I do not own Hawaii Five-0 or any characters. No copyright infringement intended.

Notes:

H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O

Chapter Twelve

"Something's wrong," Steve argued over the phone, his temper flaring to get the better of him even though Kono was wholeheartedly agreeing with him. "Issue a BOLO! Right now!" Originally amused by what he'd assumed to be a nominal delay caused by traffic or some other trivial cause, Steve was now on the verge of panic as he failed at tracking Danny down. Wheelchair bound while still inside the hospital's walls, he was unable to pace or do those things he'd automatically manage for himself. Frustrated and worried, he remained stuck precisely where he was, utterly helpless.

Mild amusement had become annoyance as time ticked by, then he'd gotten a bad itch. A pervasive feeling that perhaps something was wrong ... that something bad had happened to Danny. When his calls went unanswered, Steve's worry had transformed into an unlikely anger. A check of the time had warranted action and Steve had called the Five-0 offices demanding that either Chin or Kono track the Camaro's GPS signal, along with that of Danny's cell phone. When those results came back so very close to the hospital, yet the signals unmoving, Steve now didn't hesitate. His voice on the rise, he was demanding that alerts be issued and HPD resources be instantly assigned to locating his partner despite the obvious fact that Kono was trying to explain that she'd already set those wheels into motion.

"Get someone there, Kono," Steve said, his voice loud despite the supposed sanctity of the hospital's walls. "I want that car locked down and checked from top to bottom! He's not just late anymore! Something's happened to Danny ... he's not answering his phone. I want him found ... now!"

"Steve?" He glanced up at the call of his name, not too surprised to find Doctor Ramirez coming his way. The older man knew of his release that day and was likely there to confirm medical orders. It was another facet of the doctor's generous nature, but Steve didn't have the time nor desire to express his thanks. Not quite yet.

"Doc," Steve murmured softly in acknowledgment. His thoughts were far away though. Preoccupied by something far more important, he didn't have time to fully answer the man's obvious concerned query. Instead, Steve listened to Kono's recitation of his orders as he roughly scrubbed his fingers through his hair, hard enough to hurt while his brain triple-timed though the worst possible scenarios. Before he ended his call with Kono though, he was voicing his biggest fear to both her and the retired doctor.

"Callaghan's people have him ... I know they do."

H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O* H5O

HPD hadn't been sent to Steve's house. There hadn't been a need because of the general belief being that Danny had been abducted en route to the hospital. With the Camaro sitting idle at a small convenience mart only one block from the hospital, the stage had been set exactly as Callaghan had planned. Unbeknownst to anyone as they chased a series of dead ends, Callaghan had gone back into Steve's house to calmly gather up all of Danny's personal articles, including the duffle bag. The man had even taken the time to clean the smears of blood left on the refrigerator - inside and out before following his second who had driven the Camaro to the local convenience mart at a slow, leisurely pace. They had parked on opposite sides of the small store, Callaghan waiting for his lackey to leave the Camaro and join him so that they could continue on to the airport.

By the time they'd situated themselves in the first class lounge, stretched out and with cool drinks in hand, the first of the HPD units were circling the parked Camaro. Both Chin and Kono were knee-deep in setting up a perimeter and questioning anyone who might have seen Danny or noticed anything out of the ordinary. More than an hour after raising the alarm, Steve had begun to slowly implode from his enforced inability to participate. So it was Doctor Ramirez who had rescued Steve from the sterile confines of the hospital, driving the anxious man home in the end. Adamant about the BOLO and demanding all hands on deck in the search for his partner, Steve had done all he could and it made sense for the doctor to kindly step in, intervening to help where he could, too.

Unlocking his front door, Steve hop-stepped over the threshold, Ponch on his heels. Both men were quiet, each lost in thought. Ponch worried about the welfare of both young men and Steve solely focused on Danny. Feeling useless and leaning heavily on a pair of crutches, Steve continued on to the kitchen, his depression growing in knowing that Danny had so recently been there. In fact, Chin had found the duffel on the back seat of the Camaro, his clothes packed not so neatly inside. But on the front passenger seat, Danny's wallet, cell phone and badge had been left for all to see. A clear challenge - a dangerous statement - proof that he had indeed been taken. And what hurt Steve the most, was that Danny had been so close to the hospital when it had happened.

