I'm back! ;)
Yeah, it's been a while since I last wrote for this fandom. Since then, I've been able to write more stories, which has helped my writing style mature. I guess you could consider this piece a precursor to more stories for the Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys fandom.
If you're familiar with my other stories Thanksgiving and A Merry Christmas, I have to ask for your forgiveness. Honestly, if you made it through the first chapters, I applaud you. When I wrote those, I had a lot of things going on in my life and was forced to rush them. Some of you might not have minded the stories but I did. Rereading them made me cringe. I have a lot more potential in writing than what they express. They will most likely be rewritten sometime in the future, when I find the time.
Anyway, before you begin reading I'd like to give a warning for the subject of the story. It does contain physical and emotional trauma. I'm sure most of you are fine with it, but for those who aren't, this is your warning.
Well, with those things out of the way welcome to the first chapter of One Day at a Time! I dearly hope you'll enjoy it, and please, feel free to review as you leave. :)
I own nothing of the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew franchise.
The sharp report of a gun shattered the silence of night. Then another. A cry of pain only added to the noise. A pair of sky blue eyes widened. The owner's mouth opened forming only one word. Frank.
Stopping in mid-stride, Joe Hardy paused. Silence had fallen, the sound of the man's own breathing was the only indicator of a living being. His heart beat quickened as fear brought a plethora of terrifying thoughts to his mind. Joe's walk was continued, each step soft and light. Creeping through the warehouse he was currently located in, the man moved toward the area the shot had come from.
The sound of a voice made him pause once again. Now, behind a stack of crates, he dropped into a crouch, the spaces in between the slats allowing him to direct his anxious gaze onto the scene before him.
The soft glow of streetlights mixed with the light of the moon coming through the windows and bathed the ground in a white light. It revealed two new men, one on the ground, and the other standing above him with a sneer filling his face.
Joe breathed in sharply. The man on the ground was his brother. The dark hair that covered his head was unmistakable. A pool of blood surrounded him making Joe's chest tighten in fear. There was no movement visible from Frank. Joe was positive he felt his heart skip a beat. He could just be unconscious hereminded himself. Yeah, that's it, unconscious. The blood on the ground did nothing to convince him of that.
Moving at a fast pace, Joe scrambled back the way he'd come. Grabbing his two way radio from his belt, he pressed a button, making the electronic crackle to life. "Officer down." He reported. His voice was quiet and calm, a far cry from his internal emotions. Officer. He thought. Not just an officer. My brother. The reality of the statement brought tears to his eyes.
Frank was shot; possibly dying. The idea was almost unfathomable in Joe's eyes. He had always expected this type of thing would happen to him not to his careful, quiet, and reserved brother.
Pushing the thought away he hurriedly put the radio away. His call would alert his headquarters to send an ambulance here. The warehouse wasn't close to a hospital, so it would take about a half hour for the ambulance to get here. Backup had come with them, and should be here in a matter of a few seconds. With those thoughts in mind, Joe turned around and raced back to the scene, barely reminding himself to keep his steps quiet. Upon arriving, he realized that the standing man was talking. Leaning in, he caught a few sentences.
"Too slow are we?" The man teased. "Well that's really too bad for you. For me though, it's the chance of a lifetime. You've had your fun, and now I'll have mine!" With a swift movement, he brought a silver object up. A recognizable click made the item obvious.
Frank groaned, moving his head slightly giving Joe a spark of hope. The man grinned finding pleasure in the other's pain. He laughed, continuing to gloat over his supposed victory.
Joe's eyes, collecting information, focused on the man. Ginger hair, scar along the left side of his face...Grant Westbrook. His hand curled into a fist. Joe imagined smashing that fist into Westbrook's face for shooting his brother.
Closing his eyes he took a deep breath. Revenge won't help anybody. Come on Hardy, you know better than that! Joe opened his eyes once again. His mind was a jumbled mess. He couldn't handle this situation alone. Where was that backup!
