You didn't think it'd be that easy for Danny to save Steve, did you? *evil grin*

Thanks for reading and all your support, as always. Enjoy the chapter.

Steve's eyes were closed, though he wasn't sleeping. He'd first woken some ten minutes ago, groggy and disoriented and confused. How long he'd been out of it, he had no idea, though he was surprised at what he'd woken up to. Not a torture chamber or his stinky cell, as he'd expected, but what looked to be a reasonably equipped clinic. Not a proper hospital, it was too informal for that, too quiet too.

By his right side, a series of wires trailed from his body to the bank of monitors. Off to his left were metal cabinets and a large white closed cupboard. All very purposeful. Clinical.

His first lucid thought was to wonder what was wrong with his left leg. He tried to move it and then panicked for a second when he didn't recognize the feel of the limb. He looked down quickly to see for himself why it didn't feel natural. His foot and ankle were encased in a plaster half cast that sat heavily on a stack of folded blankets to keep it elevated. He stared at the thick wads of cotton that were poking up from the top of the cast. The fresh bandages on his right leg were thicker than before and covered his ankle and calf. A quick look at his hands made him cringe for a moment. The nails weren't sticking out of his fingers anymore, and the wounds seemed to be cleaned up, but the remaining fingernails were blackened with blood underneath them. His head was in a spin, and nausea crept into his throat once every few seconds. He didn't feel any pain, though.

The reason Steve now had his eyes closed was that he was no longer alone in the room. A familiar uniformed man was rummaging about next to him. It was the doctor who'd treated Steve's legs before.

Even with his body and mind being a mess, Steve decided this was his chance of an escape. He was tired of being knocked around and deprived of basic human needs. Tired of living in fear for his men's lives. His hands were free, he wasn't locked up in a cell, and no one aimed a gun at his face. It was now or never.

He bided his time. When he'd first awoken he'd been too weak to move. He'd lain there, looking around the room, just trying to acclimatize and to figure out what was going on. Someone must've drugged him because he couldn't feel pain and that just felt wrong after his session with Scarface and other Haddad's men. That had been his immediate thought and although it felt good to get a little relief from the ever-present agony, he didn't like the thought one bit.

It didn't make any sense, though. Why would they make him go through hell, making sure he'd suffer until his body couldn't take it anymore, and then let him wake up on a soft mattress in a health clinic with the painkillers in his bloodstream and the worst of his wounds freshly bandaged up? The only explanation Steve saw was that Haddad was well aware of winning a jackpot by capturing him, and he intended to keep his prisoner alive until he had no longer any value. Obviously, that didn't mean he wouldn't let his men push Steve to his limits.

As he lay there, Steve could hear the calm breaths of the doctor. Could hear the scratching as he scribbled away on his notepad. Could hear the intermittent blips on the monitor with every beat of his heart. Slow and steady. He'd been trained how to relax and to control his heart rate. The doctor had no idea Steve was awake, nor that he was about to spring a devastating attack.

The shuffle of feet. Steve slipped an eyelid open a fraction. Just enough to see faint shadows. And to tell him that, as he thought, the doctor was turning to head for the door.

Steve sprang up, out of the bed, ignoring the shock of pain that spread through his whole body at his sudden movement despite the drugs. It was only as he put his foot down onto the cold lino floor that Steve realized how weak he was, how uncoordinated and wobbly his limbs were, how much standing up hurt. Too late, he couldn't pull out now.

He pounced on the doctor, wrapped an arm around his neck, and grabbed hold of the biceps on his opposite arm to pull the hold tight. He placed his other hand behind the doctor's head. Applied just enough force to let the man know the position he was in. If he wanted to, Steve just needed to squeeze slightly, push the man's head forward to constrict the carotid artery against his forearm. Within seconds the lack of blood supply to the man's brain would render him unconscious. Even in his weakened state, Steve was confident he'd achieve that aim.

But he wouldn't do it straight away, he wanted to give this man the option to talk.

The doctor writhed, but not too much. He understood the perilous situation he was in.

"Where am I?" Steve said, his voice calm and assured.

"My clinic," the doctor choked.

"Why?"

