A/N: OP - I'm not sure why the words are clumping together - I can guarantee that they aren't in theoriginal document, and they aren't when I pull up the chapter for a last review in document manager. Something is happening between the document manager and the actual loaded story. When I get a chance I may try to get in there and see if I can reload the chapters that have the problem.
Chapter 12
A dispirited group clustered around the conference room table late that afternoon. Everyone looked exhausted, Megan thought, as her eyes roved the table, and Don looked ready to drop. He was still healing, and in spite of the fact he'd been sitting most of the day, it was still too much. He needed to be home in bed. Alan had hovered over him all day, and had tried numerous times to get him to leave, to no avail. The senior Eppes now sat silently, subdued, in the corner.
David still looked miserable, his eyes haunted, and even Colby was quiet. They'd spent a long day checking out warehouses and running down leads on the cars, none of which had panned out. Megan cleared her throat, and tried to put conviction in her voice. "We can go through the Moran property listings again. There may be a site we haven't looked at yet."
"It might not be their warehouse," said Don quietly, and his voice hardened. "There's one way to find out. We need to show Moran and Angelo the video."
"We'll have to get permission from the DA," said Megan, a note of caution in her voice. "They might want to exchange information for lesser charges, and I'm sure the DA will want to be involved."
"Then let's get him on the phone," said Don impatiently. "We're running out of time, here."
Megan's lips tightened just a bit, but she said nothing, just rose and stepped out of the room, heading for her phone. Don watched her, frowning, uncomfortably aware of how irritable he'd sounded. He rose and followed her out of the conference room, trailed by Alan's anxious eyes.
Don was beyond tired, and still unbearably sore, but at least his head seemed better. The headache was receding, his thoughts were clearer, and the dizziness was nearly gone. He needed rest, though, he knew; his body was ready to give out. The only thing that was keeping him going was adrenaline generated by pure fear. They had no idea what was happening with Charlie. How severe was his injury? Was he bleeding badly? Could he make it three days without treatment? Was Moran still with him, or had he left him somewhere, and wandered off in a drug-induced haze? Or worse, had he gone over the edge, and decided to terminate whatever plan he'd hatched, and end Charlie's life? The unknown was wearing at him, driving an unbearable sense of urgency; which in turn made him short tempered, edgy.
He drifted up next to her desk, a rueful expression on his face, and her lips quirked just slightly and her brow relaxed a little. She nodded at him reassuringly, wordlessly conveying that she had gotten and accepted his unspoken apology. It struck him suddenly how well they knew each other – he, Megan, David, Colby. Four different people, but they had such a deep understanding of each other, they could work through horrendous events like Megan's kidnapping and Colby's arrest, and still emerge as one unit, the bond intact, so powerful they didn't need words to communicate. Charlie had been part of that unit, too, and Don knew his agents viewed his brother as part of the team, every bit as much as they were.
The thought made him remember again why they were here. They were in this position because four years ago, Don had made a decision to allow Charlie to consult for him, to become part of that team. It was a decision he devoutly wished he hadn't made, and one he would forever question, no matter how this turned out.
Megan hung up the phone. "He approved it," she said, excitement in her voice, a smile on her lips. "He's going to call the prison and set it up. He'll meet us there."
Don felt his heart quicken. "When?"
"An hour from now."
He nodded. "Okay. We need to get prepared, and I need to review the tape again."
Her smile faded. "Don – you aren't – I mean, one of us should go in…"
He smiled back with a hint of steel in his eyes, and said nothing, just turned on his heel and headed for the conference room.
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Darkness was falling, and Sean studied his captive with concern, fighting the urge to pop another hit of meth. He was going to move the car soon, and he couldn't afford to be too high. He had taken two hits, which seemed to be enough to keep him from deteriorating physically – and mentally. His mind was playing tricks on him; part of the time it seemed to be working normally, and part of the time it wandered off into limbo, where reason seemed distorted. The wandering seemed worse when he was either very high, or very low. He needed just the right amount of meth to function. Two hits. Or maybe three.
Eppes was feeling the effects of his injury, Sean could tell. He was weak, flushed and glassy-eyed, and was still losing blood, slowly. As Sean watched him, he saw the young man's eyes flutter open and shut, and a shudder passed through him. Chills maybe. He remembered Tommy talking about feeling feverish, and his concern abated a little. This was going just as it should – just like Tommy, although Tommy had still been on his feet after two days. He wondered if Eppes could walk. Maybe after he moved the car, he'd untie him, and get him up on his feet.
He stared a moment longer, and the image in front of him transformed, the dark curls straightening, the features shifting, until he was looking at his younger brother. His stomach twisted; the image made him want to cry. He shook himself and it vanished, but it was enough to make him reach for his pack. Definitely, three hits – two were not cutting it. He tossed another one down, and sat down to wait for the sun to set.
The third hit helped. A half hour later, it was dark and he was out the door and in the car, and pulling down the long gravel road that led to the highway. When he'd driven to the site earlier, there had been a road block on the way in, but they'd taken one look at his coat, standard fire gear, and waved him through. There had been no block on the other side of the highway, he noted, and there still wasn't. He didn't want to take any chances, though. They could put one up at any time. He was going to leave the car on the other side of the roadblock, up on the ridge in the deserted housing development. He would hike back to the construction company under the cover of darkness. If anyone came poking around there, they wouldn't see a car. Plus, he'd have the vehicle stashed for his getaway, after he'd killed them.
