A/N: Finally! After more than two months of struggling with writer's block, I can put up some of this thing. :sigh: It's in two parts, might be more if the second part decides to give me a fight; I'm still writing it. Please forgive the lack of specific math. I'm not very good with math; it's all I can do to comprehend basic high school algebra, so I glossed it over. (It looks suspiciously like no math at all, though.)
Disclaimer: Characters you recognize belong to Cheryl Heuton and Nicolas Falacci and CBS and the Scott brothers and-- well, the point is that they don't belong to me.
Disillusioned - by Tessenchan
Part One
Each brother retreats to the safehaven of his own room, minds' eyes filled with a never-ending replay of tonight's tragedy.
Don holds his head in his hands, tormented by the scenarios his imagination concocts. He wants so badly to be near him, wants to sit next to him and continually reassure himself that his brother is safe. That the armed robber who attacked his kid brother had been taken out before he'd taken the opportunity to unload his weapon into Charlie's body. But Charlie won't let him.
Charlie sits on his bed, knees drawn up to his chest like a child, tears welling up in his dark eyes. He too wants to go to Don, needing his older brother to help erase the horrific recollection of that man's bruising grip on his arm, of the feel of cold steel against his hair. But he can never see Don the way he used to, can never believe again that his brother doesn't kill people. He can only see Don's terrible glare as he lifts his gun...
They mourn tonight.
.n.
"It appears we have ourselves a standoff, Agent."
The click of the hammer wakes Charlie before he can see it again, and he startles to consciousness. His mind is already fully awake before his body can catch up, and he feels heavy with the feeling of sleep paralysis. His eyes stare blankly into the dark; it's pitch-black except for the pale light emanating from the alarm clock on the bedside table. 5:23 AM. He is afraid to move for a moment, unsure if he still within that realm of dreaming where he can witness his older brother's terrible deed. He's lost count of how many times he's replayed the scene in his head, scattered and out of order, like a past-its-run film reel that has to be repaired twenty times during the watching.
After a moment he moves, pushing himself up into a sitting position, and immediately regrets the action. The dull ache in his head swells to a pounding, and he puts his hand to his stomach, fighting the wave of nausea that follows. The room feels cold, but Charlie has the sneaking suspicion it's not the room at all, but a psychosomatic aftereffect of trauma, his own emotions causing the physical backlash. He regains his bearings and swings his feet off the bed, noticing now that he didn't even bother to undress. His shoes are untied but still on, his red overshirt is thrown over the chair at his desk, but he's still wearing his jeans and T-shirt. Like his memory of the standoff, his recollection of coming home is garbled and confusing, probably due to the meds he was on when he left the hospital.
Hospital? As though to check, Charlie reaches up and brushes his fingertips across his left temple, hissing out loud at the rush of hot pain that lurches out from underneath the bandage he finds there. At least that accounts for the disjointed memory. He doesn't really remember being at the hospital, just vague flashes and images. Don was with him, and there was a doctor. He definitely recalled pills, and the mention of a concussion. Probably his, from the pain in his head. David was there, and Colby. Megan was...
Where was Megan?
Charlie closes his eyes and clasps his hands, taking a deep breath to shake off the numbness hanging on his shoulders. Don. Something happened with Don last night. But that, like so many other things, is foggy. Blurry, like looking at the memory through the bottoms of soda bottles.
It's as though after 5:43 PM yesterday evening, everything stops.
.n.
The FBI office was filled with a frenetic energy that one could literally taste, so much so that Charlie felt a little agitated during his brisk walk through the room. It was clear to anyone who saw the office today, with agents bustling from one cubicle to another, files of information or evidence in hand, that something was going to happen. The young professor knew for a fact that not every single agent in this room was working on the Danner case, but he could only guess that they were being affected by the source of the energy.
Charlie smiled as he greeted "the source" at the entrance of the conference room. "Hey, Don."
Charlie could almost visibly see his brother's mental processes screech to a stop as he turned, mid-rush, to pick out who had spoken his name, and when he saw Charlie his mouth widened into a broad grin. "Hey. You finished?"
"Yeah," Charlie confirmed, the grin falling away as he turned serious and handed his brother the documents he carried, first pulling out a transparency from the top. "Everything you asked for is in there, but the abbreviated stuff is on the transparency. I'll explain it when we get in."
