… I don’t like it, Starsk; too many things can go wrong. What is this stuff? Silly Putty?”

Starsky looked up with a grin, picking the ‘putty’ up. “C4,” he explained. Hutch stood up and stepped back from the bed.

“High Explosive?!” Hutch queried, eyebrows rising as Starsky molded the greyish substance. “You’re playing with….”

“Hey, it’s not dangerous; it’s not even that sensitive unless you add a detonator. Other than that, it is kinda like putty. We even used it for small cookfires when on patrol in Nam,” Starsky finished, and tossed a small ball to Hutch, who scrambled to catch it, still not believing the stuff was harmless as his partner said it was, only to stumble over his feet and land in a heap on the floor between the two beds.

“And that, Hutchinson, is why I am in charge of the silly putty, and you’re not.” Starsky laughed and, for his declaration, got a pillow to his face.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Early the next morning, Hutch stood at the window of his hotel room. The sun was starting to rise and turn the sky from dark to light, and the ridges along the horizon were tinted orange and red. Hutch didn’t notice any of it. Instead, he focused on the men preparing for the raid, like soldiers preparing for battle. Soon the silence of the early morning was broken as motorcycles roared to life. He stayed in one spot until they all moved out of the parking lot in pairs.   One bike trailed behind the others, pausing at the bottom of the driveway. As if sensing Hutch watching over him, the driver looked back over his shoulder, then raised a hand, which Hutch mimicked, though he was sure Starsky couldn’t see. Then the driver was gone joining the rest of the gang.

“Be careful, Starsk.”

 

Chapter 8: C4 and Peterbilt Trucks Do Not Mix.

The plan needed split-second timing and a healthy dose of sheer insanity, which was why Starsky didn’t tell Hutch all the details. He’d known roughly that the plan was to intercept and destroy the shipment — or most of it, a fair percentage being earmarked for the Pack.

But he didn’t know it all, which was a good thing, too, as Hutch would have vetoed the whole operation, which was why Starsky didn’t tell him.

Didn’t know Starsky planned to make some fancy moves between a moving truck and a motorcycle.

He didn’t see Starsky riding pillion behind the Jackal, waiting for the perfect moment to make those moves. As the Pack leader jockeyed his Harley along the road, gaining on the quarry with every mile, Starsky sat high on the pillion seat with his hands lightly resting on the Jackal’s shoulders. Following them was a smaller truck, a trailer driven by Chino, who had a rep for being almost as crazy behind the wheel as the Cossack.

Ahead of them was a massive eighteen-wheeler Peterbilt 351, hauling a trailer that intel said was stuffed with Mexican Brown, concealed in fake consumer goods that would pass an idle inspection. As they approached the target, half of the Pack broke off and sped ahead, and sidling up to the half-dozen Black Arab riders escorting the truck and, with weapons in hand, convinced them to back off.

The crew made a loose formation to the front and rear of the big rig; they meant to stop it, but if the driver did not comply, they would get him to slow down and allow the Cossack to take over.

As expected, the truck slowed to crawl but did not stop, so the Jackal pulled back just behind the rear of the trailer, matching its speed. Starsky tapped his shoulder, signaling his move, and used the pillion seat as a springboard to close the gap and leap to catch the chained doors, getting a foothold to boost himself onto the trailer roof.

He was glad he’d switched boots for trainers — it gave him a better purchase on the slick metal. He gave the Jackal a thumbs-up, working his way forward until he could drop down onto the cab’s roof. He slipped the Beretta from his belt, spread himself over the cab’s roof, and leaned down to offer the astonished driver an inverted friendly smile.

“Hola, amigo, ” he said, “you wanna pull it over, so we can have a conversation?”

The driver, who didn’t need any more convincing, followed the suggestion and slowed the rig to a stop.

Starsky climbed down as one of the riders persuaded the driver out of the cab.

“Hey, I don’t want no trouble….” he said, looking a tad confused by what was going on. “I’ve been paid to deliver this load, that’s all. I’m just the driver.”

“No worries, compadre, there’s just been a change of plans.” Starsky grinned at the driver, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “If you follow this gentleman right here, we will see that you get to Barstow unharmed.”

One of the riders led the driver away as JC came up behind Starsky.

“Oh, man, Cossack, you are one crazy fucker!” Jackal high-fived him.

“Piece o’cake, JC. Now let’s see what this baby has.” Starsky slapped his hands together as they went to the back of the truck.

Bolt cutters dealt with the chained doors, and a proportion of the concealed drugs were relocated to Chino’s smaller trailer. Starsky collected the C4 from the Pack members entrusted with it and carefully distributed it throughout the trailer. Finally, he assembled the detonator he’d jury-rigged with a blasting cap, molding the C4 around it and duct-taping the whole to the Peterbilt gas tank.

“Game on,” he announced, hauling himself into the driver’s seat. The big rig rumbled to a start.

Jackal watched the rig pull away as one of his men approached him. He loved it when a plan came together. “Where are the Black Arab escort?”

“Behind the truck, second truck, bound just like you ordered.”

“And the driver.”

“He’s there as well.”

“Good.” Jackal turned to the man and handed him a gun. “Kill them.”

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

The scheduled meet point was off a side road that was little more than a dirt track. There were two Cadillacs parked and waiting. The Jackal pulled up a short distance away, watching through binoculars as the Cossack climbed down from the cab. There was a short exchange, and the ‘cargo’ was given a brief examination. Then a large gym bag was opened; the Cossack nodded and slung it over his shoulder, giving a nonchalant salute and jogging easily to be picked up by Trapper, who waited close by.

They joined the Jackal a minute later and exchanged duffle bags with him. The Cossack dropped the bag and removed the Xm21 rifle held within. Almost like old times. He’d been trained as a sharpshooter back in ‘Nam. He took his time to adjust the scope, then dropped to one knee, sighting on the detonator attached to the Peterbilt fuel tank, and squeezed the trigger.

The resulting fireball obliterated the truck, trailer, and one of the cars. Starsky didn’t want to think of the men who were most likely also consumed or injured by the fireball. Even at this distance, he could feel the heat.

“The necessary evils of war.” Starsky heard his old sergeant’s voice echo in his mind. “But this wasn’t war,” he protested to himself. “Isn’t it?” The voice replied, and Starsky didn’t answer back. Instead, he focused on the celebration around him.

“Fourth of July got nothin’ on that!” Trapper howled in delight.

The Cossack grinned. “And the Black Arabs’ll take the fall. Let’s get back to the Waterhole. I need a beer or three…”

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Hutch stepped out into the noonday sun. The light was blinding, and the dry heat was stifling, even for eleven in the morning in January.

He looked down the road in the direction he saw his partner go earlier in the morning. It had been quiet all morning in the Waterhole, and the Jackals hadn’t returned yet, which worried Hutch. Even Mike hadn’t heard anything.

His growing worry over the last few days was now on full alert, and he had a nagging feeling Starsky didn’t tell him everything. That irked Hutch to no end. They didn’t work like that; even though their partnership was relatively new, they were always in sync. But the further they went into this case, the further Starsky was drifting away from him. He didn’t like it.

A low rumble brought him out of his thoughts.

He watched as the Jackals rode into the parking lot, and the ones in the bar poured out the front doors to greet them. The line of twelve bikes streamed in, and on the back of one of them rode his partner. A few of the bikes broke off, including the one with Starsky on the pillion seat, and started riding around the small group of spectators, kicking up sand and rocks.

Hutch put up his hands to block the assault. And suddenly, his partner was in front of him, laughing. He slapped Hutch on the back. “Ya got breakfast ready, College? ‘Cause I’m hungry!”

The brief encounter was long enough for Hutch to tell him the man standing before him was not Starsky but Cossack. There was something in the eyes that told him so. Something dead, dangerous, and unfocused.

Taking a step back, Hutch took stock of his partner’s appearance. He looked rough, a little singed around the edges, with bits of gravel in his hair. Curiosity and worry pulled him along with the group as the bikes parked closer to the hotel. Starsky was already holding court, telling the group about the morning’s adventure.

“Oh, man, you should have seen the Cossack!” That was one of the other bikers. “He was like Spiderman or somethin’, climbing from the back of JC’s bike to the back of the truck. Not even flinching.”

Hutch looked at Starsky, who rolled his eyes.

“That was nothing; the hard part was staying balanced on top! Man, am I glad you guys slowed that rig down, or I would have been a bug on the windshield!” Starsky laughed with the rest of the group.

Hutch only saw red. What was his partner thinking? The tale only got worse as he listened to Starsky telling how he planted the C4 and the blasting caps, driving and delivering the truck, before walking away and setting the truck off, which explained the slightly singed look of his partner.

“Oh, that truck went up like a roman candle, and Cossack here didn’t even blink.”

Hutch watched Starsky preening and wanted to strangle his partner. Or at least tear him off a strip. The gathering quickly broke up, with most heading to the bar. Starsky split from the group, saying he was going to take a shower and change clothes. Hutch followed.

“Hey, St…” He broke off, kicking himself mentally in case anyone had heard him. “Cossack, wait up.” The Cossack stopped in his tracks, annoyed, wondering what the blond bartender wanted. Didn’t the guy know when to let up, always there when he didn’t need him?

“What?” he demanded. “Make it quick, willya?”