He cruised through the roadblock area without raising more than a disinterested glance, and two hundred yards later, made the left that led up the ridge. He went all the way to the last cul-de-sac at the top, pulled the car off to the side, locked it, and began his trek back down the side of the hill in the darkness, avoiding the road and cutting through the scrub. The fireman had a flashlight in the vehicle, and Sean had tucked it in the voluminous pocket of the coat, but he would only use it in an absolute necessity. The construction building was a little over a mile away; a fifteen or twenty minute walk on a level surface. Through the scrub, and in the night, it would take him at least half an hour, plus a wait at the highway if there was traffic. He couldn't afford to have anyone see him cross it.
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Charlie heard Sean leave, and lifted his head at the sound of the car. He sat for a moment, listening, just breathing, as the sound of the tires on gravel faded. It seemed to take an effort just to do that; he was weak and shaky; racked with chills. It was dark again; he'd been shot the night before; what time he didn't know, but he knew it had been dark. He had to be closing in on twenty-four hours – one whole day. One whole day since his kidnapping, one whole day since he'd been shot.
His shoulder was still unbearably painful, but he found he could move his body a little now and still maintain consciousness. He suspected his shoulder was swollen; it was achy and throbbing, and he was sure he had a fever. Possibly the swelling had shifted things, taking pressure off a nerve, or maybe – he shuddered to think it – the tissue was infected and dying. The wound was still oozing blood; the dressings Sean had put on his shoulder had been saturated long ago. The upside was he was able to move a little, the downside was that he was rapidly becoming sicker and weaker. He knew if he was ever going to try to help himself, it would have to be now.
His eyes traveled to the desktop where Sean had set some of his things. The pack of crackers and the Taser were close enough to the edge that Charlie could see them, silhouetted in the moonlight streaming through the windows. He was hoping Sean's switchblade was there too. Taking a deep breath, he pulled his back away from the wall, and began to try to scoot forward by extending and pulling with his bound legs, creeping like an inchworm.
The desk was only a few feet away, but by the time he reached it, he was exhausted and trembling, covered in a cold sweat. He sat for a moment, breathing heavily, wondering how on earth he was going to stand. He forced himself to move; he had no idea how long Sean would be gone.
There was file cabinet next to the desk, and he pulled his feet close to him and leaned against it. His hands were bound in front of him; if his shoulder hadn't been injured, he could have lifted his arms and grabbed hold of the corner of the desk to help himself up, but with his limited mobility that wouldn't be an option until he got at least part way. He pushed with his feet and leaned against the cabinet, trying to get leverage.
The first two times, he only got a few inches off the ground, sliding his good shoulder along the cabinet as he rose. He couldn't get his feet underneath him well enough, and he lost his balance, landing with a thump on his seat again, sweating and panting with fatigue and pain. For a moment, he felt despair take hold – this was never going to work. He sat for just a moment, then shook himself mentally and gathered his resolve. He had to keep trying. The alternative was ending up in the pit in the back of the building.
He pulled his feet toward him again, and this time, tried to lean forward as he pushed sideways against the cabinet. Shaking and straining, he finally got to a height were he could grab the corner of the desk with his bound hands, and pulled. The stress on his shoulder sent a nauseating wave of pain through it and he groaned aloud, but kept pushing. He was now upright, leaning heavily against the cabinet for balance, his bound feet twisted awkwardly underneath him. He paused for a moment, his chest heaving, and his eyes fell on his target. The switchblade was there, lying on the other side of the crackers, next to a pack of plastic ties.
He leaned forward, sliding along the cabinet as much as he could, until he was bent over the desk. He had to use his hands for support now, and he set them on the desk and pushed forward, his hands sliding toward the knife. He was now bent nearly in half, his forearms on the desk, one hip still against the file cabinet for support. As he slid, his arms extended, and he could feel pressure increasing in his shoulder. The agony made him groan through clenched teeth, but still he pushed, until his hands made contact with the switchblade and one of them closed on it. Black spots were dancing in his vision now, and he clutched the knife desperately as he tried to pull himself back. He was losing it, had to hold onto the knife, had to…
When he woke, he realized he was sitting on the floor again leaning against the file cabinet, the knife lying next to him. He had no idea how long he'd been out, and he grabbed the switchblade, desperately, his hands shaking. He had to move, had to hurry. He examined the knife and found the catch, depressed it, and flicked the blade open. It was relatively easy to cut through the plastic tie around his ankles, but the hands were tougher. He tried putting the blade handle between his knees, but he couldn't grip it tight enough; the knife kept slipping or twisting. He finally got it secured between his bare feet, and cut through the tie on his wrists. He was free; the question was; could he walk?
Now that his good arm could move independently of his injured one and his separated feet could plant solidly on the floor, getting up was much easier. Still, he leaned against the cabinet as he rose, grabbing the corner of his desk with his right hand. Upright, he stood for a moment until the whirling in his head calmed, and took a shaky step, then two, using the desk for support. His eyes fell on the telephone – maybe he could call for help…
It was a futile hope, he discovered, the line was dead. He was going to have to make it out on his own, and it was now or never – he had to go. He set his sights on the doorway, and staggered toward it.
Outside, the faint scent of smoke assailed him, the wind gusting, flinging dust in his face. He moved away from the building, lurching, weaving; cradling his injured arm in his good one, heedless of the rocks cutting into his feet. He knew he had to make the scrub on the other side of the parking area, and he had to do it quickly. Once under cover, he'd follow the slope of the hill; he remembered that the highway lay at the bottom of it. The Santa Ana gusted again, nearly knocking him off his feet, and roared off over the hillside, like a capricious giant romping through the night.
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End Chapter 12