"Yeah, good. Thanks, Charlie."
The briefing was relatively short, mostly because the case was relatively simple. Over the past two months a series of robberies had been executed in the downtown area, and always by the same seven guys. They were lead by an ex-military man and, up until the last two months an employee at City National, named Richard Danner.
Danner had the reputation of being kind, calm and collected, an intelligent Good Samaritan type who worked well with his fellow employees and did his work well and on time. That was, until he was caught embezzling funds in excess of $750,000 dollars. Confronted by his boss, Danner assaulted the two police officers who had been sent to arrest him, in addition to the security guard who blocked his path as he escaped the building. Embezzlement and assault of police officers would have been the least of his worries two months ago, but now that he had nine armed robberies and six more instances of assault and battery under his belt --one of whom had been a federal officer who attempted to arrest him at one of the robberies-- the FBI was wasting no time tracking him down.
Which was where Charlie came in. After being fired, Danner had disappeared, leaving no address, phone records or credit cards behind. He was unmarried, and other than a sister who hadn't seen him in eight years and his former co-workers, no one had seen him. He seemed to have literally dropped off the face of the planet, only to reappear to commit the crime with his team and then return to whatever rock he had crawled under.
But the CalSci professor had noticed a specificity to the banks Danner chose, on what dates and times, and the routes he chose to come in and escape on. So it was with an infrequent simplicity that Charlie was able to put together an algorithm and run the data through it, coming up with the most likely area at which Danner was hiding out. This morning's briefing was just that: a quick review of the information and plan.
And at 5pm, Don's team set out.
.n.
Don was sitting in his truck, unsuccessfully attempting to put an end to the dilemma he'd been stuck in all day. It wasn't bad enough he had a song stuck in his head, but it had to be some piece of boy band nonsense. Of all the crap to get stuck in my head, the agent grunted to himself, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose, It had to be Bye, Bye Bye. That was the last thing he needed: that song coming back in mid-raid and playing in his head silently while he was trying to stop the bad guys, possibly resulting in a misstep on his part. That tended to end with someone getting wounded-- or worse.
And Don didn't really feel like dying today. Especially not at the hands of N'Sync.
"All positions, report," he commanded, glancing down at his watch. 5:22 pm.
"Position one ready, Don." David's solid timbre came rushing through Don's earpiece.
"Position two, ready." Megan was on the tail end of that, confidence and alertness clear in her voice.
"Alright, all hold until I get there. Repeat, all hold." He paused to give a warning glare to his brother. Once again, the younger Eppes had talked his way onto the battlefield, Don only relenting because he had started up his 'I have to be there to see the area, you know that there's immeasurable data there I can only factor into my math by seeing it' speech. There was only so much of that Don could take before he agreed to whatever his brother wanted, just to shut him up. Charlie was clicking away at his laptop, totally focused on it and unaware of the death glare his brother had zeroed in on him.
"Why did you come, again?" Don couldn't stop the question from falling out of his mouth, and only barely managed to hold back, Because you know, it just presents Dad with more opportunities to nag at me. Instead, he added, "This case is pretty much wrapped up in terms of your part, isn't it?"
Charlie didn't bother to look up. "I told you, Don. I don't think Danner is the leader. My algorithm brought up the names Criss Johann and Walt Strickland every time I ran it as a 86 probability they were involved, and lemme tell you, man: that's damned good. That's outrageously good."
"So what's the connection?"
"David did a quick look into the two of them when I brought them up yesterday; they did time together for armed robberies in New York and Philadelphia, and Strickland did time again in San Francisco. That time it was with Danner, who was serving a sentence for a DUI. And there's the eyewitness report to consider."
Yeah, there was that, Don thought, albeit he honestly didn't think too much of it. At one of the robberies, a woman described a tall man with black hair as the driver of the brown van Danner's team used to escape. And while Strickland topped off at six-foot-four and did have black hair, the credibility was lost when the woman admitted she had been coming home from a bar at the time and was having to be dragged home by a friend.
"Okay, so they're involved. But how do you figure Danner's a flunkey? I mean, the man physically assaulted nine people and orchestrated nine robberies, not to mention the original embezzling scheme, which we've found evidence that he himself authored."
