Sorry for the delay. I won't take that long for the last two chapters, though, I promise.
Hope you like it.

Chapter 11: The Last Robbery

The time until Monday dragged to eternity. And Monday itself seemed unending. Don desperately hoped that something would happen today. For if nothing happened, that would mean that something had gone wrong… that the robbers weren't using Charlie's formula anymore… and that would mean…

Don forbade himself from thinking about it. He likewise barred himself from talking to his father. He lacked the strength and desire to envision the terrible possibilities together with him. That was something he was very capable of doing on his own. Throughout this ordeal, they had often sat at the dining room table, each lagging his melancholy thoughts. Don knew that it would be better to distract himself. However, he was suspended from his job, his few non-work friends had to work and the Sudoku puzzles in the newspaper could not adequately push those troublesome thoughts from his mind.

Finally, it was Monday evening, a quarter past six. The urge to drive to Sunset Avenue became stronger and stronger. However, Don didn't want to leave his father alone now, and he had the assurance of knowing that the agent in charge, James O'Connagh, was a good man who had certainly taken everything necessary into account. O'Connagh had even made further inquiries of Larry. And Don by no means wanted to endanger the mission. Nevertheless, doubt still lurked in his mind. What if they let them escape again? If they got away again… or if they didn't strike at all...

Six thirty. It had to be time. Don imagined what was happening in the jewelry shop right now. They had to have caught them. Now… or at the latest now… Did they already have them?

The phone rang. His father's jerk let Don know that Alan had felt the same near-heart attack that he did. The younger Eppes answered the phone. "Eppes?"

"Don? This is James O'Connagh. We got them."

In minutes, the remaining Eppes clan was on its way to the FBI office. Don would have liked to leave his father at home, but knew that to try would be futile. Alan wanted to know what was happening. He wanted to see the men who, in all likelihood, had his son in their clutches. For, as of their conversation, O'Connagh had known nothing of Charlie's whereabouts.

Don heeded neither the many eyes upon him and nor the sporadic greetings being called after him as he and Alan headed to the interrogation room in which the perpetrators were being questioned. Finally, they arrived and peered through the mirrored glass into the room where a man about thirty years old with a remarkably ugly mustache was sitting. The criminals really had needed the masks.

Next to the captive sat a smug-looking man – certainly his lawyer – while a red-haired woman in her late thirties appeared to be leading the interrogation.

O'Connagh, having heard them enter, turned towards them. "Don! Mr. Eppes!" he called, briefly turning to Alan before he addressed his words to Don again. "How are you?"

"Splendid," Don answered shortly and mechanically, only to go on immediately: "Where's Charlie?"

O'Connagh's face closed. "He's not talking about that. He's not talking at all. His name's Nicolas Fleming. Apparently, he's more the henchman of the duo. The team's head, a guy called Frank Tylor, is in interrogation room D."

"Thanks for the information," Don said shortly before he left the room. He didn't even hear O'Connagh protest.

Followed closely by his father, he entered the observation area of interrogation room D. There sat a dark-bearded man whose self-confident smile made the anger inside Don boil. He had no lawyer. As if he felt that he was above such support. Hatred burned up in Don.

"Don, stay here!" his father called after him, but Don had already disappeared in the interrogation room.

Frank Tylor and the interrogating FBI agent Don believed was called Harrior turned towards him simultaneously, but he didn't let himself be deterred. Before he had a chance to think straight, he had already grabbed Taylor's collar and pulled him to his feet.

"Where is Charlie?" he hissed, his tone disquietingly menacing.

"Agent Eppes!" Harrior exclaimed, quite shocked.

Tylor, however, stayed cool. "Come on, hit me."

Don had no opportunity, however. O'Connagh grabbed him from behind and, with Harrior's help, managed to pull him away from Tylor.

Don wouldn't give in so easily, though. This bastard was hiding Charlie somewhere and he refused them the location so that he could gloat over their fear! He tried to pull away, but the two federal agents pushed him with leaden grip hard against the wall. Don didn't care, though. Right now, he felt no physical pain. He felt nothing but his anger, nourished by the fathomless anxiety for his little brother.

"Don, calm down. You're making everything worse," O'Connagh hissed in his ear, still pushing him against the wall. And after a few critical moments, Don knew that O'Connagh was right. He pulled away from the loosened grip of his two colleagues with a jerk, turned away from Tylor and left the interrogation room.

"What the hell were you doing?" O'Connagh barked at him outside. "You should be thankful that you're even here, so be so kind and behave!"

"It's alright, okay?" Don justified. "I'm already calm again."

"I hope so! If the commissioner finds out about that…"

"You're gonna tell him?"

For several seconds O'Connagh just looked at him. "No," he finally answered.

"Well, then let's finally listen to what this bastard is saying."

O'Connagh turned on the speaker. "They're still at the reading him his rights," he then declared.

"Very well," Don responded and reached for his mobile.

"Who you gonna call?" O'Connagh wanted to know, but Don didn't answer.

