A/N: Happy Easter to those that celebrate and thanks to all for the kind reviews!
I'm grateful for the usual awesomeness, Katt… but also specifically for the save with that particularly pesky section ;) This chapter is dedicated to Bitsy and Sammy :sniff:

Chapter 14

With wakefulness came panic and it grabbed him as vice-like as the grip around his lungs. He was drowning again and Daniel's hands instinctively scrabbled for purchase; anything to keep him afloat.

Alive.

Broken bones protested the frantic movement and he stilled clumsy fingers, shooting flames licking up them all the way to his shoulders; red hot flares pulsing everywhere but concentrated mostly at each end. Along with his ribs, he'd broken his collarbone again, and his hands felt as useless and mangled as his mouth.

He laughed then – the thought of a singer/guitarist without use of his mouth, hands and arms sending him over the precipice into insanity. But the bubbling laughter cut short as the chains wrapping around his chest grew tighter and that unnerving whistle from his lungs found his ears once again.

He had to calm down. He didn't know how long someone could survive with a collapsed lung but had enough presence of mind to realize that frantic breaths and sudden movements could only expedite the process. Speed up death. No, he had to remain calm and still.

Daniel McFadden: calm and still. The concept so foreign it almost brought on more agonizing, life-sucking laughter.

He could list the number of teachers who'd accused him of restlessness at best; hyperactivity at worst. And they wouldn't exactly be wrong. Over the years he'd been compared to a jumping bean and the energizer bunny. Or, his favorite of recent memory… an unbroken stallion. But he wasn't really all that wild. Truth be told, school just couldn't hold his attention anymore, especially since he'd started writing music in earnest. Notes and chords would come to him all the time and every day he fought hard to corral them into his memory – desperate not to lose them – and instead focus on his teachers' garbled voices or the gibberish they'd write on their chalk boards.

He should've bailed on school when he'd turned eighteen. He had no interest in it at all anymore and hadn't been applying himself for months. After witnessing Evan and Adam go at it though after Evan had announced his desire to quit, well, Daniel had kept his own like-minded thoughts under wraps. There were only so many battles he could fight with his oldest brother and, though Crane usually had his roommate's back, Daniel knew quitting school was something his brainiac brother wouldn't support.

Daniel understood how important getting a high-school diploma was – for most people – he really did. Hell, he even agreed that Evan should stay in school… at least until he turned eighteen.

But, for all the effort Daniel was expending at BHU – which constituted mostly of not falling asleep or not getting caught writing music – dropping out was the battle he realized now he should have waged. After all, not only would he have had more time to write but, he could have helped out around home more too.

It wasn't that music and working the ranch had to be mutually exclusive. Yet. It was just, well, throw school into the mix and then Daniel was incredibly torn. Because it was the music that always, always suffered most. And that meant that Daniel suffered too.

Oh, how he wished he could make his brothers understand that. Not even Crane really understood Daniel's compulsion to write. He couldn't, because he didn't share it. Even though Crane was a terrific lyricist and composer in his own right, Daniel knew his roommate didn't carry around the same relentless barrage of words and music in his head. Where Crane was concerned though, he didn't need to experience it to support Daniel. With Crane, all that mattered was that it was important to Daniel.

Just like their mom. It hadn't mattered that her Gibson was too big for him, Daniel had wanted to learn to play on it and she'd taught him. Well, humored him to begin with, he knew now. With the patience Crane had inherited from her, their mom had worked with Daniel… nestled in next to her, first with his stubby fingers cradled in hers as she played the chords for him and he strummed with his other hand. And then later, as his fingers grew long enough to wrap around that guitar's neck, she had always been there to take him to talent shows and contests. Sometimes, he'd learned later, having to argue with the organizers to get him into the ones she was told he was too young for. Ones that were 'too competitive', that 'little Danny wouldn't be able to handle', especially once 'he inevitably lost'.

Those organizers had been wrong. It had never actually been about the trophies and ribbons for Daniel, it had been about performing and belting out songs and playing that guitar. Making people smile and sing or clap along. And his mother knew that. Maybe even more than Crane did.