Charlie looked up this time, fixing a stare as equally intense as Don's on him. "True, but remember that he was in the military. Megan told me that his actions indicate a higher-up who is controlling him. And there was a reason he was embezzling to begin with. It's a less violent, more secretive way of stealing. If you think about it, publicly robbing banks isn't in his nature as he tends to prefer running the numbers underneath--"
Don lifted his hand, signifying silence. "Okay, okay. Just stay in the car."
He glanced down at his watch again. 5:27. Almost time to go. He reached into his holster and rechecked his weapon, sliding the clip out and assuring it was full before slamming it back home. He was just putting it back when out of his peripheral vision, a slow-moving dark shape rolled into view. He snapped his gaze upward, brown eyes fixing on a black Mercedes-Benz. Quickly deducing the car's trajectory, he spoke hastily into his mike. "David, Megan, back off now. We got company."
The hoarseness of his brother's voice caused Charlie to look up, and the mathematician's eyebrows furrowed at the introduction of this new data.
"That's a brand-new Mercedes," Charlie whispered hastily at his brother, as though speaking louder might cause the Mercedes' occupants to notice them. Don nodded, watching out of the corner of his vision as the car stopped in front of the warehouse.
"Yeah, Charlie, I noticed that too," he replied sarcastically.
"Don, do you have any idea what a 2006 Mercedes goes for?"
"My right arm and leg would be my best guess."
"Probably more. I wonder--" Don lifted a hand to interrupt his brother as David's voice came in over his earpiece.
"Don, I have a visual on the suspects, and they're getting jumpy in here."
"Jumpy?" the agent repeated, and David elaborated.
"Danner and another big guy are pacing around, the rest are fidgeting. I hate to be obvious, but it looks like whoever's in the car is the Big Bad, cause they're sweating."
"Don," Megan broke in, "if I'm right, and Danner was embezzling funds and robbing banks based on orders given to him, then he probably turned the money in to his superior."
"Money enough for fancy wheels, you mean," Don said, picking up her trail.
"Oh yeah," Megan agreed, "Which also explains the jumpiness."
"Makes sense," Colby piped in, "I mean, why else would a Mercedes be in this part of town at this specific time?"
Don glanced at his brother. "Coincidence?"
"That's always possible," Charlie admitted.
Abruptly, Jeff Doran from David's team cut in over the airwaves. "Don, two guys just exited the vehicle."
Don immediately reached out with his right hand to push Charlie back against the seats, and the younger Eppes grunted in aggravation as he shrank further back against the seat. The agent turned his shaded eyes towards the Mercedes. The driver's side door and front passenger's side door was now open, and two bruisers --Don guessed 6-footers and 300 pounds each, at least-- emerged. Both were wearing suit and tie and when their jackets flashed open in the wind Don noted the shoulder holsters and firearms on each of them.
"David, they're armed."
"Yeah, I see."
"I'm too far away; can you see what they are?"
"Negative."
The bruiser with black hair leaned back into the car as though addressing someone in the backseat, nodded once and then pulled back, shutting the door. His brown-haired partner, the driver, shut his door as well and both headed for the warehouse door at a pace which one would leisurely stroll. David's voice cut in once more in Don's earpiece. "Don, that's Criss Johann and Walt Strickland."
Don grunted his acknowledgment with some indignation, rewarding Charlie with a death glare when the younger brother whispered curtly, "I told you..." He looked back, watched as Johann and Strickland disappeared into the warehouse, Strickland giving a quick glance around before shutting the door tightly behind him.
"Don, should we--"
David's suggestion was cut off abruptly as the unmistakable sound of gunfire erupted from the warehouse. Don, his arm still against Charlie, felt his brother jump. In his earpiece Don distinctly heard Colby's voice, "Shots fired," but he had already turned to lean past the front seats of his truck. Pulling something off of the backseat, he shoved it Charlie. The mathematician, still shocked by the sudden gunshots, looked stupidly at it for a moment, not comprehending what it was or what he was to do with it.
"Charlie!" He snapped to focus the moment Don yelled his name, and took the Kevlar vest in his hands, a brief, uncertain exchange passing between them as he lifted his eyes to meet his brother's. Don watched as a dozen thoughts passed through Charlie's eyes, confused pleas of why are you giving this to me? I won't need it, shouldn't need it. The only way I'd need this would be if they... if you... and you won't. You can't. Not yet.
"Don..." His voice wavered, voicing in one breath all the things he could never say, the things Don had seen in his eyes.
