Heist

Author's Warning: The amount of swearing in this chapter exceeds the PG-13 rating of this story a tiny bit. It's Phil's fault. Someone broke his Spice World DVD.


Chapter Four: Four Shots

-0-

"Emelia Branco. Daughter of Joseph and Katarina Branco. She was reported missing in 1988, after she disappeared while playing with her older brothers. She was only three years old."

Chin had brought the print-out and the junior detective both to his car and was halfway back to the West Estate bank. Phelps was driving, giving Chin free hands to make the call to the detective in charge. It had taken a while to get a hold of Keyes, because he had to call another detective's cellphone and wait for them to pass it on. Keyes' phone was being reserved for the negotiation and was otherwise unreachable.

"And you think this missing girl has something to do with a bank robbery?"

Chin counted a few seconds to maintain his patience before replying. "Yes, I'm sure. There's evidence to suggest that Mr. Kieuka was involved in a kidnapping ring for young girls. It looks like his killer found the evidence, then erased the information from his computer."

"What part of this tantalizing discovery has anything to do with my case, Detective Lieutenant?"

Phelps took his eyes off the road for a moment to give Chin a side-long glance, and the detective imagined for a moment that he looked nervous. This was probably his first time getting involved in something other than housesitting, Chin realized. He turned his attention back to his conversation with Keyes.

"The document printed off Kieuka's computer at the time of murder is a resume for a twenty-two year old woman named Emelia Brown, dated October of 2007," he said. "A resume for a full-time position at Honolulu West Estate Bank. Kiekua's listed as her emergency contact."

Silence on the other end, except for the sound of the wind and muttering from the crowd.

"Detective Keyes, Emelia Branco's three older brothers are active members of the Ritas Liberitas cartel," Chin finished, hoping in the deepest part of his hear that he wouldn't have to explain why he knew that information. It would only complicate matters.

"Alright." Keyes' gravelly voice finally answered him on the line. "Get back here as soon as you can."

Chin pressed the button to end the call. He gave Phelps a nod that he hoped was confident, because right now, he was dreading the fact that he would have to drag the past into present once again. He knew about Emelia Branco because the print-out hadn't just been a resume; the third page had been a copy of what he assumed was the missing photo from Kieuka's wall. It was also a photo that Chin's uncle had shown him many times before, because it was part of what haunted the retired HPD officer.

Chin didn't want any of this to get out, not after what his uncle's family had been through. But if it was for Steve and Danny, then it would be a small price to pay.


-0-

It was hot. Damn, it was hot. Was Grace sitting outside in the sun, wondering where her Danno was? Rachel was going to murder him if Grace got a sunburn. Why couldn't bank robbers pick cloudy days to pull their heists?

Because there were so many cloudy days in Hawaii.

From where Danny was sitting, he'd been given an extremely limited understanding of the events unfolding around him. First, the men in black—who were seriously messing with the mental image of Danny's heroes from his favorite Will Smith movie—had ripped through all of the women's purses. They didn't take anything, because that would have been a conveniently predictable thing to do. No, instead they shredded the wallets, sent pieces of ID scattering everywhere. Family photos were inspected and then thrown to the ground. One of the robbers dumped the bag of cell phones on the floor, and they started going through those, too.

Danny's keen, infallible skills of deduction told him that they were looking for something. Something that most likely had something to do with 'Emelia'. Now obviously these brainiacs didn't know what she looked like, or Phil wouldn't have bothered looking at their name tags.

Great, fine. So why take an entire bank hostage in the middle of the day, just to find one woman?

Some things even the great detective Danny Williams couldn't figure out.

It wasn't until his personal bodyguard waved Friendly Phil over to his spot the Danny really began to pay attention. The thirty-minute deadline had passed five minutes ago, and there was no phone call going in or out. Something was wrong.

"What are we supposed to do, man?" asked the other masked robber, who judging by his voice, was younger and far more nervous than his leader. "We can't take them all and Fausch. What about the cop?"

Phil was quiet, but by no means did this make him calm. Danny could tell by the constant flexing and unflexing of his hand around the firearm's grip—henchman number two's words were eating at him. Obviously, he didn't have what he came here for, and his main objective was slipping further and further away.

So Phil and his buddies planned on holding up a bank, just to grab some girl named 'Emelia', and they what—just assumed that they would definitely get their van, and get away cleanly? Danny was starting to think he was wrong about these guys. They were organized, sure, but this wasn't a well-organized heist.

What they were supposed to do was stall for time, drag things out, wear down the police until they got their way. The media would be hounding the HPD for a resolution, and robbers used that fact to their advantage. But these guys, Phil especially, they wanted out. Now. If Phil didn't get what he wanted and soon, he'd start throwing hostages into the jaws of collateral damage until their bodies purchased a one-way ticket out of the fire for him and his crew.