“Starsk,” Hutch said sharply under his breath. “You have to pull ba….”

“What, are you, my mother, now?” It was a sneer. Hutch didn’t miss the look of confusion when he used his partner’s name.

Hutch controlled his temper with an effort. “No, I’m your partner, and what you do out there affects me too, all right?”

“Ah, College, come on!” The Cossack was dismissive. “Don’t lay that shit on me…”

“What shit? Oh, you mean playing chicken with thirty tons of steel and rubber and C4… This isn’t some game, Starsk.”

The man he knew as Starsky slumped a little and rubbed between his eyes. Hutch noticed the change; a second ago, he was facing a bristling stranger, and now he was facing his partner. “Just lay off, will ya?” Starsky sounded tired. Clearly, the adrenaline high was wearing off.

“No, I will not lay off! What you’re doing is stupid, and it’s…”

“I’m doing my job, dammit! What are you trying to say?”

“You heard me,” Hutch snapped. “This stuff you’re doing is irresponsible and stu….”

Hutch never got to finish. Starsky pivoted on one heel and delivered a perfect left cross that snapped Hutch’s head back and dropped him to the ground in a heap.

Hutch shook his head, dazed, wondering what truck hit him. Before he could react, Starsky bent and got a fistful of his shirt, pulling him up as Hutch wrapped his hands around Starsky’s wrist.

“Just back off,” Starsky hissed. “I know what I’m doing.” He let his partner go, dropping him to the ground.

Starsky stood over him, and for the first time in their partnership, Hutch was terrified of the man.

When the stranger saw that Hutch was going to stay down, he turned away and stalked towards the hotel.

Hutch waited till he heard the door slam before struggling to his knees.

“No, pal,” he whispered, rubbing his jaw, “I won’t back off….”

 

Chapter 9: One Minute to Midnight 

The Cossack’s meteor-like rising in the ranks had caused a stir among the female Pack. He was the Jackal’s chosen comrade, rumored to share whatever woman might be the pick of the evening. With Buck gone, Livy was at a loose end. Buck had been Jackal’s Number Two, which had given Livy equal status. So she set about regaining that by making a play for the Cossack.

He hadn’t been easy to seduce, preferring to spend time with his bike or the others of the Pack. So when she did get the opportunity, she grabbed it with both hands.

He was drunk and high and in the mood to party. She’d taken advantage of that and had cut him from the celebrating herd, persuading him back to his room. Matters progressed from there.

She thought he was quite a looker as she assisted him in stripping off his t-shirt and jeans. Lean and tanned, with muscles in all the right places, a pelt of dark body hair that narrowed down into his groin. He was erect and ready for her, nuzzling her neck as she shimmied out of her skirt and top. She hadn’t bothered with underwear, and neither did he. “Gonna ravage me, Cossack?” she cooed.

“Eventually,” he murmured. “Eventually, baby girl….”

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Evening came early to the Waterhole, and with a groan, Hutch rolled over and kicked off the covers that tangled around his legs.

He pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. He was due back for the night shift, but all he wanted to do was take the night off. His nap after the confrontation with Starsky did little to alleviate his headache. On top of that, his jaw and pride were still hurting from Starsky’s… No, the Cossack’s, punch. He rubbed at his jaw. No, that wasn’t his partner who’d slugged him.

That was someone else masquerading in his partner’s skin, and he had to maintain that thought; to do otherwise hurt too much. With another groan, he stood up and headed to the shower, hoping it would help, though he knew it wouldn’t.

He was just leaving his room when the giggle alerted him to someone else in the hallway. He peered out into the hallway and saw a clearly-intoxicated Livy wobbling her way toward the room she shared with two others of the Pack’s women. She was bare-legged, had on a leather mini-skirt and a crop top that almost covered the nipples of her ample breasts, and was clutching her shoes in one hand, her blonde beehive tousled. As he watched, she managed to blow a kiss towards the shadowy figure in the doorway of the room she’d just left.

Starsky? What the hell was he playing at?

Hutch watched her out of sight and crossed to intercept the closing door, stepping inside and snicking the lock closed.

The room reeked of sweat, sex, and marijuana. In the fading light of the day, he saw Starsky was barefoot and naked to the waist, just zipping his fly. He glanced over his shoulder at the new arrival, his quirky grin in place. “Sorry, pal, I’m about fucked out.”

“You’re drunk,” Hutch accused coldly. “Or high. Which?.”

“High on life, man.” And chuckled. “You oughta try it. ‘S a blast.” The Cossack stepped up to Hutch, forcing him to step back until his back was up against the wall. In the hot, cramped confines of the room, he was uncomfortably close, the sweat of exertion sleeking his muscles, matting the dark fur on the broad chest, a thin trickle between his pectorals running into the unfastened waist of his jeans. “Oh, quit looking at me like that.” With a growl, Starsky slipped a hand around the back of Hutch’s neck and pulled him close.

The hard mouth planted on Hutch’s tasted of bourbon mixed with weed. For a moment, a heartbeat, Hutch felt a response that at that moment was unwanted. He planted one hand on Starsky’s chest — no, it was the Cossack who had made that move, not his partner — and pushed him back.

“No,” Hutch fought against the need to slug this person for such a move. Instead, he evaded the stranger in front of him and held up a hand as the man stalked toward him. “Starsk… don’t,” Hutch pleaded one more time, and it seemed to work. His partner’s step faltered, and the dead feral look faded for a moment before the wall went back up again.

“Chill, Hutchinson,” the Cossack drawled. “You’re being a drag, y’know. I wasn’t doing anything you weren’t asking for, standing there all blond and beautiful.”

Hutch didn’t wait to hear more and fled the room, the Cossack’s laughter following after him.

Starsky hardly noticed his partner leaving. The headache plaguing him for most of the day was not getting any better, despite the Tylenol he’d taken. The sex hadn’t helped, either. Additionally, he was coming to dislike the persona he had adopted. The Pack thought he was some kind of hero. Livy clearly thought he was a stud. He knew none of those things was the real David Starsky. The only person who really knew him was the man who was his best friend and partner. The man he had decked behind the motel. The man who…

Who had his back, always? Who was there for him, whatever?

Shit.

He’d have to apologize. That is if Hutch would let him.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

The leader of the Black Arabs, Luca Milan, was a big man, so heavily tattooed that it was hard to determine his original skin color.

And he was mad; that was plain to see.

A chair flew across the room, narrowly missing the head of one of his riders, standing along the wall with the rest. No one wanted to be the unintentional target of Luca’s wrath. The only person that dared to stand in front was Charlie, his second in command. Equally as big as Luca, with as many tattoos, he stood straight, hands clasped behind his back in a semblance of parade rest.

“Did he kill all of them?”

“No, only eight riders. Tank made it back by playing dead. He’s outside, and he’s hurt bad…..” Charlie said, not even flinching as a table was turned over.

“Eight…Eight fucking riders….” Luca picked up a pipe and studied it for a minute, then let out a roar as he cleared a tabletop of its contents. He was tired of dealing with the Jackals and playing their little games. They had been a thorn in his side for too long, and he wanted to be rid of them. He had tolerated their little skirmishes as long as the boss knew who the real king of the desert was; what did he care? He figured the Jackals would get bored, like other pop-gangs, and move along.

But they hadn’t; instead, they had put him in the hot seat with a target on his back. Luca marched to the back room and knelt beside the injured man. Tank was laid out on one of the beds in the room; he held onto a makeshift bandage to his stomach that had turned red while another rider tended to his other injuries.

“Hey, Tank, looks like you got yourself into trouble.”

“Just a scratch, boss,” Tank said through clenched teeth. “Nothing a few stitches from Doc here can’t fix.”

Luca looked to Doc, who shook his head, indicating there was nothing he could do. Tank had been one of his longest friends; they had been through the trials of growing up on the wrong side of the tracks and the jungles of Nam together.

“You did good, my friend,” Luca said. But Tank didn’t hear it. Instead, the empty eyes of his friend stared back at the Black Arab leader. With a sigh, Luca closed his friend’s eyes for him, then stood up. “Did he say anything else?”

“Only that the Jackals took most of the shipment before blowing it up,” Charlie said. He had been sent out to find out what happened to the shipment and riders when they didn’t return. After finding the burnt-out shell of the truck and burnt bikes amongst the wreckage, it had been pure luck he saw bodies on his way back to the hideout. The Black Arab escort had been shot, and their bodies were thrown into a ditch alongside the road. He would never have seen them if Tank hadn’t somehow crawled out and been lying on the side of the road. “From what I saw at the meeting point, the Jackals took the shipment, put the bikes in the trailer, and left the riders dead along the road.”

“Bring me that weasel Buck.” Was all Luca said in response as he left the room

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Luca lounged back against the pillows of the low-slung couch in what had once been the abandoned house’s living room. Before him stood Buck, who had once been Jackal’s second in command, before he had shown up on their doorstep a week prior. He didn’t like the guy but figured he would be useful at some point, so Luca kept him around. Luca was also smart enough not to keep the turncoat in his inner circle. If he could easily turn his back on his old gang, what stopping Buck from turning on his new one?

The ex-Jackal showing up, then the double cross with the shipment seemed too coincidental for his taste. No, Luca Millan did not trust the guy and wasn’t sure if Buck didn’t have a role in the day’s events. But he had a plan, and if it went well, he would be rid of all the Jackals.