"Dammit, hurry up and put it on! I gotta go."
Charlie complied, slipping his arms through the holes and shrugging himself into the vest. Don reached over and helped him strap it on, and he gave the collar a stiff tug to insure to his satisfaction that it was fastened properly. Only then did the elder Eppes get out of the truck. He gave one last warning glare to his younger brother. "Stay here, lock the doors. Don't. Move."
And then he was gone. Charlie stared at his brother's retracting back, unable to quell the surging uneasiness in his chest.
.n.
Through the fog of thick cigar smoke, a robust man in his late thirties watched the warehouse. Movement from the opposite side of the street caught his attention, and he fixed his gaze on a tall FBI agent with dark hair, sprinting across the street to the warehouse. He was of fair build, probably an athlete at some point in his life. He wore dark shades and riot gear.
This simply will not do, the man thought to himself. Danner has allowed the FBI to track him to this warehouse as well? Meanwhile, Johann and Strickland are inside cleaning up Danner's mess... He frowned, watching as the jock met up with a black agent and three others at the door. They made entry and disappeared through the door.
The man traced the jock's steps, deducing quickly where the agent was running from, and his glare settled on a dark blue Chevy Suburban and its lone occupant. He paused for a moment, reflecting on his options, before deciding that ultimately, he had to know what it was Danner had allowed the FBI to discover. His cigar now laying crushed in the ashtray, he unholstered the .500 Magnum from his side stepped out of the Mercedes.
.n.
Charlie sat, tense in the passenger seat of Don's SUV, his eyes locked on that half-open door of the warehouse. Moments after Don and David made entry, more gunfire had erupted from the confines of the dilapidated building, and while it was short and over within a few seconds, Charlie was suddenly overcome with a case of the What Ifs. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest, breathing thrown off as he fought against the urge to get out of the car.
Don had told him to stay here; it was safer here in the truck. He wouldn't be any good to his brother if he put himself in danger, but what if Don was hurt... What if it was worse? Charlie didn't want to stay here while his brother bled to death on the asphalt. He couldn't just sit here.
Decision already made, he fought against the bulky Kevlar vest, struggling to turn towards the side door, hands shooting out to grasp the handle. A vague shape blocked the light from the setting sun in his window, but Charlie didn't even sense it until the door had unlatched, and then the door suddenly yanked out of his hand as an outside force pulled on it, and Charlie's eyes shot up to meet two icy blue ones.
The man before him was late-thirties, short white-blonde hair combed back in elegant, trimmed waves. He was a tall, stocky man, robust and well-built; Charlie estimated about six-foot and two-hundred-fifty pounds. He barely registered the expensive Italian suit the man wore before the young professor's eyes had locked into the Magnum revolver he was holding in his beefy right hand.
All this passed in milliseconds and Charlie leaned back into the truck, kicking out with his foot in a hope to both knock himself away and strike the guy in the stomach. The blonde lurched back for a moment, coughing as Charlie's kick hit home. Charlie flipped over and scrambled across the middle compartment, struggling to reseat himself in the driver's seat. One quick flick of the wrist and the engine turned over, but by then the man had recovered, hauling himself into the Chevy and hooking a handful of Charlie's dark hair.
Charlie cried out in pain, twisting as he struggled to stay seated, to wrestle himself out of the man's grasp, but the larger man was extremely powerful. With a vicious yank the assailant dragged Charlie over the compartment and back into the passenger side. The younger Eppes fought against him valiantly, nimble fingers prying at the other man's hand, trying unsuccessfully to unlodge them as he yelled out to his brother and the other agents for help. In a last ditch effort he kicked at the switch for the lights.
.n.
The mess inside was one Don had seen before, sad to say he was somewhat used to. His rookie, Jeff Doran, was unused to it and his skin was paling to a shade of white most usually reserved for the deathly ill as he cuffed the brown-haired bruiser --Criss Johann, Don reminded himself.
The bodies of Danner's six team members were laid out in the gross display of an ambush. It was obvious that this attack had been completely unexpected. One of the men hadn't even gotten up from his place on the sofa, hadn't even moved; his cigarette was still hanging between two fingers, thin trails of smoke rising into the air from the still-burning end.