With hardly a glance over his shoulder, Steve mumbled a nonsensical sound to Ponch who was already warning him to get off his feet. Traffic had been heavy on the freeway and it was now nearing three hours since Danny's time of disappearance, and they still had nothing. Not even a hint of a rumor. Only a pile of Danny's belongings which had been left inside the car.

"Steve, you need to sit down. You can take any calls from a chair," Ponch said more firmly. Evidently the short crutched hobble from car to house was deemed to be too much, and irritated by the mollycoddling, Steve frowned. Instead of obeying, he loitered in the kitchen, abandoning one crutch against the counter and leaning on the second to pour himself a glass of water. His silent reasoning being thirst which was more an excuse to merely stay on his feet in order to stare idly out his back window. Momentarily unchallenged by Ramirez, Steve stayed where he was in the kitchen, sensing the doctor's movements inside his house. Activity which seemed to focus in the main living area, likely getting the sofa ready for him based upon his desire to get Steve off his feet.

Lost in thought and silently demanding that someone call with an update, Steve took a sip from his glass as he gazed out the window upset about how Callaghan had once again bested them. Staring almost blindly at the sky, the ocean and then the two chairs which he didn't really see at first. He stopped though, the water glass held mid way to his lips, when he saw it - the thing which didn't belong. His brain sputtered, sparking a severe tremble through his hand. A tremble so severe that the water glass slipped from his nerveless fingers and he dropped it. The heavy tumbler fell, its impact in the empty sink overly loud. Glass splintering instantly, shards sparkling warningly in the porcelain basin.

"Where did that come from?" Steve said out loud and entirely to himself before a startling realization teased his thoughts and he gasped in denial. "What the hell?" He narrowed his eyes, a strange feeling tightening across his chest as his breath hitched in understanding and he began to move.

"Oh my God - that's not mine."

"Steve?" Ponch rounded the corner, pillows in hand, the sound of breaking glass easy enough for him to hear in the quiet house. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

"That's not mine!" He repeated almost stupidly as he turned to face the big doctor, whose substantial size blocked the doorway. But then the second crutch was crashing to the floor and Steve was grabbing a large carving knife from the butcher block. He ignored the doctor's stunned expression, one hand raised defensively as if he might do something completely unexpected.

"What are you going on about ... what's not yours?" Ramirez asked in confusion as he warily eyed the knife. But then he was unceremoniously shoved aside, Steve nearly falling past him in his rush. The doctor tried to grab the younger man's arm to stop his momentum, but he was almost too easily shaken off. Surprised by Steve's sudden show of strength, Ponch lost his balance and fell into the door frame, stumbling back a step or two, pillows falling from his arms.

"Steve! Wait! Where are you going?" He asked, worry spiking as he realized Steve was bearing weight on his bad leg. "You can't walk yet ... stop!"

"Doc ... that box ... it's not mine," Steve exclaimed as he hobbled towards the lanai, his heart hammering inside his chest. He knew what it was then - he guessed what Callaghan had done and he was mortified by the truth, yet he couldn't find enough of the right words. Stammering over his own tongue, Steve wildly gestured with the knife as he paused long enough to make eye contact with his older friend. He knew the awful truth as he said the words, the heat of the sun beating down mercilessly from above. Too long - it had been far too long and he cursed Callaghan's persistent vindictiveness. Steve pleaded with Ramirez, spouting demands, tears already glistening in his eyes.

"Call 911 right now. Danny's here, Doc. He's been right here the entire time!"

"But!" Ramirez started to object until he followed Steve out the lanai. Nothing looked wrong and the yard was peacefully quiet, only the sounds of seagulls could be heard echoing from overhead. He scowled in confusion, his arms spread beseechingly because he saw absolutely nothing out of place. "Here? How could he be here?"

"The storage box ... Doc," Steve gasped as he hopped across the grassy expanse, the pain in his voice obvious as every unfortunate step tore into his thigh and lower back. Still, he continued on, knowing that Danny would be inside and that they could very well be much too late.

"It's not mine ... it's not supposed to be here."