Luca Millan leaned forward in his seat and looked at Buck. “You heard about what happened earlier today…”

Buck swallowed nervously. “Of course, who hasn’t…” He looked nervously around the room; his eyes widened at the hatred and distrust he saw there. “Now hold on…you don’t think…I mean, I had nothing to do with that….I didn’t know they were…I mean…”

“Come now, Buckaroo,” Luca said, cutting off Buck’s babbling; he stood up from his seat and took a few steps around the room. Buck followed him with his eyes cautiously. “You can’t expect to believe that. It would be an awful big coincidence that the Jackals hijack a shipment after you show up here, and my men are killed.”

“Honest, Luca, I didn’t know nuthin’ about the shipment… I mean, before it got blown up, that is… I was just as surprised as you were…”

“Tank was my best rider, best friend, my second. Known him for a very long time. From where I am sitting, Buckaroo, someone should pay for his death. Don’t you agree?”

“No… I mean, yes, I do agree, but I shouldn’t be the one to pay.”

“And why not? You were a Jackal. JC’s second in command. Seems I should use you as an example.”

“I don’t know if that would be a good example seeing how I was kicked out.” Buck looked around the room again and at the Black Arab leader, who now had his back towards him. “But, maybe I can show my loyalty to the Black Arabs.”

Luca smiled to himself before returning to the couch. “So you want to show how loyal you are?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because we, my men and I,  are doing some hunting in the morning, and I have a specific job to do.”

“And what is that?”

Luca waved to one of his men along the wall. The man stepped forward, and in his hand was a sniper rifle, which he handed to Buck. Buck took hold of it. He had seen them before and even used them a few times in Nam.

“I want you to kill the Jackal and the man you called Cossack.”

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Making his rounds after the bar had cleared and the Pack had scattered to various activities, Hutch caught sight of a lone figure on the motel roof in the spot recognized as the Jackal’s roost.

But it wasn’t the Jackal.

Hutch had seen him disappear with the favored girl of the moment, a vapid but spectacularly pretty redhead. So who was up there?

He navigated the rickety fire escape until he could step out onto the crumbling concrete of the flat roof. Hutch must have made some noise because the solitary man whipped around, the blade gleaming dully, hyper-vigilant until he recognized the fair head.

“Hey,” Hutch said. “You can put the pig sticker away. It’s just me.”

Starsky grunted. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a guy. What’re you doing up here anyway?”

“Could ask you the same question.” He folded down to sit beside his partner.

“Can’t sleep.” A pause. “Can’t sleep without dreaming,” he qualified the statement. “And I don’t want to dream.”

Hutch nodded. In the years of their friendship, he’d become aware of the bad memories that Starsky kept hidden. Occasionally, they’d come to the surface when he was sick or stressed. He could remember one incident early in their friendship when a call-out had resulted in the suicide of a Vietnam vet. Starsky had tried unsuccessfully to talk the man down and had been close enough to be splattered with blood and brains.

The following night, as they took turns dozing during a long and fruitless stakeout, Hutch had witnessed his partner suffering a terrifying nightmare. Starsky wouldn’t talk about it but had accepted the steadying comfort Hutch offered.

Hutch laid a hand on the bowed shoulders. “Want to talk about it?”

A brief shake of the head. No surprise there.

“At the risk of sounding like Captain Obvious, Starsk, you can’t go on like this. One slip and we’re history. You’ve gotta be on top of your game.”

Again, Starsky shook his head. Then drew a deep breath. “Hutch, I don’t know which way is up right now. Everything is kinda tangled… like I almost forget I’m not part of the Pack. And JC isn’t my best friend. I…feel like I want to crawl out of my skin, and I don’t know who I am anymore….”

Unable to think what to say to that, Hutch tightened his grip. It had all seemed so straightforward at the beginning, acting a part, assuming an undercover identity. What they hadn’t bargained for was the seductive lure of shared experiences. Of a charismatic leader.

Who was it said, ‘The past is another country….’? It was true. So much of Starsky’s past he didn’t know, would probably never know until and unless one day Starsky handed him the key.

Right now, it was enough that Starsky trusted him. “Hey,” Hutch said quietly. “We’re gonna come through this. We’re gonna make it, partner. Me’n’thee. And don’t forget it.” He shivered. The desert night was chill. It certainly wasn’t warm enough to sit out under the stars in a thin sleeveless t-shirt, as Starsky was. “You wanna come down? I’ll fix us some hot chocolate.”

It was a blatant bribe.

“With marshmallows?”

“Get real,” Hutch snorted. “Where would I get marshmallows in a dive like this?”

Starsky chuckled, but when Hutch stood, he accepted the offered hand.

Starsky was a trifle unsteady on his feet, which didn’t surprise Hutch, especially if he had been sitting on the roof all evening. Now that he had time to think about it, Hutch couldn’t remember if he had seen Starsky throughout the evening. He did remember Mike getting a phone call, then a few minutes later, telling him he was responsible for closing the bar tonight, and she had a family emergency. Which Hutch knew wasn’t family but that Mike had to meet with someone, most likely, if Hutch had to guess, her boss.

Starsky squinted against the harsh lighting as they stepped from the starlit darkness outside to the inside hallway. The light bothered him; dim-lit though it was, it was piercing, like little needles stabbing his eyes. It only got worse when Hutch guided him into the room, the bare overhead bulb searingly bright, and he made a small sound of pain.

“Urgh…bright…”

“Sorry.” Hutch switched on the small bedside lamp and cut the main light, gently pushing Starsky to sit on the end of the bed. He let another groan as the movement set off another round of little drummers inside his head. Starsky shivered, bare arms pebbled with goosebumps at the temperature change from outside to the room’s warmth.

Hutch pulled the top blanket loose and draped it around his shoulders. “Sit tight. I’ll fix us some hot chocolate….”

Then Hutch was gone, and Starsky was left alone, listening to the drummers play to the pulsing ache behind his eyes. His whole body ached, just not his head. At least, he thought it was his body. He felt detached but aware of every pull, pinch, and beat in his body. It was disorientating and comforting all at the same time.

He didn’t even know he had drifted off or for how long when he felt the bed dip, and a mug of hot chocolate was waved under his nose. Hutch helped him sit up, and Starsky took the offered mug.

As they sat together in silence, sipping the rich beverage. Starsky wondered vaguely where he had managed to scrounge the hot chocolate mix but didn’t care, deciding it would take too much effort to think about.

“S’good.” Starsky said after a few minutes. “Thanks.” Then: “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“Decking you.”

“Hey, I’ve been hit harder by bigger men than you, pal.” He securely snugged the blanket around Starsky’s shoulders, taking the cup from his hands. “Lie down, huh? I’ll stay with you.”

Blue eyes regarded him hazily as he eased his partner back against the pillows.

“But will you still respect me in the morning?” came the sleepy chuckle. And as his eyes closed: “Y’should get rid of the face-fungus. Makes you look like a goat….”

Hutch smiled, tugging Starsky’s shoes off and loosening the tight waistband of the jeans. Starsky, sleeping, had an air of vulnerability that wasn’t in evidence when he was awake and probably would not forgive him for slipping him a mickey.

If he ever found out… Hutch would never tell him either.

After a few minutes, Starsky’s breathing grew deeper as sleep pulled him under, and leaving his spot on the bedside chair, Hutch lay carefully beside his partner, though it would probably have taken an earthquake to wake Starsky now.

Propping himself on one elbow, Hutch studied the sleeping face, the long dark lashes masking the closed eyes, and traced one fingertip over the curve of the lips, wanting to kiss but not quite daring to. Starsky’s kiss earlier had been an anomaly, not because it happened but in the way that it did happen. It had been so out of character, aggressive, thoughtless, as if he was no more than a one-night stand, a cheap and tawdry encounter. Starsky was openly affectionate with him, even uninhibited at times, and there had been times when they had needed to let off steam after a bad case or to reconnect, and he never felt it was dirty or ugly. It was a necessary part of their partnership.

He could almost call it love. That is, if he could put words to whatever it was that connected him to Starsky and vice versa. It was that connection he was listening to while watching over his partner. Even though sleep had softened the edges of his partner’s face, he could still see something was wrong, from the slight pinch around Starsky’s eyes to the heat slightly radiating off his partner.

No, something was wrong, and he wouldn’t be put off again by Mike or his partner. He didn’t care what would happen; Starsky’s life was more important than a case.

In the morning, he was going to pull them off this assignment.

 

Chapter 10: Won’t You Fly High, Free Bird, Yeah. 

“Lord help me; I can’t change

Lord, I can’t change

Won’t you fly high, free bird, yeah..”

“That’s Skynyrd’s Freebird moving its way up the charts, it’s 8:55 on K-I-I-S am 1150, and this is Charlie Tun….”

“College! My office now.” Mike stormed into the bar and didn’t even look back to see if he followed as she made her way to the back office.

He had gone to her room earlier in the morning but didn’t get an answer to his knock at her door. A quick look in the parking lot showed her car was still gone. So either she had yet to return from the meet last night or had gone out again before the sun was even up. Whatever the case, he knew he had to wait until she returned, and as much as he hated to leave his partner alone, he had to continue with his cover until she did.