Danner lay dead on the floor, as well as the big guy David had described as being jumpy not moments before Johann and Strickland entered. In fact, all but one of the robbers was dead. Don and the others had been witness as Strickland shot at the last robber, a mousy little guy named Mort Carver. It was by the mere fact that the agents had startled Strickland upon entry that his shot missed its mark; Carver caught the bullet in the upper arm instead, the bullet miraculously bypassing the bone and shooting straight through.
Strickland had swung around to fire at David, missing entirely, but it gave Colby --who appeared from the other side of warehouse almost instantaneously-- the opportunity to tackle the guy from behind. As Megan and her team closed in on Johann, the big man could see it was a no-win situation and gave in without a thought, laying down his gun and calmly locking his hands behind his head.
As David and the others were handling those two, Don knelt on the ground next to Carver, pulling his cuffs as he did. "Hands behind your back, Carver."
Mort groaned in pain, pushing himself up with his elbow while his good hand clasped the bleeding wound in his other arm. "Whatcha arresting me for!" he demanded in a high-pitched squeal, "These bastards just tried to kill me!"
Don grabbed the blood-covered wrist and pulled it behind him, cuffing it and then taking the wounded arm and slapping the other cuff around it as well. "You know those nine banks you robbed with Richard Danner?" Mort's eyes smoldered and Don nodded. "Oh yeah, those nine banks. That's why I'm arresting you. But you behave and tell me the stuff I wanna know --like why it looks like the seven of you were set up for execution-- and we might be able to work something out. On your feet," Don replied unsympathetically.
Rising to his full height, Don gave a yank on Carver's cuffs, pulling the smaller man to his feet and shoving him in the general direction of his team. Giving a nod of acknowledgement to David and the others, Don punched in to his radio and called for an ambulance.
He had barely finished speaking when the sirens on his Chevy went off, and ten heads snapped up to listen. David turned a confused expression to the senior agent. "Don, that's your truck, isn't it?"
"Yeah. What the hell is Charlie doing out there?" he wondered, going to the open door of the warehouse. Across the way, his big blue Suburban was gently rocking, its lights visible from the warehouse door. Through the driver's side window he saw a booted foot shoot out to kick the wheel and then pull away again, and faintly, underneath the droning and squealing of the sirens, he heard his name being called.
"DON!"
Charlie's voice... Don felt the first icy tendrils of fear shoot down his spine and he took off running.
.n.
The blonde hauled Charlie out through the passenger door, and he fell to the ground with enough force to rattle his teeth. He landed on his tailbone, and Charlie hissed between his teeth as frozen barbs of pain shot up through the bone. Never letting go of his hair, the blonde pulled him up again, wrenching his head back to face him. Logic deduced that Charlie was much too small to escape --he was slight and slender even for his height of five-foot-six-- and it was the equivalent of fighting a gorilla. But the mathematician's survival instincts had kicked in, and he struck out with his foot again, aiming between the big guy's legs.
Clearly fed up with the smaller man's antics, the blonde thrust him up against the vehicle, and before Charlie could even process the thought to move, had cracked his Magnum into his temple. Pain exploded in Charlie's head, shooting out from the impact point and scoring across his skull in white-hot shocks of agony. He slid down the side of the truck, eliciting a vague whimper of pain. Something warm and wet trickled down his temple, and numbly he reached up to touch it.
Blood... Charlie stared at the red liquid on his fingers as though he'd never seen it before, and his vision blurred. His head ached immeasurably, from the roots of his hair to the bones. All at once he was being hauled up again, and he vaguely recognized that the bulletproof vest his brother had been so adamant he wear was suddenly gone. Wait a minute, he thought dumbly, That's mine.
"DON'T MOVE!"
Don's voice... Charlie thought. Then, with a half-smile, My brother's here... You're gonna get it now...
The blonde did not find the situation as amusing as Charlie did, not in the least. In a matter of seconds he was surrounded by five feds, the tall jock in the lead raising his weapon to meet his target. In one swift motion the blonde tugged Charlie in front of him like a shield, fingers tightening around his arm as he held him fast, and the tip of the Magnum found its way to Charlie's temple. A devilish glee filled the blonde's mind at the expression of horror that crossed the agent's face, at the way his level aim faltered. At the strangled word that somehow made it past his lips.
"Charlie..."