Fire. Oh, yes, fire. What a great thought, Danny. It's four hundred degrees in here, you're itching in places you've been uninformed about until now, but sure, let's keep building on that. See if it's possible to actually melt by the power of human thought.

There was a moment in every heist, every criminal attempt, no matter how well organized or spur-of-the-moment, where something snapped. A moment where, even if the plan were going smoothly, the leader of the heist answered the call of that most basic, primal instinct to flee. A moment where the main objective was to survive, to fight again another day. Grab and run.

That moment was right now.

"I know we came here for Emelia," said Phil's second-in-command, as Danny pretended to not overhear them. "But I told you. I told you. You can't just waltz into a bank and find a woman from a twenty-year-old photo, man. I told you it couldn't work like this! And they ain't gonna let us drive outta here with six hostages! We have to make a deal with the cops, man."

Phil turned his head to look longingly at the four bank tellers all huddled in a line. Then the moment passed, and the wild glint returned to his eyes. "They won't know we got any hostages," he said cryptically, and got out his cell phone.

Danny decided now was a good time to get Steve's attention. He made a throat-clearing sound, shifted his legs a bit, and his partner looked up. Then he glanced at Phil, and he made the slightest nod to indicate he understood.

Phil hit a button and then handed the phone to his second-in-command. A few seconds later, Keyes' voice came back on over speakerphone.

"I was starting to worry, Phil. Is everything all right in there?"

"Oh, me and my boys, we're just fine," said Phil, loudly. "Where's my van, Detective Keyes?"

"We have someone working on it, Phil. Here's the thing; we need you to give us something first. You shooting one of the people in there like that—that didn't start us out on the right foot."

"You should give me credit for not shooting two. Or five," Phil snapped back. "All I shot was one fat guy who looked ready to keel over anyway." He lifted his gun and pointed it at Steve without warning, taking three steps closer to him. "If you really want, I could shoot his buddy, too. They say they're in business with your dirty cop here, so technic'ly that's like doing you a favor, right?"

"You could do that. Or, you could put your gun away, and let me help you find your sister, Philio."

Phil froze solid. He didn't drop the gun, but the way his eyes glazed over, it was obvious to Danny that he'd made the connection. Shooting Steve was no longer in anyone's interests.

"How the fuck do you know that?" Phil asked, whirling on his buddy and storming over to where the phone lay open on his palm.

"This isn't about money, Philio. That's your name, right? Philio Branco. We're cops; we're good at investigating things. Just trust me when I say that I have information about your sister that you don't. Information that I'm guessing you need."

Was it just Danny, or was Keyes actually doing a good job at this? No, it had to be Chin's work. Or Kono's. Whatever was going on outside, someone was feeding Keyes information that might help get the hostages out of there. And now he knew who 'Emelia' was—Phil's sister. One question amongst a hundred left unanswered, like how Phil wouldn't recognize his own sister or why he would do something this stupid just to find her. Still, this was progress.

After a long pause, Phil seemed—for the first time in thirty-nine minutes—to calm down a little. "Fine. We deal. Tell me what you know, cop."


-0-

Steve crouched next to the unconscious Kamekona. His friend wasn't bleeding as much now, and his new friend Alice had managed to extract the bullet with just a pair of tweezers and local anesthetics. For only a year's medical study, she behaved like a pro in the field. Thankfully, her efforts had just increased Kamekona's chances of surviving from slim to very likely.

So when Phil raised the gun at him second time, he bristled. Not for himself, but because Alice was in the line of fire. And also because he was pretty sure Phil's first shot had been meant to kill Kamekona, not wound him, Steve wasn't feeling confident about this psychopath's aim.

When that same psychopath finally agreed to negotiate, he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. The gears and cogs were finally turning; getting these people out of here might actually be possible, so long as Keyes continued the good work.

"First, I need you to let some of the folks you're holding go," said Detective Keyes, in response to the robber's demand for information. "That's how this works, Phil. You give me something, and I give something back."

Phil was hesitating. The way his body read, it was clear he thought he was falling for a trick. Math probably wasn't his strong suit. He had thirty-nine hostages, one of which was in critical condition, and he was having control issues over releasing just a handful of them.

"You have three dozen scared, innocent people with you, Phil," Keyes said, echoing Steve's thoughts. "You said yourself it's hard to control that many people at once. So here's my offer"

"Not Fausch," Phil interrupted him angrily. "Fausch and his trophy wife bitch stay here with me, got it?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Fausch are non-negotiable, Phil—"

"I said—not—Fausch!"

"Fine. Fine, I'm willing to discuss with you the terms of their release. There's no need to get angry—we're just talking, Phil. You got kids and elderly in there?"

Phil glanced over the pool of dull, listless faces as if he were seeing the hostages for the first time. "Yeah, a few."

"We'll start there, then. Release the kids, the mothers and the elderly. We also need one of our own guys to come on out—"

Steve heard Danny groan. There was the wrench.