A thought dawned on him. One that should have been considered immediately. The backup was supposed to be stationed outside the building. Joe could say without a doubt that they would have heard the shot. They should have been here within seconds. He realized that there was no help. This situation was his to take care of.
Swallowing back fear, he focused on getting Frank to safety. Grant was still talking. Joe had no idea how long it would be before he would shoot again. Nor did he have an idea of how much time his brother had left.
Thoughts of Frank lying on the ground surrounded in blood threatened to break Joe's already fragile composure. "Focus." He growled. Placing a hand on his own gun, Joe quickly considered his options. The first, and probably the most obvious choice would be to use his own weapon. There was a problem with this though. First of all, he didn't have good enough aim in his current hiding place. Second, if his shot didn't kill Westbrook, there was a great chance that the criminal would shoot his brother on the spot and seal Frank's fate.
If Frank died...No! Joe refused to let the thought finish. I will not become an only child today. Allowing himself to take a deep breath, he glanced around. Plan...I need a plan.
The very idea of Joe thinking before acting might shock a few people. If you were to ask Joe about it, he would most likely admit that a few years ago, that would have been the case. Now though, he was older and a detective for the New York Police Department. His job didn't permit stupid decisions.
Joe noticed a medium sized piece of wood lying a few feet away from him. An idea formed in his mind. Taking one last look at Westbrook, he nodded his head, giving silent approval to his own plan.
Crawling towards the wood, he picked it up; the object feeling rough in his hand. It was light for it's size, Joe observed. But, that was a good thing since it made his plan all the more feasible.
Moving silently between the various objects that littered the floor of the warehouse, Joe made his way closer to the other two. Stopping behind a large storage shelf, he eyed Westbrook, who was currently in his line of sight. Grasping the block of wood tightly, he threw it, not stopping to see where it landed.
The ensuing crash took all of Westbrook's attention just as Joe had planned. Leaping up, his feet hit the floor running. Much to his surprise, Grant whipped around to face him, eyes filled with a horrifying calm. Joe, not having time to stop, crashed into the criminal, sending him to the floor with a loud thud.
Throwing caution to the wind, Joe continued with his plan, immediatley wrapping his hand around Grant's wrist in a struggle for possession of the gun. Forcing the weapon upwards, he felt it go off in the direction of the ceiling. A painful punch to the stomach from Westbrook left him struggling for breath.
Intending to use the detective's moment of weakness to his advantage, Grant tried to tear the gun away from his opponent. Joe, however, refused to let it go. Forcing himself to recover quickly, he delivered a punch of his own to the man's jaw.
Grant, to Joe's dismay, didn't seem phased at all, returning the hit with vengeance. "I knew you'd be around." Westbrook growled. "Can't have one Hardy brother without the other."
Joe didn't respond, not really able to. His punches were starting to get weaker. A verbal fight was not something he needed at the moment. Another powerful hit from his opponent had his vision graying for a second. Alarm bells started going off in his head. His strength was failing him.
If you don't win, Frank's as good as dead. Taking a deep breath, Joe pulled back his fist one last time. Now or never, he realized. Channeling every last bit of strength he had left, he slammed it into Westbrook's face.
Grant went limp in Joe's arms, prompting him to let out a relieved breath. He let his opponent go, taking the gun with him. Ignoring the pain from Westbrook's punches, Joe performed a quick pat down of the criminal. Finding no other weapons, he unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt. Snapping them around Westbrook's wrists, he picked up the discarded gun and stood up.
Moving towards Frank, he dropped to his knees, taking quick note of his brother's injuries. Shot in the chest and leg. Even without having seen Frank initially Joe had known his injuries were bad. Looking at them now, his stomach turned with a mixture of fear and revulsion. Two holes...one in his brother's jacket along the right side of his chest; the other on the inner part of his upper left thigh.