"Your legs were bleeding badly when I came to see you. You needed immediate treatment."

"Why do you even care?"

"I was ordered to treat any life-threatening injuries," the doctor confirmed what Steve had thought. "You needed surgery on your left leg. You'd die if I didn't bring you here."

Steve's jaw dropped. "A surgery?" he croaked, glancing down to the cast on his leg for a split second. "Wh-"

He didn't have a chance to finish. There was a creak on the other side of the room as the door opened. Steve took a step back, dragging the doctor with him. He swiveled slightly so the doctor's mass was covering his. A young man, still a teenager, wearing the same uniform as the doctor, came into a room with a rifle in his hands.

Steve had to do something before the man had a chance to raise his gun. He held the doctor close to his body. "Don't move!" he snapped, unsure if the young man would understand. "Don't move or he's dead."

The man paused, his eyes searching the doctor's, who mumbled something in Arabic. Whatever the doctor said, it prevented the kid from firing his gun. He didn't let go of it, though, and his eyes never left Steve.

"Tell him to put the gun down," Steve ordered, but the doctor ignored him.

"I was trying to help," the doctor said instead. "You shouldn't be standing yet. You need to calm down and rest."

"Tell him to put it down," Steve repeated, squeezing on the doctor's neck a little harder.

The doctor didn't say a word, though, and the boy with a gun didn't move.

Steve's legs wobbled. A stabbing pain blared in his left ankle and traveled up all the way up to his limb. He squinted. Tensed. Hoped it'd go away. It didn't. It only got worse and his right leg exploded with pain just a second later.

The doctor seemed to sense this. Consumed by pain, Steve didn't fight as the doctor suddenly jerked and pulled himself free. Steve fell to his knees and in a corner of an eye he saw the young man aiming his rifle at him, and the doctor stopping him with a gesture of his hand. The whole room shook and vibrated and bounced. Steve shouted out and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

Seconds later two sets of arms were grabbing Steve, pulling him. He flailed, trying to get them off him, but he was too weak. They propped him up against the bed. Steve kept his eyes tightly shut, but still, his world kept on spinning. When he next opened his lids, the doctor was there in front of him, syringe in his hand. Steve didn't move, couldn't, as he came forward and sank the needle into his arm. The cool liquid surged into his blood. The pain and confusion subsided. Steve closed his eyes and was out cold in a second.

When he next woke, he once again struggled to keep his eyes open at first. His mind was still foggy and the pain, luckily, barely noticeable. This time, though, he quickly recalled where he was. Noticed he wasn't waking up alone – the doctor was sitting on a metal chair across the room, and there were two armed guards in the room with them.

When he was lucid enough, Steve went to sit up in the bed. Realized his wrists were tied to the metal sidebars of the gurney with leather straps. He slumped back down onto the bed, his weary brain doing its best to figure out not just what was happening, but how he could escape.

One of the things he was taught in SERE was that the first couple of hours after the capture were the most important. That during that time there was the biggest chance of an escape, due to an enemy not being ready and fully organized just yet. That moment was now long gone, but this was as close as he'd gotten to freedom in who-knew-how-long. There had to be something he could do to get out and then he'd find others. Get them all home.

"You shouldn't have done that," the doctor said, standing up from his chair. "Major Haddad doesn't take it lightly if his men are attacked. You'll never heal if you keep making him angry."

Steve glared at him with hatred in his eyes. Despite being the only person around who hadn't hurt him, the doctor was still one of his captors, and his interest in Steve's wellbeing sounded fake.

"You'd do better if you told him what he wants to know," the doctor continued. "You'd be safe then."

Safe. Interesting choice of a word, given the circumstances. He'd still be a prisoner even if he spoke. Maybe not beaten, tortured, starved, and treated like a rabid animal, but still a prisoner. Still in the mercy of an enemy. But his comrades would be in danger. Lives would be lost. He couldn't let that happen no matter how miserable he was.

"You're going back to your cell today," the doctor announced. "So remember my advice if you want to live."

Going back? Steve couldn't help but ask what was lingering on his mind. "How long have I been here?"

"In my clinic? Two days now."