He missed her so damn much. His dad too. Mama though? Well, Daniel might be a little delusional at the moment but, he actually thought she might have even supported him quitting school. As long as it meant he followed his passion. His dreams.

God, here he was, only eighteen years old and he was going to die with so many regrets.

He regretted his fights with Adam, but, more than that, he wished he could have fought different somehow. Better. Daniel really didn't want to die knowing their last words had been so heated and full of so little understanding between them. He loved Adam so very much, it hurt that he'd never been able to get through to him. He'd been incapable of showing his big brother that he wasn't just being stubborn and impetuous; he was writing music because not writing wasn't even an option.

Just like not breathing wasn't an option.

Present inability notwithstanding.

He'd tried though. By screaming, yelling and even through song. And though he'd failed, Daniel didn't think it was entirely his fault. After all, if Adam couldn't see it with his own eyes; if he couldn't see what was in Daniel's heart and what their mom had seen, well, maybe he was just blind.

Daniel knew he was talented enough to make it too. And, he was still just learning his craft. Honing it like Jimmy Travallo had told him to and getting better and better every day.

And, as he listened to the cadence of his faltering breaths and straining heart, he realized one of his biggest regrets, selfish as it admittedly was. He was so damn close; knew he already had some truly album-worthy songs under his belt. But the song relentlessly taunting him these days; the one playing like an unfinished soundtrack in his head… he had full faith it would have been his anthem.

His ticket to an industry contract.

If only he'd had more time to work on it. To carve out the lyrics worthy of its rousing melody.

If only.

The lyrics had been coming to Daniel for days and, even as he lay dying – feeling so tired, frail and hurting – they were bombarding him. Even as he waited for his last breaths, those words and chords were coalescing in his mind and tickling his swollen, distorted lips, itching to be sung.

Daniel had forgotten – and so had Adam – one of the most important lessons the McFadden sons had learned a decade ago…

That time was incredibly short. Chasing his dreams had been a race against time and, now at only eighteen, Daniel was losing that race.

Had lost it.

Damn it, he didn't want to cry. Given how dehydrated he was, it was a wonder his body could still produce any tears. Or blood. His eyes were streaming though. Lack of oxygen would do that to a body. So would heartache and regret.

Daniel didn't want to die. Not yet. He'd always hoped that when his number came up he'd die grateful for the time he'd had and without any true regrets. But, he was so damn tired. Tired of fighting. With Adam; with Vince… and for each agonizing, pitiful breath.

He wasn't giving up on his brothers; still knew they would come. But, he didn't have the strength to hold on anymore either. He'd close his eyes and let the coming sunset claim him. In sleep, in his dreams, maybe he'd even finish his song.

"There! What's that?"

The turn-off to the Nordstrom's road was still a good hundred yards or more ahead of them when Brian's abrupt shout accompanied the arm that darted in front of Adam's line of sight.

"Watch it!" Adam snapped, batting the intrusive appendage out of the way and pulling over next to the guardrail on what could barely be described as the gravel shoulder between the road and the deep slope alongside them. The cab of the International was definitely too small; the three oldest McFaddens crammed inside like sardines. It made for short tempers, especially with each of them consumed by anxiety, no, outright fear, for their next brother in line. Looking across the road to where Brian had been pointing, Adam's gaze returned to the truck parked up on the bank across from them. The one Adam had already noticed while he was still driving and had dismissed.

Leaning across Brian from where he'd been wedged against the door, and peering out the window, Crane dejectedly announced, "It's not a Dodge."

"I know but, what's that… up behind it?"

Adam's heart skipped a beat. Brian was right. It was no wonder everyone from the Scout leaders of their youth to the Forest Service of today raved about Brian's tracking skills. He had the eyesight of a hawk.

There was definitely the glint of something big and shiny beyond the Chevy pickup, hidden in the shadows of the trees along a fence-line well off the road. "Let's find out," Adam said, steel in his voice despite the hope and dread fluttering in his belly. Shifting the truck back into gear, he pulled out and crossed the road at a diagonal before rolling to a stop on that side's more generous shoulder.

