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Chapter 3 – Death Becomes Him

PRESENT

Steve's throat hurt.

Dark ragged screams throbbed into the night air and crescendoed over the approaching sirens, the crackle of radios.

He scrambled back away from Danny's body, face hot, hands cold. Broken.

He stared at the entire scene with a detached awe as a rabid defiance filled him with one purpose.

Steve crawled back over to his fallen friend, ignoring the blood and the odor and the sharp protrusions of his cheekbones and touched him with reverence. He laid his head on his chest, and cried the way he'd never gotten to do with his mother or his father. Part of him was grateful that he'd had the chance to say goodbye, to look upon Danny's wasted body and recognize death there. Despite that, he'd forever hate this day. And he'd never be the same. Steve would never recover.

There, during the infinitesimal breadth of time between heartbeats, Steve felt Danny's body shudder, and heard the faintest wisp of inhaled air and the gurgle of an exhale. Steve's eyes flared opened and he moved his arms, bracing them on either side of him. With an ear to his chest, Steve listened instead of mourned. Danny's heart thumped a feeble, frenetic beat.

Steve dug two fingers deep into his carotid and placed one hand on his diaphragm, and found signs of life.

"He's alive!" He hollered. "Danny, hey, the ambulances are on their way. Hang on for a little bit more. Just a little bit more."

Steve tried not to look at his body, at the damage there, but he didn't miss the blue bloom of track marks in his arm, or the heat that wafted off his dry, brittle skin or the mottled blue-black of an obvious beating along his torso.

The light thump against his fingers stopped as did the rapid rise and fall of Danny's chest.

With a growl, Steve pushed Danny's head back, opened his mouth and breathed for him, pushing everything he had left into his lungs.

Hand over hand, he pumped Danny's chest, not thinking about anything but revival of men in the field who had literal holes blown out of them, and how with sheer tenacity and a little help from their brothers in arms, they were smiling and laughing months later. If they could do it, Danny could too.

There was a hand on his back. Steve shrugged it off and sank down, covering Danny's cracked lips with his own. Each breath was draining him, but he wouldn't stop.

"Steve…what can I do?" Kono cried.

He wasn't wasting any of his air. "Ambulance. Guide 'em in."

Steve dismissed the activity behind him as unimportant details, and it was just him and his partner, fighting as they always did. It was a dogged battle of life, breaths and compressions, heart and lungs. He held the Navy's free diving record and could hold his breath for a little over five minutes and that was with the crushing pressure of the ocean and the currents pulling at him like sirens. He would breathe for Danny for hours if he had too.

The ambulance careened around the corner of his street, sirens thunderous.

Dizzy and sweating, Steve leaned over Danny again as his body twitched and fought to inhale. He looked down in time to see Danny's eyelashes quiver and bruised lids close completely. His body didn't move again, but it was all the encouragement Steve needed.

The paramedics and firefighters arrived and Steve slid away, letting them work.

Hour 92

The suffocating heat pressed him flat against the dirt.

After hours, Danny could only lie there while being baked like a potato and even nightfall hadn't provided much relief. He panted as nausea curdled in his stomach and his head throbbed.

If McGarrett were here, he already would've fashioned a bomb out of mud and a belt buckle. But his brain was melting and his thoughts were nothing but disjointed sludge. He curled his fingers in the dirt and gaped into the dark wondering how long they were going to leave him here and who had taken him. Danny was oddly grateful that Grace was on the mainland, enjoying a week of rainbow-hued fun at Disneyland with Rachel and Stan.

It was the flash of his daughter's excitement as she sang along with Aladdin the night before she left that got Danny up and moving.

He quickly discovered that his vision grayed when he tried to stand, so he crawled along the wall, unsure of what to do. A muscle cramp in his biceps dropped him back onto the floor. He groaned, clutching the muscle and tried to knead out the cramp with clumsy fingers. He kicked angrily at the side of the shack because he couldn't do anything but ride out the bunching agony.

Danny closed his eyes, refusing to let helplessness and fear overwhelm him. He concentrated on breathing and wished he would have packed grenades in his lunch.

The cramp subsided but Danny remained collapsed on his side. His eyes shot open when a whisper of a breeze tickled his face. He pressed a hand to the sun-warmed metal mere inches from his nose. There he could feel the edge of the metal where it met the soft ground. The dirt was loose and light. He dug down and carved out a handful of dirt with his hands. A band of blue twilight from the rising sun tumbled in.

"So maybe I could gopher my way to freedom."

Energized, Danny clamored to his knees and dug as fast as he could. Sweat dripped from his hairline into his eyes, but he didn't stop. If he could dig out enough, he could shimmy out under the fence and head into the jungle. Danny knew it had to happen soon because the sun was rising and the heat would too.

He whooped with joy as he cleared a few inches and the trade winds that kept Hawaii from ever being so cloyingly hot began waft inside, cooling him down.