Unzipping his brother's jacket, Joe was able to get a better look at the bullet wound to his brother's chest. Blood had already soaked the fabric of the shirt, staining it a bright red. Staunch the bleeding. Movements slow and methodical, Joe slipped a pair of gloves out from his pants' back pocket. Taking one, he held it, inwardly cringing at the pain he would be causing his brother.
After a long deep breath, Joe set to work, first folding the glove, then stuffing it into the hole made by the bullet. Frank moaned, eyes opening. Joe resisted the urge to pull back and continued his work. You're doing it because it's what has to be done. He reminded himself. Once satisfied that it would, at the least, slow the bleeding for a few moments, Joe glanced up.
Blue eyes met pain filled brown ones. "Joe..."
Joe blinked. Not startled at the word, but at the weakness of the voice; the voice that always held a hint of seriousness in it, now quiet and searching for help. His lips parted as if intending to say something. But what could he say? Cliche phrases of comfort floated through his head - words that were meant to soothe, but in reality, sounded empty and emotionless. He closed his mouth, deciding that saying nothing was a better choice at the moment.
Moving his gaze towards the other wound, Joe parted the hole in the pants wider. Upon moving the fabric, blood gushed out to meet his hand. His brow furrowed in confusion. He'd seen bullet wounds before; they were not supposed to bleed this much.
Eyes widening in alarm, he spread the hole in the pants even wider, pausing to assess the full extent of the bullet's damage. Blood spurted out at intervals that were akin to the beating of one's heart. Cold tendrils of fear wrapped around him. There was only one reason for an injury to bleed like that. Panic started to rise in his belly. The bullet must have hit an artery in Frank's leg...arterial bleeding.
If the bleeding wasn't stopped soon, Frank could die within the hour. His own heart beat quickening, Joe allowed his eyes to close for a second. Stay calm. First get the bleeding to stop.
His movements quick this time, Joe used his hand to press against the wound. The warm liquid trickled out from under his fingers, falling onto the floor. Gritting his teeth, Joe forced himself not to let the fact that that was his brother's blood throw him into a panic.
"Joe." came a faint and raspy voice. Joe was almost surprised at his name being called. Frank stared back at him with surprising clarity, but his voice betrayed the direness of the situation.
"Frank" Joe answered simply.
"Look at me." Joe's eyes had been fixated on a point past Frank's head to avoid the pain that most likely would have been prominent in his brother's eyes.
Slowly, his hand still pressed against the leg, Joe lowered his eyes to meet Frank's. Those eyes were full of trust. A trust that Joe realized he'd never actually seen before. It wasn't trust that Joe was doing and would do everything in his power to help Frank. It was trust for things that Joe didn't want to even comprehend.
They were both older, 27 and 28 to be exact. Both had families of their own now. No longer were they the smart but still naive 17 and 18 year olds they once were. Frank wasn't just trusting Joe with his life, he was trusting Joe with the well being of his entire family. The reality sent Joe's once complete world spinning out of control.
Pulling himself together to form some semblance of calmness, Joe swallowed. He nodded, a silent gesture that Frank clearly understood. It was an answer to his non-verbal plea.
"How bad?" His brother asked. Joe bit his lip worriedly. Dare he tell his brother? He didn't want to place any more stress on him than needed. Mind spinning with unanswered questions, he barely heard Frank's next words. "Tell me." Though the voice was weak, the words were clearly meant as an order. Frank's eyes had changed to a look of pure intensity that brooked no argument. He knew of Joe's internal conflict, and was making his decision for him.
Worrying his bottom lip even more, Joe cleared his throat. "The bullet hit an artery in your leg and caused arterial bleeding." Frank didn't make a sound, instead closing his eyes. "The other bullet..." Joe paused, he'd been so focused on Frank's leg that he hadn't re-checked the wound on his chest.