All six of Phil's associates had a physical reaction to that; even Keyes himself stuttered in mid-sentence for a moment, because the detective realized his gargantuan mistake in the exact same moment as Steve and Danny. Funnily, Steve was not shocked in the slightest. He felt dismayed, let down, and frustrated all at once, but at least some part of him had prepared for this scenario from the moment he'd made his presence here known to Keyes' people.

"Son of a bitch," growled Phil slowly, drowning out Keyes' voice. "One? Did you just say—'cause I know I just heard him say one of his 'guys', didn't you, Beef?"

It was a rhetorical question, no matter that it was directed at the masked robber standing above Steve and Kamekona. Philio Branco was many things—unstable, desperate, rude, ruthless to list a few—but an idiot he was not. He probably didn't hear the voice on the other end of the conversation; Keyes might as well be talking to the pavement now, because there was only one person in that lobby Phil had any interest in right now.

"You." Branco pointed his gun at Steve, again, and this time there was no certainty it was going to go away. "You're a fucking cop. I knew there was somethin' funny about you, but you were playing me. You played all'o us real good, potato."

"Listen," Steve rose to his knees, raising his hands into the air again. Beside him, Alice stared on in wide-eyed fear. "Just listen to me. I did what I had to; I didn't want to make things worse—"

"Make things worse?" Phil was yelling now, completely out of control. There wasn't a person alive on Earth who could talk him down from this level of crazy. There was a hatred for law enforcement fueling this man's rage that couldn't be sated by anything but vengeance. "Fucker, you put on a show so you could hit me from behind when I wasn't lookin'! Well, guess what? Show's over, haole!"

At the end of the day, Steve would remember the sound of exactly four gunshots. The first had already happened. It would stick in the back of his mind every time he dealt with Kamekona from now on—that ear-splitting bang which made his soul jump a little bit. After that, there were three more bangs, three noises that would cause him more pain than he had ever felt since the day he was forced to listen to his father's murder.

The second shot was now. Steve waited for the bite of the bullet, to feel the impact shatter a rib, the blood cooling against his skin—

Which never came. It was then he knew the shot wasn't for him, that the barrel of the nine mil wasn't pointed at him anymore. He saw the red dot grow into a stain on Danny's pale yellow shirt, and the switch in Steve's mind that controlled his SEAL training flicked off. 'Danno' was stuck in the back of his throat; somehow, the other hostages found it in them to scream and shirk away from the violence, but Steve? Steve was the image of a choking ghost, mouth agape, insides churning.

Phil pulled the trigger a few more times, but a metallic clicking announced his cartridge was empty. Swearing, he threw the spent weapon at the man standing above Danny. "Tye, you gave me an empty gun. Shit. Would everybody shut the fuck up?"

But the many kids in the circle of hostages only reacted to more yelling by crying even louder. Their panicked mothers begged them to be quiet, but children were not capable of remaining calm when people were being shot. This wasn't the movies. It was real blood, real bullets, and how did they know they weren't all going to die?

At this point, this wasn't about rage or heat-of-the-moment murder. Phil looked straight at Steve, read his face, and there was a smile in the son-of-a-bitch's eyes. "Take this haole trash in back and finish it, Tye," he told the man standing over Danny.

Danny was slouched over to one side now, face twisted with pain. 'Tye' looked down at him through the holes in his ski mask, then reached down grab his arm and haul the bleeding Five-0 to his feet.

All Steve could hear was the wheezing, labored breath coming from his partner, the blood pounding in his own ears, the cold click of a pistol being cocked.

"Danny. Danny! Don't," he begged, watching Danny being half dragged, half led across the lobby floor to the branch manager's door. Denial charged Steve's voice. "Please. Please, don't do this. You'll get nothing! I swear to God, if you do this, you'll wish you were dead, Branco! I'll kill you myself!"

His eyes met Danny's just before his bloodstained shirt vanished from sight. Under the thick glaze of pain, his partner's gaze read pleadingly. Not for his life, not begging Steve to save him, but for the person whose name he mouthed at the same time.

Grace.

Steve didn't get to respond. Didn't get to promise him that he'd do everything in his power to look after Grace, to do everything her father couldn't do for her anymore. 'Tye' pushed him through the office door and slammed it behind them. The next few seconds were agonizing.

Then the last two gunshots shattered his mind.

Twenty seconds or twenty minutes went by; he wasn't sure which. Steve's view of the dark, wooden door with the gold-painted name plate was blurred, and a headache of consequence threatened to split him apart. Finally, when the silence that followed the deafening shots seemed like it would swallow him, the door opened again, and out stepped the man clad in black.

Tye looked over at Phil, and tossed him back the nine mil. "Cop's dead, brah."

Phil pulled the chamber back on the gun, then slid it back with the palm of his hand, and smirked in Steve's direction.

"Not all'o them."


TBC