Five minutes later, Natalie emerged from the bedroom this time clad in jeans, black button-front shirt, her boots, an FBI-issue ballcap and windbreaker, the no-nonsense agent once more, at least except for the guilty/embarrassed/mischievous glint in her dark eyes.

"Look, Lance, about that kiss..." she started. "Don't get me wrong. I do like you and all, but I... uh... I don't know what I was thinking. We're supposed to be professionals here."

"Natalie," he admonished lightly. "No one's accusing you of being unprofessional. What happened yesterday created a bond between us that goes beyond friendship or sex. God willing, that bond will be around for a good long time."

She tugged absently at her long, dark, ponytail. "So, uh, you didn't mind?"

"Mind?" he chuckled. "Natalie, love, it's been a long time since a beautiful woman's thrown herself at me like that."

"Love?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I like that about as much as I like being called Christmas."

He chuckled again as he held open the door for her.

The drive over to the motel where Devin was reportedly staying passed in relative silence. Natalie still turned a bit green when she buckled the seatbelt, but managed to keep her eyes open during the twenty-minute ride. Lance squeezed her hand in a gesture of support. She surprised him by returning the gesture.

"Just think," he remarked, turning down the freeway exit ramp. "The last time you were in my car, you were alive."

Natalie smiled wanly. "Thanks."

"Don't worry about the belt," Lance said. "I'll drop by the auto parts store this weekend and get a new one."

She nodded and jerked her chin in the direction of what appeared to be the motel. "Guess that's the place."

Squad cars, complete with flashing lights, surrounded the parking lot of the old motel. The motel itself was a one-story fleabag of a place built sometime before the Interstate came through and attracted the nicer franchise places. The cedar clapboard facade had certainly seen better days, as had the rusty neon sign. Parked in front of room 120 was a dark green 1984 Ford Ranger. Natalie jogged over to where Hauldren was leaning up against his own squad car. Lance followed more slowly, trying to maintain the illusion she'd been a pain in the ass for the past few days.

"He's been holed up there since the shooting," Hauldren was saying. "Got a tip yesterday afternoon he was here. Ran the plates, started looking into his credit card activity, talked to the owner."

"What did you find out?" Natalie asked, impatiently.

"He used his credit card day before yesterday to buy some kid stuff: new clothes, couple of toys, stuff like that," Hauldren answered. "The manager here said he had a young redheaded girl with him and identified Sarah from one of the better pictures we found on Johnson's hard drive."

Lance could tell that although Natalie was fairly dancing with relief, she was trying to stay professional. He watched as the Chief walked around to the trunk of the Crown Vic and opened the lid. He pulled out two Kevlar vests: a larger one for Lance and a smaller for Natalie.

"But I —"

"Put it on anyway," Lance interrupted with a meaningful glare, pulling off his own jacket. He leaned down and growled in her ear, "you're still an FBI agent, remember?"

Natalie glared at him as she tugged off her windbreaker and donned the bulletproof vest. He had just finished putting on his own vest and checking his firearm when he noticed Hauldren looking at him with some amusement.

"What?" Lance asked.

"One of these days, you're gonna haveta tell me how you did that," Hauldren chuckled. "The girl's always hated wearing those things. I don't know how many rounds we've gone over it."

"Maybe she just needed someone to tell her to quit being a pain in the ass, or she could get herself killed," Lance replied, more for Natalie's benefit than for the Chief's.