Steve winced. He'd lost so much time already. And who knew what Haddad had done to Lynch and Richardson while he was gone. He doubted they were treated any better than him.

"But you still need more rest," the doctor said. "And to eat something. You must be hungry."

Really, eating was the last thing on his mind, but he had to be realistic. He was starving, and he could feel his stomach cramp in utter misery. He hadn't eaten since he'd been captured and he had no idea how long it'd been. And he wanted out of here. To do that, he had to be as strong as possible.

The doctor turned and walked away without a word, leaving Steve with the guards. Moments later he returned with a big glass of water and something that looked like figs. One eye on Steve, he tentatively placed it down on the table next to Steve's bed. He pulled across the chair he'd been sitting on moments earlier, and sat down. Then he took a fig from the plate and pushed it towards Steve's mouth.

Steve shook his head. "If you untie me, I can eat myself."

"Not this time," the doctor said, a cold and stern look on his face. Then he forced the figs into Steve's mouth, pushing them between his lips until he had to eat them.

Steve felt helpless and disgusted by the force-feeding. But he needed the sustenance. He barely chewed it before swallowing. Couldn't taste it at all. He just knew he needed to eat. He opened his mouth again.

The plate was soon empty, and Steve's full belly bloated and gurgling. It wasn't much of a real meal, but after days without any food, even that was too much for his upset stomach. The doctor held a glass of water up to Steve's lips and he slurped away, relieved by a soothing sensation. Some of the cold liquid ran down his chin and onto his chest. Steve saw the amused look on the doctor's face, as though he took some sort of pleasure from his undignified position.

The doctor left again and Steve lay there, feeling sleepy and woozy, trying to wiggle his wrists free, but to no avail. One of the guards shouted at him for doing so. Something in his eyes told Steve he wasn't joking, and he felt his strength fading away quickly anyway, so he complied and went limp in defeat. There was no point wasting precious energy for an already lost battle.

He was just biding his time, he reminded himself. Picking his fights. Not giving up.

Never giving up.

An initial shock subsided as fast as it came and still holding his best friend's dog tags, Danny turned his attention to the dying man staring at him with a satisfied smirk. Without thinking, he closed the space between them and yanked the man up by the scruff of his robe. He held the chain up close in the man's face.

"Where did you get this?" he snapped. "Huh? Where?"

He could feel all the eyes in the room on him, but he didn't care. All he cared about was that Steve wasn't here and his dog tags were. Was he even still alive? What if they had taken it from him to keep some kind of trophy after tossing the corpse into a ditch? Just thought of that chilled him to the bone. Whatever the truth was, he needed answers. And this man had them, he was sure of that.

The man's only answer, though, was a mouthful of blood spat out to Danny's feet.

Danny yanked him harder, smashed the back of his head to the wall behind him, rage and fear consuming him inch by inch. "The man who this belongs to," he tried again. "Where is he?"

Nothing but a quiet, hateful glare.

"Where is he?!" Danny yelled, losing control of his emotions.

In a corner of his eye, Danny caught Martinez appearing in the doorway. "Hey, we gotta go," Martinez said.

"You got something?" Gutch asked.

"We found some phones downstairs, maybe we can find something useful in there, but we need to move."

Danny heard the conversation but didn't move a muscle, his focus solely on the man in front of him. "Was he here?" He waved the chain in front of his face one again. "Was McGarrett here?"

No answer. The man's eyelids flickered, and his breaths were becoming more and more labored. He wasn't about to last very long.

"Speak, you son of a bitch!" Danny yelled, letting the desperation creep into his voice.

"Danny, we need to go," Joe said. "It's not safe to stay here."

He knew that. He just needed one more minute to get some answers. He ignored both, Joe and Martinez, and repeated his question, "Where is he? Tell me!"

"Danny." Chin's voice now. Soft, yet urgent.

He couldn't go just yet. He was so close, he couldn't stop now. "Where is he?" he yelled, smashing the man's back and head against the wall once again. Then he watched as the life faded out of the man's eyes.

"No, no, no!" He shook the man, but he was just a limp body now. "You don't get to die yet! Tell me where he is!"