Using both hands pressed together, he evacuated more soil as fast as he could until something sharp stabbed his fingers. He pulled them back with a gasp and saw that two of his nails were torn and his fingertips were bleeding. Cursing, Danny moved closer and blew the dirt away, exposing a band of concrete a mere four or five inches from below the end of the metal walls lined with barbed wire. Taunting him. After more deft and exploratory digging, Danny knew that the wall traveled feet below the surface.

He was well and thoroughly trapped.

Danny flopped back to the ground, spent and dejected. Chance had given him strength and without it, he could only concentrate on how woozy he was after just a few minutes of being vertical. He was so thirsty his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The air that lilted into the box was fresh and cool, so Danny dug two more trenches around the edge of the walls. At least the circulating air made it easier to breathe and cooled the heat that hummed from his skin.

As the sun rose, Danny pressed his face to each of the three holes, trying to see anything. On two sides he saw nothing but the same red earth, but on the last side, there was lush foliage, glistening with the silver of dew.

An idea struck him. His gun and cell phone were gone, of course, but he was never frisked when he was taken. With shaking hands, Danny dug into his back pocket and pulled out the spare evidence bag that he always carried. When Grace was six, he helped her build a terrarium with a few succulents and his mom's clear glass cookie jar. It was a fun way to kill a few hours on a boring afternoon, and Grace loved watching the water condense on the lid of the cookie jar only to drip down and onto the plants like rain. With the plastic evidence bag, Danny could do the same thing. He angled his arm out of the hole inching forward and pushing as far as it could go even when it was snagged painfully by the barbed wire. He grabbed fistfuls of foliage at the base, taking care to keep the roots intact. Gently, he pulled his hand inside and stuffed the greens inside of the bag. When it was full, he twisted it up, preserving the adhesive seal, and mashed it with his fists, trapping any liquid in the roots and dew on the leaves. He set the bag in the sun and waiting as long as he could stand it for the water to collect on the plastic, and greedily drank the few swallows of liquid from the roots and the morning dew, sighing at the cold but earthy moisture on his parched tongue. After refilling the bag, he buried it in the corner of the room, taking care to make sure the dirt looked flat and undisturbed.

Danny heard the rattle of chains and the door opened with a metallic bang. The light sliced through the darkness with blinding thrusts and Danny hissed, covering his eyes. A masked figure loomed in, hauling him to his feet and without a word, and launched into the metal wall. Wheezing and reeling, Danny hit to the dirt below, grateful he had the presence of mind to bring his arms up to cover his face and head.

Voices howled as Danny was kicked, his forearms taking most of the force. Pain ping-ponged up shoulder and into his neck.

Without a hesitation, Danny struck out with his legs, aiming for his attacker's kneecap. The leg buckled and the man cried out. Furious, the detective clamored to his feet. Beyond the downed thug, he saw the shadowy figures of three others, watching and cheering.

When his assailant advanced again, he finally understood. This wasn't a guard-assisted beat down—this was hostage fight club, and he had to win. Danny wasted no time in launching an uppercut at the rising man and followed that up with a punch to the throat. He had at least fifty pounds and a half-foot on Danny and didn't move with the dehydrated sluggishness that dragged down his own limbs and muddied his reflexes, so he had to be aggressive and economical in his attack.

Danny managed to defend himself for a few more advances, blocking punches and leg sweeps, but after a day of baking in a godforsaken box without food or water, his endurance was laughable. The floor see-sawed beneath him and his head felt like a discarded party balloon. It was all he could do to keep his feet. Soon Danny's flank and face were rocked by blows he never saw coming. He deflected the man's advanced with a graceless flail of his legs and bought enough to space to stand. A haymaker that would make Sugar Ray Lenard proud catapulted him into the wall, graying his vision and jamming his shoulder. The masked audience laughed at his yelp of pain.

It was out of sheer luck that Danny ducked, narrowing missing another punch. The man's fist hit the wall with a clang and a snap that echoed throughout the small box. Clutching his undoubtedly broken hand, he cleverly sank into the shadows of the cage, where the light didn't reach. With his right cheek already swelling, Danny could barely see. He tried to listen for him over the sound of his own jack-hammering heart and the whoops of the gawkers.

Without warning, he tackled Danny, lifting him clear off his feet before bodily driving him into the dirt so hard, his teeth sliced into his tongue, filling his mouth with blood, as air whooshed out of his lungs and vibrant colors smeared through his vision like spray paint and his back hummed with a thorough pain. The man was on top of him manipulating his body, but Danny couldn't move beneath the two hundred pounds that crushed him. He smelled someone else's sweat, and for a brief second their eyes met. His were dark, furious and terrified mirror of Danny's own.