Now that she was back, It looked like she was already in a foul mood, and what he had to tell her wasn’t going to make it better. Resolute in pulling Starsky and himself from the case, Hutch threw down the towel he was cleaning glasses with and followed her.

He had just closed the small office door and turned around when she tossed a manila envelope on her desk. “Looks like you got your wish, Hotshot.”

Hutch looked at her, at a loss for words. He had been ready to fight and argue getting off this case, and here she was telling him it was done without a single word being said. What changed?

She picked up the envelope and handed its contents to the silent detective. “Seems your partner did some real damage yesterday in more ways than one. The clean-up team should be here within the hour to round up the bunch and put an end to this charade.”

Hutch looked at her, then flipped through the pictures he now held. There were about a dozen 8 x 11 crime scene photos. The first few were the aftermath of the bombing yesterday. Nothing surprising there; he had witnessed the celebration the night before and the stories that seemed to get bigger and more grandiose as the night went on. The stories did not come from his partner, who never made it back to the bar, deciding, having decided to hide in the rooftop roost instead most of the evening, but from the riders who witnessed the event.

Hutch looked back at Mike, tossing the pictures on her desk. “So… we knew about the bombing, and the Jackal has half of a mill worth of Mexican H locked in his room to show what happened to the shipment.”

“If it were just the bombing that went down, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Mike picked up the discarded stack and flipped through it until she found the pictures she was looking for and handed them to Hutch, “It’s the execution-style killing of eight people, and the driver, that has the higher-up’s panties in a wad.”

Hutch looked at the pictures, and they showed single images of men of various ages with the back of their heads or faces missing, each with their hands and legs bound. “You don’t think Starsky had anything to do with this?”

“You tell me, Hutchinson, you said yourself Starsky was acting out of character; in fact, it was two days ago you sat in this very office and told me you were worried about how your partner was not himself and something….”

Had it only been two days ago? It felt longer, a whole world away, Hutch thought to himself. Was this why Starsky hid in the Jackal’s roost last night? He thought of their brief conversation and encounter before that. Nothing indicated or was said about the killings; even the stories in the bar amongst the rest of the pack last night seemed to leave that bit out.

Even so, Hutch knew deep down Starsky would not have done something like this, no matter how out of character he seemed lately. But would the Cossack do something like this? The thoughts chased each other around until Hutch landed on the tone in which Mike made her revelation.

Hutch looked up from the pictures and glared at the agent, pointing at her with his finger. “Now, wait a minute; you don’t plan on sticking this on Starsky, do you?”

“If the shoe fits… The preliminaries say it was a small caliber, something like your partner carries….”

“I don’t give a fuck what the prelims say; you are not throwing my partner under the bus to save face. He wasn’t the only one carrying a gun out there. The Jackal carries a similar model…..” Hutch paused a moment as another thought occurred to him, and he shook his head with a small laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “You know what? You’re a real piece of work, lady. You know Starsky didn’t kill those people just as much as I do. You know it was the Jackal, it’s his M.O., after all, but you’re willing to let Starsky take the rap for it, even if nothing happens to him other than a mark on his record so that you can hold the Jackal back and find out who is pulling the strings.”

“I don’t like what you are insinuating, Detective….”

“Lady….”

A sharp retort from a gun, which both recognized as a rifle shot, cut off their conservation. A heavy silence hung between them from one heartbeat to the next before the sound of a low rumble from two dozen or more motorcycles could be heard, followed by the sound of shattering glass and shouts.

Hutch turned swiftly to the door and, opening it, saw several bikers run past, followed by smoke as they made their way out the back of the bar. Grabbing one of the fleeing men, he asked what was going on.   All he got out of the man’s ramblings as he pulled free was: “Black Arabs,” “Firebombing,” and “rumble” before he disappeared down the hall and out the door.

Hutch looked back to Mike, who was already calling for backup and emergency services. She waved for him to leave, and Hutch joined the fleeing mass out the back door. Hutch felt himself being pulled along, and soon he was out in the bright morning sunlight.

Compared to the relative calm just an hour before, the parking lot and surrounding area were in complete chaos. It was like he was suddenly dropped in the middle of a battlefield. Everywhere he looked, people were fighting. It didn’t matter if they were mounted or not; they still fought. He was dazed for a second as he watched a Jackal pull a Black Arab off a bike and stab the rider with a spiked pole before dislodging it and cheering with arms raised at the kill.

Hutch turned away in disgust when the sound of glass breaking and a woosh drew his attention to the hotel, and he staggered back a step at what he saw. The hotel was on fire, and smoke poured out doors and windows.

The motel was a firetrap. No sprinkler system, and everything was tinder dry out here in the high desert.

And Starsky in a drugged sleep in the thick of it.

“Oh God, Starsky.”

Hutch didn’t stop to think. Even as black smoke billowed from the shattered windows, he was headed for the entry door closest to his room. The room where he had left his partner after luring him down from the roof with the promise of hot chocolate, and doping him unconscious.

Had this been a modern hotel, there would have been fire doors to keep the fire at bay. But this wasn’t, and the open corridor of the older model now acted as a conduit for the rapidly advancing fire, and the fresh air from broken windows fed the flames.

Hutch choked on the acrid smoke, eyes tearing. Smoke inhalation kills more often than fire. “Starsk…” he tried to shout, croaking. He could hear sirens above the roar of the flames, and people shouting. “Starsky!” He called again when he came to the room. The door was open, but more flames and smoke blocked the way. The entire room was engulfed; no matter how much he tried to get in, the heat and flames pushed him back.

Hutch stumbled back as the room’s roof caved in, and he felt his whole world end. Leaning against the wall opposite his room, everything narrowed for a second as he thought about how he had left his partner alone and all the things that led to this point.

If he had pulled them out sooner.

If he hadn’t helped his partner get some rest.

If he had followed his instincts and…and…he didn’t know what.

Someone running into him jarred him back into action; for a second, he thought the dark curls and compact body now crumpled next to him was his partner, until the body shifted, and he saw it was one of the younger members of the pack. Tony, something or other, Hutch couldn’t remember, just that he was too young to be running around with these monsters and probably should have been filling out college applications instead of here dying alone and forgotten like Stars….

Hutch pushed the thought away and let instinct kick in when he felt rather than heard another rumble through the building. Hoisting the young kid up onto his shoulders, he made his way out the door. Once outside, someone took the kid from him; Hutch vaguely acknowledged it as a firefighter, and he waved off another firefighter, trying to lead him away from the building. He looked around the parking lot, hoping to catch sight of his partner.

The earlier chaos had lessened with the arrival of emergency vehicles, and the parking lot was now filling with ATF agents and local police. Here and there were still groups fighting each other.

Maybe he had escaped. He wasn’t about to believe his partner was dead, and he couldn’t accept it.   A hand on his shoulder spun him around, with an angry retort on the tip of his tongue to leave him alone for whomever it was. He bit it back, though, when he saw it was Mike.

They both spoke at the same time:

“Mike, Have you seen….”

“I need your help on the other side of the motel….”

They paused, and then Mike spoke again, “Hutchinson, I need your help to corral some of the gang members on the other side of the motel.”

“I can’t. I need to find my partner….”

“He’s fine, Detective; someone saw him around front with the Jackal right before this went down.”

Hutch made to move around her, but she stepped in his path. “It wasn’t a request, Hutchinson; you’re still under my command….”

They stared each other down. Hearing that his partner was okay was one thing, but he wanted to see Starsky for himself to ensure he was okay.

“That’s an order, Hutchinson.”

Hutch looked over her shoulder towards the front of the bar. The bar itself was like the hotel, completely engulfed by flames. There was no way of knowing if she was telling the truth, but he relented. Partially because he wanted to believe her, believe that Starsky was alive. And partly to push aside the dull growing ache inside him that said she was wrong and his partner was dead.

With a nod, he followed after her without another look at the burning bar.

 

Chapter 11: And Reality Shredded Further Apart 

Lord help me; I can’t change

Lord, I can’t change

Won’t you fly high, free bird, yeah..”

“That’s Skynyrd’s Freebird moving its way up the charts; it’s 8:55 on K-I-I-S am 1150, and this is Charlie Tuna. Coming up next is another song rising through the charts, “Black Water by….”

Buck switched off the small transistor sitting next to him on the roof of the Waterhole hotel. No one was in Jackal’s roost at this time of the morning; It gave him the best view of the parking lot, between the bar and motel, and kept him out of view for the most part as most were either still asleep, working on their bikes in the nearby garage bay or in the Waterhole itself.

He looked through the scope again, sweeping from the front door of the Waterhole hotel, across the parking lot, and to the Bar’s front door, where he had just seen the Ice Queen herself enter a minute before.  She had torn into the parking lot, parked her car, and was inside the bar before Buck could even lift his rifle.

Buck would have loved putting a bullet in the bitch’s head.  It was partly her fault anyway.  He’d still get his chance; when everyone is running around and the Arabs arrive, he will get another chance.  For now, he waited for his prey.

Music drifted up from the garage bay, along with the sounds of people working on their bikes.

“Well, if it rains, I don’t care

Don’t make no difference to me

Just take that streetcar that’s goin’ uptown

Yeah, I’d like to hear some funky Dixieland and dance a honky-tonk

And I’ll be buyin’ ev’rybody drinks all ‘roun’ “

A door below banged open below him, followed by laughter.  Buck would recognize it anywhere.