"Danny, that's enough," Joe said, meeting Danny's gaze. "He won't tell you anything anymore. Now, let's get out of here."

"He knew," Danny whispered. "The bastard knew, Joe. And Steve… I…"

"Get your shit together, Danny," Joe interrupted him. "Steve needs you. We'll find him, but we gotta stay alive for that, all right?"

Reluctantly, Danny nodded, his mind in turmoil.

"Good, now come on." Joe led the way back downstairs, still on a high alert. Just when he was about to peak from the front door and check if it was safe to get out, a loud whistle coming from outside echoed through the air.

Danny tensed, knowing it came from Lou and Kono. Something was wrong.

Gutch lifted a curtain on the window to have a look. "Seems we have a company," he said, already getting his rifle ready. "Three enemy vehicles. I can see at least ten tangos."

"All right. It's gonna get hot here," Joe said and turned to Danny and Chin. "You two don't forget you're not cops out here. It's you or them, so when you shoot, you aim to kill."

At some other time and situation, Danny would probably argue about that, because dead men don't speak. And he needed the answers, not bodies. But Joe was right. This wasn't Hawaii, he wasn't here as a cop, and even if he got these guys alive, he doubted he'd be able to make them speak.

He barely had time to nod in agreement before the rattle of gunfire filled his ears. The sound of breaking glass followed in a split second, and Danny took cover beside the shattered window. Perched on the wall, he waited for the right moment to peek out and returned the fire.

There was no trace of fear or hesitation on the faces of Joe and Gutch, and he could say the same about Davis and Martinez. They all moved with precision, losing themselves in the loud gunfire. Chin, on the other side, seemed a little overwhelmed, just like Danny. But he managed to keep up with the team. Danny's thoughts flew to Kono and Lou in the hope they were safe and well hidden from the sight of the enemy.

Danny was just getting the hang of the chaos, and it seemed they were coming on top of the fight, when everything changed with a freaked out shout coming from Davis. Three single letters were all it took to change the course of their battle.

"RPG!" Davis yelled.

Danny braced himself, held his breath, half-frozen in time, wondering how the hell did he get himself and his friends into this.

"Get down!" Joe screamed, flinging himself to the ground, pulling Danny with him, just a split second before the huge explosion.

Danny was expecting the blast, yet the force was still far greater than he'd imagined. He was blown off his feet and dispatched onto the hard floor several yards down the hall. The force of the blast, together with the jarring impact of the fall, was enough to send him to the brink of unconsciousness. Perhaps he had been unconscious for a while, it was hard for him to know for sure.

As he started to regain his senses, he realized he was on his side, lying on the ground. His bleary gaze fixed upon Joe's bloodied face less than a yard in front of him. There was a thick line of blood that sneaked down the older man's forehead. He was breathing, but otherwise unmoving. Danny couldn't see anyone else through a pile of rubble and a thick cloud of dust, though.

He groaned as he tried to sit up, and stabbing pain shot down his spine, forcing him back to the floor. His head spun violently, and he blinked several times, hoping it'd pass. It didn't. No sounds of shooting filled the air now, no shouting, nothing at all, actually. All he could hear was loud ringing echoing in his skull.

His whole body ached, and it seemed impossible to move. He wanted to call out to others, to ask his friends if they were all right, but couldn't find his voice either.

Panic filled his dazed mind when he noticed several pairs of sandalled feet walking through the door and rummaging through the rubble. He fought harder, willing his body to move, to do something before it was too late. But the attempt only made him cough up the dust he'd inhaled, his chest aching as he did.

That didn't escape their attention, as it seemed, and two pairs of feet changed their direction, heading toward him. They stopped right in front of him, and despite his best effort, Danny couldn't do much more than lift his head slightly off the floor to look up to mean-looking men with rifles in their hands.

A sudden fear gripped his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs, as those two reached for him and pulled him up by his arms. And as they began to move, dragging Danny behind them, he knew that he'd not only failed to help his best friend, but most likely he had just made his children half-orphans.

That he'd failed them all.

*to be continued*

I know, I know! I'm mean to leave it like this... But... Sorry, not sorry.

As always. I'd really appreciate your reviews. :)