Crane scrambled out of the door before Adam even cut the engine.

"Goddamn it, Crane, wait!" Brian's words were harsh but Adam was sure it was the panic underlying them that actually stopped Crane cold. The tone certainly had thrown Adam. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Brian sound frantic. His next words though, as hushed as they were commanding, explained why. "Slow the hell down. We don't know what we're stepping into here."

"He's right, Crane. Come on; I need you to keep your head." Adam reluctantly agreed with Brian, even though he wanted nothing more than to charge the two vehicles too. From their closer vantage point, Adam was able to get a better look at what was behind the Chevrolet: another pickup truck. Though still quite obscured, Adam could see hints of white.

Warner's truck was blue and white.

They were close to answers, maybe even close to Daniel, and Adam could barely breathe.

"But, he could be right there!" Crane argued, clearly of the same mind as Adam. He looked desperate, ready to bolt and Adam quickly rounded the front of their truck, ready to grab him if necessary.

"Yeah, and that could be a drug deal," Brian ground out, putting voice to the warning bells going off in Adam's head. Two vehicles, one belonging to a pusher, parked in the shadows well off to the side of an isolated road. What else could it be? "Give me a second here," Brian insisted, inexplicably reaching into the narrow space behind the International's bench seat.

And pulling out a Winchester rifle and a box of cartridges.

Adam raised an eyebrow as his eyes met Brian's. When in the hell did you put that in there? The question remained unasked. Adam should have known better; of course his brother had come prepared for anything.

"Later," Brian responded nonetheless, the hint of a smirk curling his lips. Effortlessly loading cartridges into the magazine, his steady, intent gaze never wavered from Adam's. Those dark eyes hardened though once he closed the bolt and clicked off the safety, settling the gun onto his shoulder. Backhanding Crane with a confidence-inducing slap, he coolly said, "Let's go get us some answers."

They didn't say anything else; years of hunting with their dad and with each other meant no further need for coordination. They split off, Brian stealthily taking a wider berth, intent on swinging around and coming up behind the two trucks, surprising their occupants. Adam and Crane took the shorter, straighter route, still approaching on an angle though in order to minimize themselves as targets. Adam stayed just ahead of Crane, a position that wasn't easy to sustain. Crane's legs were longer and he was being driven by recklessness only too familiar to his oldest brother, the same kind that had propelled Adam in his relentless search for Hannah's downed plane. The same recklessness that could have left four kids orphans for a second time.

Crane's singular focus was on finding Daniel, to hell with everything else, including self-preservation. Adam didn't have that luxury. He'd learned his lesson. Yes, he fiercely needed to find Daniel but, he had to ensure he didn't lose any other brothers in the process. So with each forward step, Adam's left hand, its grip secure on Crane's arm, pushed back; intent on keeping Crane one pace behind him.

Coming up on the Chevy first, Adam fought the urge to go straight to the Dodge. He could see it clearly now, rear license plate included. It was definitely Warner's.

Adam reluctantly released his hold on Crane, heart thundering in his chest as he allowed his younger brother to peel away from him: Adam taking the driver side, Crane the opposite. Distraught hazel eyes soon met Adam's through the Chevy's window glass and big brother had to look away. In part, to search out Brian. In part, watching for possible threats. But mostly, avoidance. The fear and heartache in Crane's eyes were going to break Adam if Daniel wasn't found soon.

There was no-one inside the cab, though the engine was running. Adam slowly, quietly opened the door, absently noting the CB radio mounted beneath the dash before shutting off the ignition and snagging the keys.

"Who's there?"

The deep unfamiliar voice came from beyond them, from the furthest side of the Dodge. Accompanying it, a Stetson immediately materialized over the hood of the truck. Its tall wearer taking a single stride toward them until the lethal sound of Brian's, "Hold it, mister; don't make another move," and the equally deadly rifle aimed in his direction froze the older man in place.