He'd never had a gun to his head before, yet somehow he knew with a precise certainty that's exactly what it was, even in his blurry, pain-filled haze. Charlie's eyes snapped open and cleared, a tremble running through him like a ripple in a pond. He stared back at the horrified faces of his friends, all of them overwhelmingly uncertain. Afraid for him.
"It appears we have ourselves a standoff, Agent," the blonde remarked in a cool, clipped tone. "Now: you will lower your weapon, release Johann and Strickland and allow us to leave. Or else this man will die."
"Not gonna happen."
The blonde cocked the hammer, pushing the gun ever so slightly against bone, and Charlie winced. Don grit his teeth, wrestling with the decision placed before him. The blonde was wearing Charlie's vest, and the blood running down his brother's face was more than enough proof that he would have no qualms about harming him further. His FBI training told him to lower the weapon, give up the advantage for the time being, until a better opportunity presented itself. But every fiber of his being as a man, as a brother, was screaming against it. Suddenly he was lost in a recollection of their childhood, of growing up with Charlie and every rotten thing that he had ever done to him, that siblings did to each other. Yet at the same time, every one of their good moments, of being together as brothers and those few times when they understood each other, filled his head as well.
All of it, locked in his little brother's wide eyes.
Don let his aim fall.
"Very good, Agent. I would like the rest of them to put their guns down."
"Guys, put them down," Don ordered. At his sides, David, Megan, Colby and McKeers did as they were told.
"On the ground, Agent." He pushed the gun against Charlie's head again. "I have no patience. My gun has even less."
Don hid a grimace of disgust and knelt, setting the gun down, and behind him he could hear the sharp sounds of metal hitting concrete as four other guns went to the ground.
"Very good." Blonde seemed exceptionally pleased, and spoke to Don as though he were a three year old who had just gone to the bathroom by himself, "Now order your men in the warehouse to release Johann and Strickland. You will allow me to go to my car and once the four of us are safely in my vehicle, you will allow us to leave."
Four? Don's heart caught in his throat, and he fought to keep his voice steady. "You're taking Charlie with you?"
"As insurance," Blonde replied, "There's no point in escaping if you will simply follow the moment this man leaves my grasp. If you haven't followed us after ten miles, I will drop him off."
.n.
While Don spoke to the blonde assailant, Megan kept her eyes trained on Charlie. The younger Eppes was sagging slightly, eyes waving in and out of focus. She was concerned by the wound to his head, uncertain of how bad it was or how it had occurred. She worried he might have a concussion, in which case they needed to get out of this situation and fast.
"You're taking Charlie with you?"
Megan's eyes snapped back to the blonde man holding Charlie hostage. Every nerve ending seemed on fire as she comprehended Don's question, the posture of his body, the falter in his voice. The sweat beading his forehead and his furrowed brow. She was grateful for his sunglasses; it hid from the assailant what she knew to be in his eyes: fear. Absolute, inescapable terror. Don, hang in there. I know they don't train you for this, she thought, They don't train you to know what to do if the hostage is someone you love.
"As insurance," Blonde replied, "There's no point in escaping if you will simply follow the moment this man leaves my grasp. If you haven't followed us after ten miles, I will drop him off."
Don seemed to wilt after this, keeping it carefully hidden from Blonde, but to the profiler's eyes it was somewhat obvious. She had been trained to watch for body language and changes in speech patterns, and noting the subtle changes in Don's demeanor, Megan deduced he knew that Blonde's claim was bullshit as much as she did, and that it scared him.
It was disheartening. A momentary feeling of hopelessness sank through her, until something to her left caught her eye. Doran crouched by the Suburban, sidling up the front and towards the other side, behind Blonde.
The positioning could not have been better. Charlie was standing at the back of the Chevy, Blonde standing just enough behind him to avoid being shot. Don knelt across from Charlie, and Megan stood to his left, a little ways behind him. David and McKeers were on his right, and Colby was almost entirely behind him, to Megan's right. From this vantage point the agents' bodies, in addition to the Mercedes, blocked the warehouse's entrance across the street behind them.
And Doran had snuck out of the warehouse, safe from Blonde's wary eyes as he hid behind Blonde's own car, creeping up to them. Megan caught the junior agent's gaze as he gave her silent instructions. She gave just the barest of nods to tell him she understood, and then returned to Blonde, letting out a tense breath. Doran disappeared behind the front of the truck and Megan whispered a silent prayer to let this work.
