Disclaimer: > Jim is not mine. Blair is not mine. Marina is mine. Cavilio with the serial numbers filed off, but still mine. Anybody want her?

Home Invasion



Blair Sandburg dined alone on a microwaved bowl of leftover shells in sauce, and whistling softly, did the minimal clean-up required for his solitary meal. Jim was working late tonight, trying to clear up the eternal back-log of paperwork, and Blair was looking forward to a quiet evening at home, relaxing. Of course, no sooner than he got settled on the couch, he saw a shadow moving outside the skylights. He got to his feet and headed for the kitchen.

"You know," he said to no one in particular, "I'm really starting to get sick of this."

Jim Ellison stared at the computer screen, then glanced down at the keyboard and found the last two letters. "Vehicular structural disintegration." That was a good phrase. He bit down on his bottom lip as he composed the rest of the report blaming the damage to the mayor's son's car that he had borrowed for a pursuit on road salt.

The mailbox icon flashed at him and he gratefully clicked on it, welcoming the distraction. The message read:

Jaime, it's five o'clock. Do you know where your sidekick is? MDR.

A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. MDR. Calling him Jaime. Marina Del Rey. An old adversary from his covert ops days. A raven-haired beauty with a body to die for and so many men had. And she was after his sidekick. Blair! He grabbed the phone and dialed the loft only to get a busy signal. He charged out of the bullpen and sped to the loft, dreading what he might find.

Once there, he drew his gun before opening the door and leapt into the loft, stopping dead in his tracks.

Marina Del Rey was sitting in one of the dining room chairs, hands and feet neatly trussed with the belt of Blair's bathrobe and one of his leather belts. Dark eyes flashed silent hatred at him from above the duct tape gag. A bag of frozen peas crowned her sooty curls. Neatly on the table in front of her was a garrote, a variety of throwing knives and stars, and her signature razor-edged press-on nails. And their cast-iron frying pan.

Jim holstered his gun and stepped over, inclining his head in apology, reaching to pluck the yellow post it note stuck to the plunging neckline of her red leather catsuit.

Jim, another one of your old girlfriends dropped by. I'll be at the movies with Margaret.


~ End ~

E-Mail Besterette at Besterette@aol.com
Return to Besterette's Fan Fiction for The Sentinel
Return to Besterette's Basement

Problems with the page? Contact the Pagemaster.
Page last updated 8/15/03.