"Megan? It's me, Don. Try to find out as much as you can about Frank Tylor and Nicolas Fleming. – Frank Tylor and Nicolas Fleming, yeah. – Yeah, but they're not saying where he is. Not yet. So concentrate on locations where they could hold Charlie. – Okay. Thanks, Megan. See you."

He disconnected the call and realized O'Connagh was looking at him, his eye-brows raised. "What?"

"You know that this is our business."

"Well, it's always good to double check, right?"

"Know what, Don? You're incorrigible."

However, Alan suddenly interrupted them. "Can't you be quiet for once!"

Indeed, the conversation in the interrogation room became more interesting now. "Who was that mad-man? Eppes? Is that the brother?"

"Whose brother?" Harrior asked coldly.

"Well, the brother of this math-genius."

"What do you know about Professor Charles Eppes' whereabouts?"

"That's something I sure as hell won't tell you, fed."

"Talking like that will get you into trouble!"

Tylor laughed joylessly. "So? Maybe you haven't realized it, but I don't have a lot to lose. I'll talk to Agent Eppes and no-one else."

While beyond the glass Harrior tried to convince Tylor that that wasn't possible, Don looked at O'Connagh pleadingly. After a brief hesitation he nodded. "But don't mess it up," O'Connagh admonished as Don opened the door.

Harrior seemed puzzled, but then he saw O'Connagh nod through the open door and he left the room, though not without glancing sharply back at Tylor once more.

"Agent Eppes," Tylor greeted him with such a smug smirk that one inevitably wondered who exactly this man was. "I heard you're looking for your brother?"

"I have no time to play your little games."

"Oh, really? And how do you know that, Eppes? But you're right – you're really running out of time."

Don's face hardened. "What do you mean?"

It was obvious that Tylor was enjoying the situation. "But not so fast. I believe we each have something that our respective opponents appreciate. I have your brother – and you have the power to get me out of here."

"You're wrong," Don said tonelessly, ignoring the lump in his throat. "I don't have it."

"No?" Tylor said, his voice feigning regret. "Now that's a pity. Then I'm afraid you probably won't find your brother again."

"We will find him!"

"But too late, unfortunately. When you'll have found him, there will only be pieces of him left."

Don stared at him. All the color had drained from his face. "What do you mean?"

"Well, in about an hour and a half a bomb will go off right next to your brother's left foot."

Charlie never had experienced such long … hours? Days? He couldn't tell. His cries filled the room. He just longed for it to come to an end, for it to stop… But Nick didn't stop, he went on. And on and on. Charlie already thought he would go insane with pain, forget himself, forget his friends. He no longer knew where he was, what he was doing, why all this was happening, when it would end…

And then it was over. Sometime, after uncountable eons, Charlie realized that Nick wasn't there anymore. He couldn't remember whether he had fallen unconscious, but fact was that Nick was gone. And Charlie felt such gratefulness that he was actually somewhere close to happy. This delusive happiness was soon gone, however, and all that remained was the unbelievable pain, until eventually fear returned on the shoulders of the threatening Captain, who this time demanded a certain – and that was the word he emphasized, certain – calculation.

Charlie quickly concluded that he would stick to his formula. No matter how the robbers and murderers might threaten him – his best chance to survive was if Don and Larry could catch the perpetrators.

He didn't take long to determine the next target. "'Il Miglior D'Oro' on Sunset Avenue," he informed the two men when they once more strode into his cell. "Five days after the latest assault, at 18:30."

"So, Monday?"

The time when Charlie had known which date was written was long ago. "Maybe. The most recent was Wednesday?"

"It was. So in three days?"

Charlie couldn't help his answer from failing slightly unnerved. "If today is Friday." Why did they keep asking him these things? They should have known that he had no concept of time there. He didn't even know what time of day it was.

Slowly and threatening, the Captain advanced. "I advise you not to trick us, young fellow. You are completely sure that they won't catch us? Monday, eighteen thirty, 'Miglior D'Oro'?"

"Of course," Charlie answered coldly.

The cruel smile crept across the Captain's face again. "Very well," he said. "But you surely don't expect us to wholly trust you so soon now? No, that's really out of question, I'm afraid. Therefore, Nick has secured us a little precautionary measure." He made a brief gesture that worked on the Mustache like the order of a remote control. He shortly left the room, re-entering with a black box in his arm. The thought of what it could be made nausea rise in Charlie.

"This," the Captain began to explain, pointing at the instrument, "is our insurance. Nick is going to install it here Monday. It has a timed detonator. If we aren't back from our little trip at nine o'clock in the evening, you too will start a trip – across the Styx, as it were. So, are you really sure that we won't be taking a risk with your calculations?"

Charlie swallowed. He tried, though, not to show his panic. "Well, of course there's always a certain risk in-"

"You know exactly what I mean!" the Captain cut him off. "So?"

"I've chosen the best opportunity," Charlie answered.

With Mustache in tow, the Captain left the room without noticing the double meaning in Charlie's words.