"Storage box?" Ponch complained, still baffled when his eyes settled on the boring shape, common enough as it was until he realized what Steve was truly saying. Until he really saw Steve's desperation and the knife he held in his hand. His one goal with that knife, the composite storage container and its sparkling silver lock, its bland sides decorated with the molded impressions of happy sea turtles. Placed in the sun-drenched yard near the two chairs the storage container looked normal enough until Steve's words sunk into his mind.

It's not mine ... it's not supposed to be here.

"Oh no," the doctor muttered softly as he realized what Steve meant and without another hesitation, he yanked his cell phone from his pocket in order to place the urgent call. Then he was running in the opposite direction, back though the house and out the front door, returning to his own vehicle to get his medical bag.

"Danny!" Steve shouted as he tried to run across his yard. "Danny!" His hop-skipped gait was more of a pained limp, lame as he was from being wounded. He crashed to his knees by the container, thumping his fist on the hot lid as he fell. Scared beyond measure, he continually called out his friend's name distinctly aware of the biting pain in his thigh and hip.

"Shit! Danny! Can you hear me?" He bellowed loudly as he began to work on the heavy lock. Steve's voice fell into a whimper when there was no response though. Not a sound from inside and he nearly dropped the knife, his hands slick with sweat in his haste for speed.

"Danny. God damnit. Answer me. Please, please answer me, buddy." Gasping though a debilitating pain which he was trying to ignore, Steve forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Leaning heavily on his better knee, he used the blade of the knife to forcibly pry the metal flanges away from the thick material. He worked at the housing quickly, snapping the metal away hard enough to break the tip of the knife to finally win the battle. He jarred his hand when the metal gave but then he was automatically thumbing the latches open, the sharp clicks of their springs flying free to allow the lid to pop open.

"Nononono," Steve chanted brokenly as he caught sight of the shock of sweat-drenched, blood-stained hair. "Danny?"

In stunned horror, Steve took in the form of his best friend, bound and lifeless, and all he could do for a moment was simply stare. Afraid to touch him, Steve's hand hovered inches above Danny's shoulder, his fingers clenching and unclenching repeatedly completely unsure of what do despite years of training.

"Danny. Danny ... Please," he whispered, a sob catching in his throat as he finally thought to move. He reached inside, a hand under Danny's head, the other trying to lift the dead weight of his upper body and hurting himself in the process. Hobbling on one leg, Steve awkwardly heaved Danny free not immediately realizing that Ponch was there, too, at Danny's feet and helping to lift.

With infinite care Steve sank back down to his knees. He was feeling weak and decidedly slow as he carefully sliced the duct tape away from Danny's face, cursing Callaghan's name as he gently removed the gummy wad of cloth from Danny's mouth. Pillowed in his arms, the mussed blonde head lolled listlessly, Danny's mouth now partly open but under rivulets of sticky blood, his face ashen and lax. He glanced once in askance into Ponch's eyes, the doctor expertly running his hands over Danny's face and neck, his assessment quick but telling.

"We need to get him out of the sun. I got his hands ... and his legs," Ponch said as he used a pair of surgical scissors to free Danny's wrists and remove the duct tape from his knees and ankles. He moved quickly, slicing away the remnants of heavy gray tape, glancing hurriedly over Danny's body, constantly assessing. Unhappy by his first impressions, Ponch crouched down to take Danny's wrist between his fingers. The pulse was there, but fluttering and much too faint. Worry spiking for the heated texture of Danny's skin and the gash on his temple, the doctor tried to catch Steve's eye.

"Steve ... is he still breathing?"

"Yes," Steve whispered as he caught the shallow rise of his friend's chest, his eyes shining with tears. His fingers were melded to the side of Danny's neck but then he shook his head in frustration as he readjusted his grip. For a long heartbeat, he felt nothing ... saw nothing ... and Steve lost his focus.

"I don't think so." He couldn't be certain of anything as he looked down into Danny's slack face, all reason fleeing his mind. "He's not breathing. I don't think he's breathing," he forced himself to say while he tried to understand the bluish hue to Danny's lips, so odd against the ashen pallor of his skin. "No. I don't know. Doc?"