The Jackal.

Lifting the walkie, he alerted Luca that the target was in sight before peering again through the rifle’s scope.

Another sweep of the parking lot and his quarry came into view.

Both of them, actually.

Jackal had his arm draped across the Cossack’s shoulders as they walked across the parking lot, and Buck could hear the rumble of bikes in the distance. It was now or never.

Jackal and the Cossack reached the door,

As Buck aimed, he watched the Cossack open the door, then stop and turn towards the driveway as a group of bikes pulled up.

“Fucking Polack”

Buck pulled the trigger.

?️. ?️.  ?️. ?️. ?️.  ?️.

Music filtered through the open window as Starsky swam out of a black pit of dreamless sleep, becoming aware that he was warmly cocooned in the blankets of Hutch’s bed and recognizing that he was alone in that bed. However, he had a vague recollection of Hutch holding him close, murmuring reassurances, in full mother-hen mode.

Yawning, he sat up, flinching as the bowling ball that had replaced his brain rolled sickeningly behind his eyes. He needed a couple of painkillers. Or a hangover cure, except this couldn’t be a hangover; he hadn’t had anything to cause one. Had he? Memory was fuzzy. Actually, everything was fuzzy and out of focus.

On automatic, he got to the bathroom, took care of business, and splashed water on his face in an effort to wake himself up further.  The room swam again, and he held tight to the bathroom counter, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

It only slowed enough for him to recognize he was in trouble. He returned to the bed, holding onto each piece of furniture and wall along the way. He needed to find Hutch; they needed to talk…about something; he wasn’t sure what…

Moving past the bed, he went into the hall and finally outside.

The daylight hit like a hammer blow, sending spikes of agony into his cringing brain. He groped for the aviator-style shades in his pocket only to realize he’d forgotten to put his shoes on or a shirt, for that matter.

The asphalt was warm under his feet, and the sun glinted and gleamed off every surface like a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes.  He braced himself against one of the bikes in the parking lot, vaguely aware that it was his own.

He needed coffee and something to settle the roiling in his gut, but the parking lot seemed like a vast wasteland in front of him, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to cross it even if he wanted to.

“Heavy night, huh, Dave?” It was JC, grinning at him.

Starsky could hear the Jackal talking, even see the guy’s lips moving, but he couldn’t understand any of it. There was an echo quality to JC’s voice, as if it was coming from a vast distance.

“A gentleman wouldn’t tell,” he managed to quip. By the way the Jackal laughed; Starsky figured he had guessed correctly what was being said. Starsky shook his head, and everything seemed to snap into focus. “Where’s Hu…College?”

“Smoozing with Ice, but he’s on a road to nothing there. Let’s talk to the guys and sort out the loot.” A playful punch made him stagger. “You’re like me, Cossack. An Alpha-dog.” And he slung an arm around Starsky’s shoulders. “You an’ me together — man, nothing and nobody gonna stop us. ‘Cause, we’re the meanest motherfuckers around!”

At that moment, Starsky remembered another declaration, one made in a far-off place, half a world away, while wading through stinking mud, with Pat and Jerry whimpering with pain as they dragged themselves towards freedom. “Gotta keep moving, can’t let anything stop us… yea though we walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, we will fear no evil ’cause we’re the meanest motherfuckers in the Valley….”

The sound of bikes approaching drew him back to the present as he watched a long line of bikes stream into the parking lot.

“What the f….” was all Starsky heard the Jackal say before there was a soundless explosion, a white-hot pain searing the side of his head, and the Jackal’s weight knocking him sideways, as a mist of blood and brain splattered his face, blinding him for a moment.

When his vision cleared, there was shouting and gunfire all around him, and he saw flashes of light as choking smoke surrounded him.

He had the overwhelming need to escape, but from what he didn’t know. Something or someone was holding him down, he pushed at it, and it didn’t move.  His arms were heavy, and wouldn’t cooperate with him. Starsky gave one final push, and whatever was holding him down finally slid off him with a sickening thud.  He turned his head to the side to see what it was and sucked in his breath when he saw the Jackal’s dead eyes staring back at him.

His vision switched from past to present as past terrors merged with old ones then, and everything became even more surreal as he scrambled away from the sight of his dead friend.

Reality was shredded further apart.

“No,” Starsky screamed, enraged, as he snatched up the nearest weapon, a discarded pipe, and swung it in a deadly arc down on an approaching enemy.

 Fuckin’ gooks comin’ outa the woodwork…

The acrid smell of burning oil and wood faded and was replaced with the one of that long ago green hell, the stench of cordite, of blood and guts and sheer blind terror, fighting for his very survival now, but he was outnumbered, there was shouting, and small-arms fire and the weapon was wrenched from his grasp.

He was pushed belly down, struggling, arms wrenched back and cold metal confining his wrists. Not again, not the VC prison camp again— he fought his captors with all his remaining strength until a blow to the head took all the fight out of him. He was dragged roughly to the back of a vehicle, patted down, and thrown inside, and for a little while, took no further notice of proceedings.

 

Chapter 12: I’m Sorry, Detective Hutchinson. 

9:55

That is what the clock on the only wall left in the Waterhole bar said. When it was all said and done, the entire event, from start to finish, had taken an hour. Hutch shook his head at the impossibility that he was arguing with Mike just an hour ago, and now everything lay in ruins. From his spot on the bumper of an Ambulance, Hutch looked from the hollow carcass of the bar to that of the Motel. It was equally destroyed, and firefighters still were doing clean-up. Occasionally a shout went up, and another body was brought out. Eight people had perished inside the Motel, seven others had died in the fighting outside, and a dozen others had been sent to the hospital or prepped to go.

And others were unaccounted for.

Including Starsky.

Mike had reassured him his partner was fine, and he had believed her in the hustle of rounding up people and helping to treat the injuries. But now, the growing pit in his stomach told him otherwise.

The ATF agents had already set up a kind of triage area, a place for identifying the dead, the injured, and those fit enough for transfer to the local correctional facility to await questioning and charges. He watched as another body was pulled out of the hotel and taken to the small area reserved for the dead. From where he sat, he could see Mike with other scene commanders speaking in a tight group. Periodically, she would look up at him; their eyes would meet, and then she would look away. Almost like she was guilty of something.

In fact, he realized others were doing the same. He looked around and noticed no one had approached him since he sat down. Every time he met someone’s eyes, there was a fleeting look of sympathy before they turned away.

The growing feeling from earlier was now blaring alarmingly.

An agent pushed past him, and Hutch grabbed him by the elbow. “My partner was undercover with the Pack — Detective Starsky.”

The agent glanced toward where Mike was, then back to Hutch. “I’m sorry, Detective….” he didn’t meet the detective’s eyes,

“Sorry for What?”

The agent swallowed and looked again at Mike.

“Dammit, I’m right here, don’t look at them.” Hutch grabbed the agent by the lapels and shook him, “Now answer me. Where is my partner….”

“Hutchinson, let the man go.” a hand on his shoulder and a stern command stopped him from shaking the agent. When Hutch didn’t respond, the request came again, gentler this time. “C’mon Hutch, let him go.”

Hutch closed his eyes against the sudden roar in his ears, releasing the captive agent. The agent scurried away as Hutch turned narrowed eyes to Mike, who now stood next to him. “Where’s Starsky? You said he was ok. You said you saw him.” He punctuated each statement by stabbing a finger in her direction. “You said….”

“I’m sorry, I thought…” she paused, looking down, then looking up, squaring her shoulders, and with her no-nonsense exterior back in place, she continued, “We haven’t done a formal ID, but …..”

Hutch didn’t wait to hear more; he just turned on his heels and headed to where he knew the bodies were.

“Detective, wait, you don’t want….” Mike grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back. “From what I was told, he was shot in the…there isn’t much to go by, not without dental records.”

Hutch just glared at her until she silently removed her hand, and Hutch continued his journey. In what universe, Hutch thought, would he not want to look at his friend the last time…oh god, Starsky’s dead. 

However, Hutch didn’t want to accept it until he saw Starsky himself. He could still feel his partner; he wasn’t dead and couldn’t be. Or maybe his heart and soul just hadn’t caught up to the rest of reality.

Hutch looked at the row of bodybags; they all looked the same, anonymous, bereft of any identifying marks that would tell him which one contained his partner. Mike came up beside him and pointed to one slightly separated from the rest.

Hutch nodded and took the final steps to where his partner lay.   He stood looking down at it, and everything around him seemed to stop. The idle chit-chat, the sound of axes on wood, and the hiss of water on flames. All of it seemed to fade away, and it was just him and the bag containing his partner. He wanted to run away and continue believing his partner was not contained within it.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave his partner anonymous and unidentified. His partner deserved more from him, so Hutch crouched to unzip it. The dark head of curls was the first thing to appear as he unzipped, and he stopped the unveiling.

“Oh, God, Starsk, I’m sorry,” Hutch whispered, closing his eyes briefly before continuing and drawing back the cover. The corpse within didn’t have much of a face left, and the dark hair was matted with blood and brain matter, but it was enough. Hutch choked back the urge to vomit while feeling a surge of relief that made him dizzy.