.n.
"You'll kill him," Don told Blonde matter-of-factly, his eyes drifting over Charlie's form and then centering again on the assailant. Blonde laughed, a smug, short-lived chuckle.
"He wouldn't be the first, Agent."
Don ground his teeth together, struggling to hold back the bubbling, molten fury that was seeping into his conscious. He was scared, and he hated being scared. He hated being in a situation he couldn't control. Most of all, he hated himself for being so damned stupid. I shouldn't have brought him. No matter how much he thought he needed to come, no matter how annoying he got, I shouldn't have let him come.
An idea crept in from the back of his mind, an idea that Don didn't even know had formed, and he didn't even give it a second thought before he speaking the words aloud. "Take me instead."
Blonde raised one eyebrow in consternation, and Don heard David behind him. "Don."
"I don't care," Don continued. "Let him go, and take me." I can defend myself. I'll be able to take care of myself. Charlie can't.
For the briefest moment, Blonde seemed as though he would accept this proposal; the iron grip he held on Charlie's arm loosened ever so slightly, the gun started to pull away... Something behind the truck, to his right, caught his attention, and he swung, firing two shots. Charlie slung out like he was attached to Blonde by an elastic tether, and he used the opportunity to continue his fight to escape, despite the fact his strength was waning and his knees were dangerously close to buckling. Megan darted towards them, long fingers brushing against Charlie's red shirt, her nails catching in their folds as she reached for him. Blonde swung back, yanking Charlie to him again, and shot again, this time catching Megan, and the lady agent went down.
"NO!" Don tensed, unaware that the one screaming was himself. He saw his gun lift before he even realized his hand was clasped around the handle. Out of the corner of his eye, Blonde saw the motion and his brows knit into a glare. His arm swung back a third time, the muzzle of the gun finding Charlie's temple again, Don took aim...
A final gunshot rang out.
Blonde's head whiplashed back, and the big man's body slumped to the ground, dragging Charlie with him as the tight grip he'd held on Charlie's arm stayed fast. Don was up in a flash, scrambling over to pull his brother away, and he grabbed Charlie's shoulder, wrenching him around to face him. "Charlie! Charlie, talk to me!"
The younger Eppes' gaze was fixed on Blonde, the man's eyes dead and staring, a red-ringed entry wound dead center of his forehead and a crimson pool of blood gushing out from underneath his head. Charlie was trembling violently, kicking himself away from the body in disgust and horror and yet unable to tear his eyes away. His hands wrung one over the other to get Don's hands off of him. Smothering, grasping, tight and they won't let go. "Don't.. Let me go..."
"Charlie, it's me," One hand on his shoulder, the other around Charlie's thin forearm, Don fought to reassure his brother. "It's Don, Charlie."
Snapping out of his shock, Charlie swung his face to meet his and Don's chest tightened at the tears gathering in his brother's eyes. In a voice louder and more broken than Don had heard in a long time, Charlie screamed at him, "Don, let go of me!"
Don's hand opened automatically, more from surprise than from actual compliance. Charlie, panting, gasping, pushed himself back from his brother. Don watched him with confusion, masking the hurt and trying desperately to understand. Horror, disgust, fury-- a flurry of emotions passed in his brother's eyes, a churning sea of thoughts and emotions Don knew Charlie couldn't understand and couldn't deal with. With this one look Charlie seemed to condemn him; his entire body was shaking but his glare stood fast, judging Don. Criticizing him. The elder Eppes pulled back. "Are you okay...?" he asked finally, voice heavy.
Letting the damning glare fall, Charlie cast his eyes to the bloody asphalt. "I... I-I'm fine," he whimpered, and Don sensed pain, both physical and emotional. The sound of sirens pulled Don's gaze up. He saw David kneeling by Megan, who was trying to sit up, her hands grasping at David's knee to push herself up, David trying to get her to lie back again. By the front of the Suburban, Colby and McKeers attended the body of Jeff Doran, of whose condition Don was uncertain.
As the ambulance came to a stop and the EMTs exited, a new kind of chaos took over, the three of them going to each of the wounded, yelling back and forth to each other. Don watched from the middle of it, an abrupt and strangely appreciated numbness collecting in his mind as he watched from the sidelines. Sound and shadow fell away; all he could see was bright lights, and all he could hear was his father's voice.
TBC