Adam finally breathed, allowing his pride in Brian to help calm his nerves before exchanging a quizzical glance with the younger brother joining him on his right. He knew what Crane was thinking: this guy didn't exactly appear to have drug dealer or addict emblazoned underneath the brim of his hat. And he was a hell of a lot older than Warner. Hell, he looked like a rancher, even reminded Adam a lot of their dad, thick moustache excluded.

Brian obviously wasn't willing to take any chances though. "Easy," he snarled, signaling with the muzzle of the gun for the man to raise his hands. Not surprisingly, he was rewarded with full cooperation. "Keep 'em high," Brian gruffly commanded as he worked his way around and toward his brothers, the line of the gun barrel never veering from dead center.

When Brian took up his place left of Adam's shoulder, oldest brother relaxed, just a little. Brian and Crane were safe and, though they hadn't found Vince Warner, they had the upper hand with, well, whoever this stranger was. Finding Daniel was within reach now, Adam felt it in his bones. And this cowboy, come hell or high water, was going to help them.

Taking care not to impede Brian's ability to fire if he had to, Adam stepped forward. He knew how imposing he and the two brothers closest to him could be so he had to give the older guy credit. He didn't so much as flinch. In fact, as Adam approached, the bigger man began to speak.

"Now, look, boys… there's no need for violence here," he said, the tremor in his voice betraying what his body-language hadn't. "If it's my truck you want, take it. My wallet's there too."

Adam halted his advance. Shit. This wasn't at all what he wanted to hear; needed to hear. Could it be possible that for the second time today, someone was being mistakenly threatened with a gun? Only this time, it was a McFadden doing the threatening. Adam took a good, long look at the tall man before him: the farmer's tan; too-much-time-under-the-sun wrinkles; his scuffed boots and work-hewn hands. Adam sighed. His instincts weren't always perfect but, Adam recognized one of his own breed when he saw it. "Brian, lower the gun."

"Adam—"

"Now, Brian!" Adam insisted not bothering to look back to see if his brother was complying. Addressing the towering stranger – and he was tall, at least six-three – Adam said, "We're not looking to rob you, mister. Looking for answers is more like it."

Dark eyes – Adam couldn't distinguish what color from beneath the hat brim – stared past him, over his shoulder. Undoubtedly still wary of the Winchester, the cowboy must've seen something from Brian, or more likely Crane, to make him relax his stance some. "Well, since you've got my undivided attention, what's the question?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Adam cracked a slight smile, maybe even a bit of a sheepish one. He had a feeling he could have been friends with this man had the circumstances been different. "How about, let's start with your name," he suggested. "Mine's McFadden. Adam." Indicating the young men behind him, he carried on with the introductions. "And those two are my brothers: Crane and, uh, the one with the itchy trigger-finger is Brian."

Nodding to each of them in cool acknowledgment, the man reciprocated. "Name's Jim Robson, foreman for the Kidder family vineyards." Hiking a thumb over his shoulder, he continued. "I was just taking a look at this Ram. That fence just behind it borders the back of our spread."

"Oh, God," Crane outright moaned and Adam turned his back on Robson, his concern for his younger brother outweighing any fear of retaliation from the older man.

Adam knew the foreman's announcement had just slammed into Crane like a Hereford bull. Mr. Robson was just here doing his job. He wasn't connected to Vince.

He wasn't a link to Daniel at all.

Crane twisted away from them, both arms wrapped around his head and a handful of thick blond waves pulled tight in each fist. He looked like he was about to come apart, or pull himself apart, and Adam went to him. Brian was ignoring the foreman too, his focus entirely on Crane as he rubbed his younger brother's back. "Hey, it's okay. Come on now; we're still gonna find him."

The McFaddens' third born was made of strong stuff. No one knew that more than the older brother who'd depended on him and had asked too damn much of him when he was just twelve. But right now Crane was crumbling under the weight of uncertainty and fear for Daniel's life. And Adam didn't know how to help him. He didn't have the comforting words that Brian was spouting. Not when their newest, best lead was looking like, if not a dead-end trail, one with a huge sinkhole in it and no bridge to cross it.