“This isn’t Starsky.” Thank you, God! “This is the Jackal.”

Mike stepped around him, “What do you mean this isn’t Starsky….”

“Detective, I assure you,” another agent spoke up, “The Jackal has already been transported for interrogation….”

“And I’m telling you that this is the Jackal! Look.” Mike covered her mouth at the sight, then back at Hutch wide-eyed. He was right. This wasn’t the man’s partner.

“So where is my partner, Lieutenant.”

 

Chapter 13: Collateral Damage. 

Starsky was pushed belly down, struggling, arms wrenched back, and cold metal confining his wrists. Not again, not the VC prison camp again— he fought his captors with all his remaining strength until a blow to the head took all the fight out of him, and he was dragged roughly to the back of a vehicle, patted down, and thrown inside, and for a little while took no further notice of proceedings.

He was roused next when the vehicle he was in jolted as it hit a rut in the road.   His head hit the window with a crack and he blinked away the stars, groaning as nausea threatened to overtake him.

“You better not throw up back there, shithead, or I’ll make you lick it up.” the driver yelled back, and Starsky pushed nausea back further. Somehow he had no doubt the man up front and his companion would carry out their threat.

Another jolt, and he was thrown onto his side as bruises and other injuries made themselves known. With his hands bound behind his back, he couldn’t push himself back up and resigned himself to looking at the ceiling of the car. He couldn’t make out much, as everything was extremely disjointed and bright.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the car jolted again as it made a turn. He wondered vaguely how he got here and where here was. The car made another turn, and he watched the lights and shadows in the car change direction.

Starsky wondered if he could figure out what direction he was going based on how the sunlight slanted along the car’s interior. Hutch would know; he was always telling him how to find the north star and other backwoods crap when they went camping. Hutch would know…

“Huush,” Starsky mumbled, wanting his partner. But all the reply he got was a quick jab in the ribs from one of the guys in the front seat.

“Keep it down!”

After the jab, a hand reached out and yanked him back into a sitting position, and another jolt from the car sent his head one more time into the window.

He felt rather than saw the world narrow to a pinpoint. And as the world blinked out, he wondered where his partner was and why he didn’t answer his question about the sunlight and direction, knowing which way they were going. ..

The next time Starsky came up from the darkness was when rough hands hauled him up and out out of the car, and his stomach rebelled — he vomited.

“Fer chrissakes, that was all over my shoes!”

Garbled voices as he was frog-marched, stumbling, inside a building.

“…Jackal…”

No, he tried to say, JC would tell them who he was, but somehow he knew that the Jackal was dead. He didn’t know how he knew. He’s dead, he tried to say; bastards blew him away, but his mouth was too dry to form words, his head ached, and the world was spinning violently.

“…process him…”

“…that his blood?…”

“…Who the fuck cares?… barfed all over my shoes…”

“…interrogation room six…”

Cold concrete bruised his knees; he couldn’t brace himself, shoulders, arms, and wrists useless, cramping as his shackled wrists were chained to a bolt on the floor…

After a while, he managed to lean uncomfortably against a table leg. Consciousness leeched away…

The door opened, and he didn’t bother to lift his head, it was too much effort, and for his reward, he was picked up off the floor and dumped in a chair. His arms still pulled towards the floor, and he put his head on the table, cherishing the cool metal against the heat and pain he felt.

Somebody pounded the table, the sound and vibration sending tiny little razor blades through his skull.

He groaned.

He thought his head was going to explode and wished it would.

They asked him questions he didn’t understand and couldn’t answer.

He wasn’t even sure who had him and what they wanted.

Did a case go bad?

Where was Hutch?

He didn’t know and slipped into the familiar routine he had learned at the camp. The rote performance every good soldier learned in basic before going off to war. Name, rank, and serial number.   But he didn’t use his real name because what if…so he used the last name he remembered, Cossack.

Why did he remember that but not why he was here? Or who had him? Where did it come from?

He let his questions fade away and continued his litany.

Cossack. David. Corporal. US56-311-671

The voices and hands didn’t like that. It wasn’t what they wanted. They shouted, pulled, threatened, and punched. But he didn’t break; he couldn’t because he didn’t know.

And then it was too much; he couldn’t take it anymore.

He broke and let the darkness start taking him.

Then through the haze of confusion and the overwhelming pain, there was a voice—deadly furious.

And he held on for just a moment longer, with a little sob, as he recognized it.

“You fucking morons! The Jackal is on a slab at the County morgue! This is Detective Starsky, my partner, and I’m getting him out of here, so get those cuffs off him now before I really lose my temper!”

“Hutch,” he thought vaguely. “Not so loud, huh? Head hurts…”

Blond hair sweated into elf-locks, eyes laser-blue… God, am I glad to see you, pal. 

“Starsky? Gonna get you some help,  okay?”  

Okay, Hutch… Gotta sleep now… 

The veil of darkness came down, and he surrendered to it, knowing Hutch would take care of it all.

 

Chapter 14: When The Dust Clears 

Two long strides brought Hutch to where Starsky was slumped over the interrogation table, cuffs still chained to the floor, head lolling. As the agent unlocked the cuffs, Hutch gathered the limp body into his arms, seeing raw flesh where the metal had cut into his wrists. Starsky’s eyes were mere slits of blue in the pale face, pale except for livid bruises and lacerations. The left side of his head was a blood-matted tangle, dried blood red-brown streaks painting his face and neck.

“Dammit, what happened? Why wasn’t he seen by a doctor or someone? I want paramedics in here  now! ”

The paramedics, at least, were efficient. Within minutes they had their patient strapped to a stretcher and into the back of their ambulance. Hutch climbed in after them and watched them set up an IV line, fitting an oxygen mask over the nose and mouth.

“He’s severely dehydrated, and his vitals are all over the place. How long has he been unconscious?”

“Not sure. Several hours?”

“Could be a concussion.” The lead paramedic was checking pupil dilation. “Almost certainly. They’ll check that in the ER… We’ll call a Life Flight to Memorial.”

Hutch watched the chopper take off and got back into his car. A call to Captain Dobey, a message left for Lt. Michaela Ripley, and he made the two-hour trek back to the city.

By the time he got there, the Emergency team had evaluated his partner, scheduled him for a CT scan, and taken him to ICU while they waited for results.

?️. ?️. ?️. ?️. ?️. ?️.

When he got to the hospital, Dobey and Huggy were already there, and were told it was another hour before they heard anything. During that time, Hutch was convinced to wash up and change out of his smoke- and dirt-covered clothes. After he told Dobey everything that happened. From their first days on the case, to how Mike handled it and everything in between, including her ignoring his concerns.

And by the time the doctor arrived, Dobey was spitting mad and had already left for parts unknown to fix the mess his two detectives found themselves in.

“I understand you’re the Detective’s partner?”

“Yeah. How’s Starsky doing?”

“We performed a CT Scan. All the signs are for a significant concussion. And possibly a subdural hemorrhage. So we’re monitoring his condition. When we know more, we’ll let you know.”

“Was that from the bullet?”

“No, this was on the opposite side, and I’d say it’s older.”

“Older?

“Has your partner been acting differently?”

“Such as?”

“Mood swings, irritable, complaining of headaches.”

“Leave it alone, Hutch.” Starsky standing over him, ready to slug him again.

“My head’s splitting.”  

“Maybe you should reconsider your drinking habits.”

“Haha, a funny man you are not, Blondie.”

“I don’t feel too good, Hutch, like everything is off-center, you know…”

“Detective?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, um, he’s been..well, we were undercover. He was getting into character….”

“But.”

“But I felt it was different, like something wasn’t right.”

“Do you know if he hit his head or anything?”

“Some girl screamed blue murder, and then there was this guy with a baseball bat, I think, who tried to hit me for a home run… Guess I forgot to duck.”

“More like something hit him. He was hit over the head with a baseball bat. But he was walking around fine after that,” Hutch responded, still chiding himself for not following his instincts.

“That would do it. And you are right; at first, your partner probably was fine. Most people with acute subdural hematoma may not experience any symptoms until weeks later, and most can be treated non-surgically….”

“And if it can’t be treated that way?”

“We will cross that bridge when we get…if we get to it. For now, we will keep an eye on him. But I wouldn’t worry, Detective; if nothing has happened up to this point, he should be fine with proper treatment and rest.”

Hutch nodded in agreement, but his mind wasn’t on the doctor anymore. Who took his leave, telling Hutch where he could find his partner. All the what-if questions he had pushed aside earlier returned full-force as he rode the elevator.

What if he had taken Starsky to the ER straight after his tangle with the Black Arabs? Insisted on it?

They followed him when he stepped off the elevator and turned to his partner’s room.

What if he had pulled them off this case when he first felt something was wrong? 

They sat beside him when he pulled a chair to the bedside of his sleeping partner.

What if he didn’t listen to everyone, including Starsky, that everything would be fine?

What if….What if….

With a sigh, Hutch leaned back in the chair, running his hand across his face before pulling out his pocket watch.

 

2:00 pm.

He laughed to himself. How was it only two o’clock? It seemed so much longer than that, days even, and not just five hours.

Five hours ago he was arguing with Lt. Michaela Ripley about ending the case.