The man twisted, falling on his side and Danny screamed as his right arm was forced straight, passed the point of flexion. A tearing agony fireworked from his elbow as a leg was swung over his head in an attempt to lock the arm in place, so it could be broken or pulled from the socket. Pain was the best motivator and he was moving purely on instinct drilled into him from years of having a younger brother who outgrew him at thirteen. Flat on his back and nearly pinned immobile, Danny bucked, planting his feet and arching his back. With his left arm, he grabbed the back of his opponent's knees and pushed, milking every atomof might from his muscles and heaved the man off him. A punch to the groin freed his arm and sent an indignant yowl bouncing off the walls. Danny forced himself to his feet, cradling the dead arm that felt boneless and tingly, and kicked his attacker until his face was pulped and bloody and he no longer moved.

A man emerged from his creepy audience, applauding him with gloved hands. Danny snarled at him, swaying as he stood. He lapped the blood dribbled from his lips and tried not to puke.

The man's face was so alluringly generic that Danny wondered if his face was designed in a lab. His olive skin was devoid of any texture, it looked like it had been airbrushed or polished. His features had a symmetry and a perfection that seemed artificial. Danny knew why he didn't even bother wearing a mask, like the others. A composite sketch would match a thousand men on O'ahu alone, and somehow it wouldn't.

"You have more fight than I anticipated after our Grace period. Maybe you need to cook a little longer." His tone was rich and he had a vaguely European accent like one of Grace's well-traveled schoolmates or Madonna.

Danny didn't miss the inflection on his daughter's name, but he didn't dare react.

"I know the accommodations are a little spartan, but I did the best I can do on short notice."

He couldn't help himself. "It ain't the Four Seasons, that's for sure."

A manicured eyebrow lifted with approval. "You are right about that. I'm afraid it'll have to do until you leave us. I'm sure you understand."

"I appreciate the hospitality but I can leave. I wouldn't want to put you out." His ribs ached.

The man ignored him. "Do you believe in choices, Detective?" He stood a mere foot away from him, apparently not at all concerned that Danny would rip his throat out. The suit he wore was meticulously tailored and oddly, the thread sparkled in the low light. "Minor choices—turning left instead of right; taking job A and not job B—have a profound effect on the course of our lives. Do you ever think about that?"

"Still grappling with that whole 'Chicken/Egg' thing, so no."

"I've always ruminated about how important choices are all the time. For example, if this poor man—a lover of home-brewed beers and father of three—would have triumphed in my little test, he would have gotten to live."

The masked thugs jumped to action and dragged Danny's opponent out of the cage by his ankles. Silence invaded the box as the man paced around it, if he noticed the foot-wide trenches Danny made, he didn't seem to mind. He didn't seem concerned that Danny would overpower him with his guards gone, and Danny wasn't sure felt a little insulted.

"You got a name?" He asked.

"Sir." He answered impatiently. "Any minute now," he breathed lifting his gloved hands like a conductor commanding his orchestra.

Two gunshots popped in the distance. The strange man shook his head, strange face contorted in mock pity. "Such a waste."

Danny vibrated with rage so intense, he could barely see, and it took all he had not to kill the man who'd just murdered a stranger for losing some arbitrary cage match between prisoners. It was self-preservation—and yes, cowardice—that kept him rooted in his spot, seething, even though they were alone.

"And that right there, the way you didn't react is why you're still alive, Detective. Keep making the right choices and you'll be back dolling out justice to the citizens of Hawaii before you know it." The man grinned like a Chesire cat and patted Danny's swelling cheek. "I don't even care about the little airholes you dug."

If he'd had enough moisture in his mouth, Danny would have spit in his face.

"Is there anything I can bring you?" He asked, eyes sparkling with sinister mischief.

Ever the smartass, Danny responded, "Water."

"Water it is, detective."

The door shut, leaving Danny in the beaten and boiling darkness. Devastation crept into the widening chinks in his armor. He could withstand a lot, he'd weathered the storm of divorce, the loss of his home and being nearly stripped of his parental rights. But he wasn't built to carry the burden of getting another man killed nor could he handle captivity and torture by a deranged goofball with a fetish for nip-tucks.

He was doing to die here. And it was going to be gruesome and painful and disgusting, like something out of a "Saw" movie, and there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn't a Navy SEAL. He was a cop from Jersey who was wrapped around his daughter's little finger and had stopped growing three years early. Danny couldn't do this. He wouldn't survive it. He swayed where he stood, gagging up blood and bile, choking on futility.

Pain glinted in him, hot and bright. He tasted death and cowardice on his tongue. A shiver fluttered up is spine and settled into his chest and putting down roots, and he knew his adrenaline was fading, and the dehydration and physical exertion were taking its toll. His muscles started to spasm, quaking with an intensity that drove him to his knees. Danny mewed as his body convulsed, trying to fight through it, but he felt his eyes rolling back and exhaustion overwhelming him. He passed out, grateful for the escape.