God, they were so desperate they'd just pulled a gun on an innocent man. And with nothing to show for it but more questions and a Dodge Ram that might well have simply been abandoned out here. It was no wonder their gentle and compassionate younger brother was about to shatter into a million pieces.

"Is he okay?" Robson asked; his concern sincere; the wariness of before was gone from the older man's face as Adam turned to answer him.

"He's…" Nothing else would come and Adam shook his head, feeling defeat, his attention returning to Crane as he grasped the kid's nearest hand and pried his fingers open while Brian worked on the other.

Apparently undeterred, the foreman came closer, offering a more than generous, "Is there anything I can do?"

From that offer came a muffled sob against Brian's chest. Adam was patting down the hair they'd managed to extricate from Crane's fingers as Brian now hung on, strong arms wrapping the kid in a fierce bear-hug. "No… we've got it, thanks," Adam replied huskily, wishing the intensely personal moment wasn't happening in front of this stranger.

Typical of Brian, he didn't care about their public display. Lifting his chin off Crane's shoulder, he responded too with, as desolate as it was bitter, "Sure. You think you could conjure up the owner of that truck?"

Adam wanted to reprimand his brother. Getting mouthy with the innocent man they'd just held at gunpoint didn't exactly constitute good manners. It wasn't terribly smart either, especially if they wanted to avoid jail-time. But, before he could say anything, Robson's next words froze Adam's blood.

"Don't I wish," he replied, smoothing his thumb and forefinger along his moustache. Looking back toward the Dodge, he shook his head and added, "Hell, I still can't decide if that kid's in trouble or if he is trouble."

Velvet blackness called to him and, with each useless breath, Daniel was ever more ready and willing to give in to it wholly and let it smother him. He didn't truly want to let go but, staying alive didn't really seem to be something he had much say in any longer.

Breathing had become too hard; too painful and too damn futile. His vision was graying out and, if not for the gasps and coughs rippling through his chest and flashing vivid red and orange streaks in front of his eyes, his last living moments would be playing out in fuzzy black and white.

He'd thought that maybe the sun was starting to set but, he realized now that there was no way of knowing if evening was actually descending or if it was just his fading vision. His own fading light.

He'd hoped that, with resignation and acceptance, death would be painless. That he could just float away into the imminent darkness. He should have known better. Death wasn't serene or peaceful. It was cruel. It had wrenched two loving parents away from their seven children with violent and brutal indifference. So it sure as hell wasn't going to give a rat's ass about going easy on anyone as unremarkable and self-absorbed as Daniel McFadden.

His agony had centralized; the pain in his head and face and arms only flitting occasionally like remnants of a bad dream tickling his brain. The fire in his chest was demanding all his attention now; like someone had split apart his ribs with a burning hot poker and shoved it deep inside him. Each time he breathed, or tried to, Daniel felt it imbed itself deeper until it had no choice but to impale him to the ground or wrap around inside him next to the chains already there. It chose the latter route. It wasn't exactly news to Daniel that hot metal was malleable; he knew his way around both a welding torch and a blacksmith's forge after all. He could still feel its iron strength though, squeezing his bones and the lungs encased within them.

Lung.

Daniel wondered how much longer the second one could hold out before it succumbed to the pressure trying to breach its walls. Decided it didn't really matter anymore.

He couldn't hear that god-awful whistle any longer. There was an overall roaring in his ears now, like nothing but static coming through a set of headphones.

He supposed since he wasn't quite dead yet, the wheezing noise was still going on but just out of reach of his senses. Beyond the waves of fiery torment in his chest. Beyond the stuttering heartbeat he had become acutely aware of.

With that dark shroud blanketing all his senses, Daniel wasn't really sure how he could be so aware of his heart but he was. He surely couldn't hear it or see it but, overtop of the raging inferno buried in his core he could still somehow feel its staccato rhythm.

Counting out his life in erratic beats like a defective metronome.

One that would drive Crane crazy, Daniel thought with a sad smile he could only form in his mind. Thinking of his closest brother finally brought a bearable warmth to Daniel's chest, to his soul, and he clung to the image of those understanding eyes and that gentle smile with the last of his reserves.