Four hours ago, he thought his partner was dead. Then he came back to life only to come up missing because of a misidentification.

Then another wasted hour tracking his partner down. Which they did despite the stonewalling from Mike’s co-agents, who were convinced they had the Jackal in custody and not Hutch’s missing partner. Then waiting for the paramedics and the life flight. It was another hour gone that Hutch felt could’ve made a difference between life and death. Didn’t they call it the Golden Hour?

What if…

Hutch shook the thought away. He’d done what he could, but he knew it was pure luck and determination on his part. If Hutch hadn’t pointed out the small tattoo on Jackal’s neck. One that was well documented in the ATF’s files and one that was very clearly not on Starsky’s neck. Along with other identifying marks to distinguish between the two men. If he hadn’t been able to point that out, he was sure he would not have gotten to his partner before it was too late.

He had time to think on the two-hour drive back to Bay City, willing his car to go faster. Time to think and to understand there wasn’t anything he could’ve done differently. Still, it didn’t make him feel any better, any less guilty, or believe any less that there was something he could have done.

Movement in the bed drew his attention to the occupant.

“Hey,” he said when the blue eyes flickered open, squinting a little, although the room was dim. “How you doing, Starsk?”

“Hutch.” No more than a whisper. Guessing that Starsky’s mouth was dry, Hutch slipped a sliver of ice between his lips. “Hutch…?”

“Yeah.”

“Hutch? Wha’ happened…?”

“You got a concussion, Starsk. It seems a bullet creased that thick skull of yours, scrambled your brains some.”

“Oh. Hey. You got rid of that stupid thing on your chin….”

Hutch smiled, offering another ice chip. “Figured it didn’t suit my image. And it itched. How’re you feeling?”

Starsky grimaced. “Like crap. An’ they keep waking me up. I just wanna sleep. And some food would be good. Said I gotta wait until they’re sure I’m not gonna throw up again…Oh,  shit …” Hutch steadied Starsky as he retched bile into the emesis bowl and lowered him back down to the pillows. He was panting, and his eyes looked glazed, the pupils blown wide. “Hutch…wha’ happened, huh? Christ, my head’s splitting….”

Concerned, Hutch reached for the call button. But even as the duty nurse responded, Starsky’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to convulse violently. She took one look and shouted for the doctor. “He’s seizing,” the doctor said tightly. “We need to get him up to the OR, stat.”

“Starsk?”

?️. ?️. ?️. ?️. ?️. ?️.

More waiting, more time to think, more time to lay blame where it belonged, both on himself and one Lt. Michaela Ripley. Dobey said she would stop by with another agent to get his official statement. While he couldn’t wait to rip her a new one, at the same time she was the last person he wanted to see.

Finally, they let him back into the ICU and Hutch resumed the spot he was in before they rushed his partner off to surgery. This time, Starsky was attached to a bunch of esoteric equipment. IVs and beeping monitors and suchlike, but all Hutch could see was the still figure in the bed, half his head covered in gauze and bandaging. On the right side, a few dark curls escaped the wrapping.

Hutch felt sick and furious that his partner had been treated like a felon, his condition neglected to the point of needing surgery. On the one hand, the brain bleed had been so slow as to be undetectable, and he couldn’t have noticed what was happening inside Starsky’s skull. On the other hand, he needed to place the blame somewhere, and the Lieutenant was a prime target.

So when Lieutenant Ripley finally appeared, she got the full force of Hutch’s wrath.

“How is he?” she asked quietly as she stepped up to the bed and looked down at the man who had been in her charge for the last month.

Hutch’s only response was to grab her by the elbow and drag her out of the room. The move was so quick she didn’t have time to utter a protest at her treatment. Once out of the room, she yanked her arm away from the Detective.

“How dare you put your hands on me? I am your commanding officer!”

Hutch ignored her protest, making sure the door was shut before he rounded on her.

“Look, Lieutenant.” Hutch’s forefinger wagged in furious emphasis, and she took a step back. “First of all, my partner and I stopped being under your command the minute your team took over. Secondly, thanks to  your  agent’s blundering inefficiency, a near-fatal head injury was neglected to the point of needing emergency surgery.”

“Don’t point that thing at me!” she objected, pushing his finger away. “Yes, it was a SNAFU, and it shouldn’t have happened. As the team leader, I have to take full responsibility for the shortcomings of those agents responsible for Starsky’s ill-treatment. It’s no excuse….”

A nurse at the nearby nurse’s station interrupted their conversation before their voices got any louder. Hutch smiled at the nurse and once again grabbed hold of Mike, pulling her further down the hall to the waiting area before letting her go. “Lady, I don’t care what you do, but I don’t want you around my partner.”

“You can’t do that…he still has to give his statement.”

“And he will. Just not to you; send whomever you want; it just will not be you or any of those goons who interrogated my partner in Barstow.” Hutch paused. “That is if he remembers anything.”

She looked up at him, startled, “What do you mean if he remembers?”

Hutch knew Starsky was likely to remember some things, but most likely not all of them. He just hoped he had forgotten the grittier moments. The ones that would hang over his head otherwise and weigh on his often childlike partner’s conscience. “Memory does funny things when there is a head injury….”

“I’ve spoken to the doctors. The initial injury almost certainly happened a while back. You told me you suspected he was suffering headaches.”

“And you ignored me; I knew there was something wrong….”

“He may be your partner, detective, but he is an adult. He could have spoken up. But he didn’t.”

“He wouldn’t have, because he told me he didn’t want to lose this case. I know my partner. Starsk will whine like a baby about a paper cut or hangnail, but he clams up tight for anything serious. Saw him chase down a perp one time with what turned out to be a dislocated collarbone which he conveniently forgot to mention until he passed out cold in the Emergency Room. I got reamed out by the doctors because I should have noticed.”

And I should have noticed this time. Fought more to be heard.

“Well, I can see which one in this partnership takes his job seriously and knows what is important.”

“What’s important?!” Hutch surged forward and got in her face. He towered over her, and all the anger he had been holding back was coming to the fore. “Lieutenant, I don’t know where you get off that line of thinking. That man lying in there because of your incompetence is what’s important. Not some golden key to the next promotion, or another notch in your belt….”

“Hutchinson. Stand down.”

Captain Dobey’s command echoed through the room, causing both Hutch and the Lieutenant to turn around to face the newest arrivals. In the doorway stood Captain Dobey, and next to him stood another man. Everything about the man said Fed or military, from how he was dressed to how he stood. Straight, and shoulders and back rigid. And based on Mike’s sudden intake of breath, Hutch could guess this was most likely her superior.

Dobey was the first to speak up. “Detective, this is Captain Hall; he is out of the ATF office here in BayCity.”

“Captain.” Hutch greeted the captain, who then turned to Mike.

“Lieutenant, have you gotten Detective Hutchinson’s statement?”

“No, sir.”

“And that of the other detective?”

“No, sir. Detective Starsky is still sedated following surgery. We, I mean, I haven’t had the opportunity.”

Hall looked between the two. “Thank you, Agent Ripley; you can go; I’ll take it from here.”

“Sir…”

“It wasn’t a request, Lieutenant.” His tone left no opening for negotiation.

“Yes, sir,” Michaela replied before following orders. Captain Hall followed shortly after, leaving only Hutch and Dobey in the waiting room.

“Captain, what was that all about?” Hutch waved in the general direction that Mike and Hall left, as he sat heavily in a nearby chair.

Dobey chuckled, “That was me calling in a favor.”

“Do I really want to know, Captain?”

“The less you know, Hutch…”

Hutch looked up at his captain, eyebrows arched.

Let’s say it will be a while before one Lieutenant Ripley sees the front of a desk for a long while.

“You’re right, I don’t want to know.” Hutch paused for a minute, “Did they find who shot at Starsky and JC.?”

“Not enough to confirm, but a body was found in the collapsed part of the motel. He was on top of the rubble, so he likely was on the roof when it caved in. There was a rifle nearby, and it will probably match the bullet they pull out of the Jackal.”

“So they don’t know who it was?”

“No, the body was too badly burned. Forensics said it will take a while to identify, if they ever do.”

“Guess we may never know.”

“That bothers you?”

“Some. Guess I figured knowing would give me another person to blame besides….”

“Besides yourself?”

Hutch nodded.

Dobey sat in the chair next to Hutch.

“Son, you can’t blame yourself for every wrong; you are in the wrong business if you do. What happened out there could’ve happened to anybody. And everybody involved can take a little blame for what went wrong. Including Starsky.”

“But…”

“But nothing, I heard what Ripley said, and while I hate to agree with her, Starsky is a grown man, able to make his own choices. And he didn’t make the right ones, and I will make sure he understands that loud and clear before he returns to work.”

“I want to be there for that one.”

“Oh, you will be because I plan on saying it only once.” Dobey laughed and got up from his seat to leave. At the door, he paused and turned back towards his Detective. “And Hutch?”

“Yes, Capt’n.”

“Don’t make this a habit, these chairs wreak havoc on my back.”

Hutch laughed, “I can’t make any promises captain, but I’ll try.”

?️. ?️. ?️. ?️. ?️. ?️.