Fear started to overcome him again. That stupid move could have very well killed Frank. What were you thinking! His mind screamed. Reaching one hand towards the glove, he gently pressed it. It was saturated with blood. Picking up the other glove that still laid on the floor, Joe folded it as best he could with one hand, and pressed it gently over top of it's counterpart.
His attention was caught as he heard his brother cough, the sound painfully slow. Frank's eyes widened considerably. He spit something out onto the ground beside him. Joe felt his breathing quicken. Blood. The liquid on the ground was blood. Internal bleeding. If that thought wasn't terrifying enough for Joe, than Frank's panicked look certainly did the job.
That look. Joe knew it would haunt him forever. Gone were the traces of control and trust on his brother's face. Those emotions were drowned in the sea of overwhelming fear and panic.
Panic. Frank never panicked. He always had a cool head about him. Even in dangerous situations.
Joe felt the world blur before him. Internal bleeding. Arterial bleeding. This wasn't happening. Not to him. Not to Frank. Tears of desperation welled in his eyes. His head pounded incessantly with the idea that his brother was dying. And in all honesty, he was.
You need to pull it together. Frank needs your help right now. He still has a fighting chance. That's all you need; all he needs. Joe closed his eyes, forcing back all emotions.
Opening them, he looked back towards Frank. His brother's eyes were closed. Forcing fear to the back of his mind once agian, Joe hesitated a minute before tentatively reaching out and shaking Frank's arm; dreading what he'd find. A sigh of relief escaped him as Frank opened his eyes. That relief was short lived as he watched his brother's eyes settle briefly on him, before closing again.
Grabbing his brother's arm, he noted how pale Frank was. Don't you dare Frank... Wrapping his hand around his brother's wrist, he checked the pulse rate. It was faint and slow. "Frank." Joe whispered fearfully. Frank didn't acknowledge him, except for an almost non existent flutter of his eyelids. "Frank?"
Joe moved the hand slightly that had been holding pressure against Frank's leg wound. It still continued to bleed profusely, much to Joe's dismay. Frank was losing too much blood too fast. Tourniquet, he thought. I need something to make a tourniquet with. Glancing around, the only thought he had was to use his belt.
Undoing the clasp, he slid it out from around his waist and placed it on the floor. Keeping one hand firmly pressed on the injury, he lifted Frank's leg up slightly to slide the belt underneath. Taking both hands, Joe quickly brought both ends up and around the leg. Holding the tail, he slipped it through the belt's buckle, pulling it to tighten around the leg just upove the wound. Continuing to keep the tourniquet tight with one hand, he pressed his other hand back over the injury.
He looked back towards Frank, surveying his brother's breathing. The rise and fall of his chest was slower than Joe would have liked. That help needs to get here fast. A tourniquet combined with pressure only helped stop bleeding. They didn't help fix the actual injury.
Minutes passed by. Joe constantly kept his eyes on both injuries, keeping himself aware of the internal bleeding. Another minute. This one of silence. Silence? He jerked his head up. Frank? Checking for the rise and fall of Frank's chest again, Joe found, to his horror, that his brother's breathing was there, but shallow. Fear built to a suffocating level.
Moving both hands quickly. Joe checked the pulse rate again. Faint. Slower than before. Frank's pulse was slowing down. Panic took the place of fear. "Frank?" Joe said. No answer. "Frank don't you dare die on me!" Rational thoughts were escaping Joe's brain. His hands shook. Tears fell silently down his face, unnoticed by him. "If you die I swear I'll..." I'll what? He didn't know. "Think about you're family!" He didn't really think Frank could hear him, but didn't have time to care. "You can't just die on them, on me. Please..." Those last words rang through his mind like a bell. Frank wasn't dead yet. There was still hope. Hope. Hang on to that word Joe. He thought. Cause' that's all you have at the moment.
Special thanks to my mother for proofreading this chapter.
Also, a quick warning that updates might be slow, but I promise you this story will be finished.