Not to anchor him; not as a lifeline.

But for comfort.

He supposed he wasn't too old, too grown up yet for that.

With that thought, Daniel realized he'd been mistaken about death. The excruciating pain was fading now too; the encroaching black velvet apparently was the serenity he'd been hoping for.

It wouldn't be long now.

Vince was getting fucking fed up with this fucking slope. Climbing up it always left him wheezing but downhill was even worse. He'd fallen on his ass again, landing hard on his elbow, and badly scuffing up the sleeve of his leather jacket in the process.

Add more damage to Vince's jacket to the list of crimes McFadden was going to pay for. The gun had six bullets so Vince might as well use every one of them, right? To get his money's worth, he smirked. Especially since Wainwright had screwed him so badly on the cost.

He'd fumed all the way up here from Stockton, his resentment combining with his hatred toward McFadden putting him in a foul and nasty mood. He knew it was risky but he'd parked along the same property the cowboy had found him next to early that morning. The last place Vince had used was more secluded but, it also made for a longer walk. Besides, he figured at this time of the day, the cowboy would be occupied with whatever he did for a living and wouldn't drive by again until his workday was done.

Vince planned to be long gone by then.

In fact, he didn't intend to hang around the place any longer than was necessary.

Necessary meant however long it took him to: one, take another well-deserved hit of his prized stash; two, get down the hill; three, take care of McFadden once and for all and; four, climb back up and get out of Dodge.

In his Dodge.

Vince outright cackled at that. He knew he was really funny; figured if he'd wanted one he could have even had himself a career in stand-up.

He'd earn more selling drugs though… eventually. Maybe he'd take over Marcus' territory? Wainwright might talk tough and run with goons but, had he ever actually killed someone?

Probably not.

Not like Vince Warner.

Well, as soon as Vince accomplished his third step anyway.

Vince had seen to "step one" as soon as he'd pulled off and parked the truck. Savoring the rush, sensing the power and control course through his blood, it had fed the thrill and anticipation of completing the steps that would follow.

The afternoon sun was bright and, as Vince reached mostly even ground and continued on toward the familiar clump of greenery camouflaging the Jeep he could see sparkles of light. The sun's rays glinting off of whatever shiny or reflective bits it could find. It didn't concern him. No one in their right mind would venture down here any time soon. Hell, it would probably be decades before the kid's body was found – maybe never. The scavengers would likely get to it first, tear it to shreds and shit him out in pieces all over the countryside.

Vince might even have to drive by in a year or so. Just to check on nature's progress.

He'd spent enough time down here over the course of the day that by now he knew the best way to approach the Jeep. Knew the best angles and where the ground had its most level footing. So, when he rounded the big branch that tended to snag his hair unless he hunched just so, he knew he'd find the unconscious – let him still be breathing; let me be the one to waste him! – nearly suspended and blood-drenched lead singer of the Daniel McFadden Band waiting for him.

Except…

What the fuck?

Instead of McFadden, Vince saw red. The singer was gone! He wasn't in the Jeep and, for a moment Vince felt a wave of fury surge through him like he hadn't felt since slamming his truck into it.

But only for a moment.

Blinded by his rage, Vince had missed that the kid was still right in front of him, only down on the ground instead of wrapped around the steering column. Now, he was out cold, flat on his back, lying half on and half off what was left of the soft-top.

Just about half dead too.

If Vince thought McFadden had looked brutally awful before, he couldn't come up with a word for just how rough he appeared now. And sounded. He was still breathing – barely. Short little gasps or wheezes or what-the-fuck-ever that sound was. Vince bet it hurt like hellfire.

Good.

The little motherfucker deserved it for so obviously trying to get away. Deserved the world of pain he was in. Daniel McFadden deserved the bullet Vince was about to put in his head.

Vince let his rage settle into a calm, cool, soothing hatred.

Pulling out the pistol, he planted his feet and squared his shoulders. Vince smiled.

And took aim.

.

To be continued.