It was to be another few days before Starsky started to wake up completely. In the meantime, Hutch wrote his report, submitted it, and was told to rewrite it without embellishments. “Just the facts,” he snarled to himself. Until Starsky could fill in the gaps, that was all he felt obliged to give them. Surprisingly, the Lieutenant backed him up, and the next time he saw her she seemed humbled and less cocky than when he had first met her.

“We don’t know the whole story,” she pointed out. “And we may not get the full story. It’ll depend on what Detective Starsky can remember. A concussion can cause amnesia in the short term.”

“And the Black Arabs who were killed in the Hijacking? Before the raid, you were trying to pin it on Starsky.”

“The shooter was one of the men rounded up, and confessed to the whole thing before he knew the Jackal was dead. Thought he could make a deal. Which, of course, he didn’t get. Either way your partner is cleared of any and all wrongdoing. Far as the bureau is concerned, Starsky got the job done at some considerable personal risk to himself. May even get a commendation out of it.”

Hutch realized then what she was doing, exonerating Starsky from any blame. Whether she was doing it of her own free will or because she was ordered to, he never knew and really didn’t care at this point.

?️. ?️. ?️. ?️. ?️. ?️.

Waking up was — weird. Starsky couldn’t hang on to consciousness; it slipped from his grasp every time. He’d come partway out of the void—enough to register that he was in a hospital somewhere. That the constant pain in his head, that amorphous pressure that had built and built until it seemed as if it would burst out of his skull, was gone, leaving pleasant emptiness behind. He thought he wouldn’t mention the emptiness to Hutch. It would no doubt be fodder for further insults to his intelligence.

There were things he knew he should remember, but memory seemed to have gone with the pain. The lack didn’t distress him, he knew who he was and what he was, and the presence close by was the lodestar of his life; the warm pressure of the hand over his belonged to Hutch. He wanted to acknowledge that, but his throat was bone dry. He tried to swallow, coughed, and Hutch said his name.

“Starsk? Are you back with me? Open your eyes, huh? And squeeze my hand?”

Make up your mind, Blondie! Oh, well, I’ll give it my best shot… 

He managed the squeeze — feeble but an honest attempt — and prised his eyelids up. His vision was fuzzy; all the light in the room coalesced around that bright blond head.

“…Hutch…”

A beaming smile. Fingers offering ice chips. The water tasted wonderful, helping to clear his clogged throat.

“Not too much, babe. Don’t want you throwing up again.”

“Wasn’t going to,” he muttered, controlling the feeling of nausea. To distract himself, he raised the hand that wasn’t connected to an IV line, and discovered a mass of bandaging on the side of his head. Hutch pulled his hand away.

“Leave it alone, Starsk. You’ve had surgery. Remember?”

There were fragments of memory surfacing. But only fragments. Nothing concrete.

“Morrigan?” Black and silver, a beauty of a beast, power to spare, throbbing between his thighs, and for a little while, his.

Hutch’s smile faded. “Sorry, pal, the bike’s been reclaimed.”

“Oh. Thought maybe I’d get to keep her.”

More clearly than words, Hutch’s expression revealed his true feelings. He might point out that a bucket of nuts and bolts was just that and did not possess anything approaching a soul, but Starsky knew differently. The Morrigan had not been Bella. But they’d bonded. He felt depressed. Would have liked at least to tell her goodbye.

“How long I been out?”

“Four days. Most everything has been wrapped up, though. And for once, you won’t have to be writing a report cuz yours truly did them all for you while you been sleeping.”

“I think I need to sleep some more, then.”

“Oh no, you don’t; time for you to start picking up the slack; I’m tired of carrying this partnership all by myself.” Even as he said it, Hutch knew it was the wrong thing to say and had the opposite effect than he intended, which was to make Starsky laugh. “Hey, Starsk, that’s not what I meant; you do your fair….”

“It’s alright, Hutch. I let you down and didn’t watch your back like I should have.”

“Don’t you think that is backward, babe? I was the one who didn’t watch your back like a partner should.”

You did the best you could under the circumstance, Hutch.” Starsky watched his partner for a second; he could tell something else was bothering his partner. “There’s something else bothering you, Blintz. Spill.”

“Can’t hide nothin’ from you, can I.”

“Never could Hutch, now talk.”

Hutch sighed and got up to pace a little before stopping to look out the window. “Starsk,” Hutch said quietly, “The Jackal is dead. Taken out by the same bullet that almost killed you.”

“Oh…um” Starsky was silent, mulling the news over. He wasn’t sure what to feel. He felt, on some level, he had connected with the Jackal and understood where he was coming from. At the same time, he was the bad guy too. He wondered if the Jackal had had a Blaine in his life if things would have turned out differently. “Do they know who did it?”

“By process of elimination, they think it was Buck. The body they found can’t be identified completely, but a couple of the Black Arabs, including the leader, were spouting off after they were arrested. And based on what the Arab leader was saying, Buck had you both in his sights when the Arabs moved in.”

“Hutch…” Starsky swallowed, feeling that nausea again. “Hutch… did I kill anyone? I can’t remember….”

Hutch came back to the bed again, “No, you landed a few good blows before the ATF goons took you down, but no one was killed,” Hutch assured him. He didn’t need to tell him about the Black Arabs and the truck driver killed by the Jackal’s orders. He didn’t need to know about that. Not right now, anyway, if ever. The case was closed and swept away, along with all the screw-ups and missteps. The only satisfaction that came from it was knowing those responsible for those mistakes would pay for them. “You did good, Starsk.”

The conversation moved on to other things, and soon a nurse bustled in. “I’m sorry, Detective, but our patient needs rest, and visiting hours are over.”

Hutch stood up. “Okay. Take it easy, pal, okay? I’ll be back later….”

“Hey, Hutch?!”

Hutch looked over his shoulder to his partner “Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, pal, Anytime.”

 

Chapter 15: The Tag 

“And here you go, a feast meant for a king,” Hutch said with a smile, placing a tray laden with food in front of his partner and pulling a chair to the bedside. Starsky squinted at him, then at the various offerings of fruit and sweet treats he had deposited on the bedside cabinet.

“You know they probably won’t let me eat any of that stuff, right?” Starsky pushed the tray away with a scowl.

“C’mon Starsk; It’s all good for you. Fresh fruit is good for what ails you, and the muffins are mostly organic. I snuck in some of the chocolate chip cookies, too.”

“Only cuz I pestered him to put them in,” Huggy announced, entering the room with his own tray of goodies. “You don’t want to know what he had planned for you, Starsky.”

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad. I couldn’t have my partner exist on hospital food for longer than was necessary.”

“What you had planned, Hutch, was just a step above what they pass for food around this joint. Ain’t that right, Starsky?”

The conversation fizzled out when the two friends realized Starsky wasn’t joining in the usual banter. Hutch looked at Huggy, who shrugged. He was just as lost as Hutch was as to why Starsky wasn’t playing along. Hutch had figured his partner’s mood had been because of how the case ended and the fates of some of the men from Jackal’s gang.

But Starsky and he had talked about it over the last couple of days as he felt up to it and remembered more. When Hutch left the previous night, Starsky was fine, especially with Hutch promising to bring more appetizing food.

“Hey, Babe, what’s wrong?”

Starsky shrugged and picked at one of the muffins. “It’s nothing.”

“It ain’t nothing, man.” Huggy spoke up, “If you be turning your nose up at my fine cuisine.”

“Sorry, Hug, guess I’m just not hungry.”

“Must be bad, Curly, if you’re sayin’ you ain’t hungry.”

Starsky sighed and mumbled something the other two barely heard, “It’s my hair.”

“Your hair? What’s wrong with your hair Starsk? Looks fine to me.” Hutch questioned; he knew the result of the surgery left his partner’s hair looking a little rough, so he brought Huggy along for a visit. But compared to the alternative, he’d accept the hair.

“Christ, Hutch. I look like I got the mange.” The luxuriant dark curls were still in evidence on one side of his head, though flattened by bandaging; the side that had suffered the bullet crease had been clipped back. The surgery had necessitated a more radical cut. The hair was growing back slowly in a stubbly fuzz.

It was not a good look.

“It’ll grow back, Starsk,” Hutch offered lamely but smiled inwardly. If Starsky was complaining about his hair, then he knew his partner would be okay.

“Yeah, but until it does….” Starsky looked so crestfallen that Hutch had to conceal a smile.

“Well, the way I see it, you got three options.” He held up three fingers. “One—” he folded one finger, “Shave the rest off to match. Two—wrap your head completely in bandages like the Invisible Man.”

“Or three—” Huggy picked up the line of conversation. “You let the Great Huggarino do his tonsorial magic and even things a bit.” Huggy laid the bag he was holding on the bed.

Starsky looked skeptical. “Huggy, since when do you cut hair?”

“Since I had to for all my various siblings, cousins, and other known acquaintances of mine. I hadn’t earned the moniker the black Vidal Sassoon for my good looks, though that did help.”

Mutely, Starsky contemplated the three options: One and two were not viable options. He looked at the scissors and made his decision. “Okay, Mr. Vidal Sassoon…do your thing….”

“Good choice, my man; you won’t regret it.”

“I already do,” Starsky said under his breath as Huggy took the first snip, and he traded a look with Hutch.

“Thanks, Hutch”

 “No problem, babe, it’s what partners are for.” Hutch winked back at him with a grin that made Starsky warm from head to toe.

 

Fin

* Fade to Black *