"We need to move him to the shade and lay him flat," Ramirez ordered as he swiftly took over the triage when Steve froze, his fingers numbly carding through Danny's lank hair. "Steve? We need to cool him down ... check his airway ... get him breathing. Come on, son. Steve ... get up and help me out here."

Steve nodded, registering that Ponch was lifting Danny away from him and he needed to help. Old fashioned resilience finally got his brain to function as he struggled to his own feet, unsteady and hissing in pain. He bent over at the waist, his vision sparkling oddly as his thigh muscle seized and his lower back objected. He heard Ponch's concerned queries and shook his head to deny the questions, a definite mistake as the world spun dangerously under his feet.

"Fine," Steve vowed though gritted teeth. Eyes briefly closed to fight pain and vertigo, completely incapable of moving let alone helping Ponch, he fought to control his breathing and stay upright. "Can you ... move him?"

"I'll do most of the work ... I got him," the big doctor confirmed as Steve tried to help carry his partner to the shady corner of the lawn, yet failed. Using the advantage of his size, Ponch levered Danny's upper body up, his arms crossed across the detective's chest as he slowly dragged the injured man backwards into the shade where he laid Danny down in the grass. Ponch watched Steve stumble in his wake, his skin shining in sweat and his face now nearly as gray as his partner's. Ponch opened his mouth and then closed it, knowing he'd get nowhere with him. So instead, he doled out a simple job to keep Steve's hands busy and his mind focused.

"Sit down. I don't care where," Ponch brusquely stated, slightly relieved when Steve eased himself down to the grassy lawn next to Danny's side. His bad leg out-stretched, Steve rocked on his good hip and briefly squeezed his eyes closed, his discomfort evident. For the moment though, that could be all which the doctor could hope for and so he set his jaw unhappily before concentrating on Danny.

"We need to cool him down," he said. "Get his shirt off ... we need to cool him down, Steve. You do that and I'll be right back."

While Ponch briefly left them, Steve worked at the buttons of Danny's shirt, his fingers feeling too thick to work right. He snuck a look through his lashes at his friend's face, no less stunned to see the bluish tint to Danny's lips. Blood streaked Danny's brow and ran in jagged, shiny lines down his left cheek, humidity not allowing the red stains to dry.

"Danno?" Steve breathed out softly because Danny's eyes were partly open with just a hint of glassy blue showing; but the sightless gaze was unnerving. Worse yet, Danny still didn't appear to be breathing and Steve began to shake as he forced himself to finish unbuttoning the tacky shirt. His fear swelled when everything seemed to take too long and he couldn't get his fingers to cooperate. In a fit of frustration, he resorted to using the kitchen knife, the simple snick of its broken tip still easily cutting through restrictive fabric. Then he was slicing through each sleeve, pulling the sweat-stained garment off in hacked pieces, his distress growing as heat rolled off Danny in sickly waves.

"Here, take this," Ponch said just above his left shoulder. Steve glanced up, not realizing that Ponch had left him for the garden hose until it was thrust into his hands. Cool water was already trickling slowly from its end and new orders were given as the doctor focused on Danny's vital signs.

"He's breathing ... his respiration is depressed, but he's alive," Ponch softly assured Steve, their eyes meeting over the top of Danny's body. "But you need to help me cool him down," the doctor patiently reiterated as he put his hand over Steve's to demonstrate what he wanted when the younger man didn't react.

"Like this," Ponch coached while he gently guided both their hands together with the water hose over Danny's arms first. "Slowly, over his head, chest and arms ... cool him down, Steve. Ambulance is on the way; but I need you to keep doing this until they get here. Don't stop."

"Yeah, I know ... I'm sorry ... I know," Steve murmured as he mentally chastised himself, his hands suddenly more confident as he ran his fingers through Danny's hair, swiping sweat, blood and heat away under the gentle flow. He thumbed away the blood on Danny's cheek. Then he set the gentle stream of water across Danny's bruised neck, shoulders and torso, moving on to his arms; skimming gently over torn and swollen wrists only to begin again at the top. Over and over, Steve saturated Danny's hair and focused on the critical task of cooling down his overheated friend until he was told to stop.

~ to be continued ~