Hey there. Thanks for all your lovely reviews, it made my day. Here's an early update as a treat.
Danny drove through the city as fast as he could. If Grace had been calling him so many times, it must have been for a reason.
He parked the Camaro and ran to the front door. He unlocked the door and tried to push it open. He couldn't. The security chain had been fastened.
"Grace," he called. "Monkey, it´s me."
He heard his daughter´s footsteps as she shuffled down the hall. The chain was disengaged and the door opened.
"Monkey, are you all right? What´s the matter?"
Grace looked frantic. Danny reached for her and drew her into an embrace, his heartbeat still refusing to slow down. He looked over her shoulder and saw that one of the knives from the kitchen had been left on the table next to her cell phone.
"Grace?"
"Why didn´t you answer the phone?" she said and released him. "I left messages for you."
Danny thought back to the fire at the hotel. "I´m sorry, monkey," he replied. I´ve been working and my phone ran out of battery. Are you all right? Where are the boys?"
"Asleep."
"What´s the matter?"
Grace went into the living room. Danny followed her to the coffee table. There was a plain envelope there. She handed it to Danny. The envelope had been opened, and, as he raised it, a single bullet dropped into the palm of his hand. There was something else in the envelope, too. He slid his fingers inside and pulled out a photograph. He recognized the place in the shot: it was Kamekona´s food stand. There was a group of people sitting at the tables and, his stomach plummeting, she saw his son staring into the lens. Steve, Grace, and Jamba were sitting there with him, all of them enjoying their food together, oblivious to the fact they were being watched.
Danny remembered that day. It was on Friday afternoon, three weeks ago. While he had been busy sorting out the messed up bills at the bank, Steve took the kids to Kamekona´s, where they waited for Danny to join them.
He shook his mind back to the senses. "Charlie?" he said, ready to run upstairs. "Jamba?"
"They´re fine, Danno," Grace grabbed him by the arm, stopping him. "They´re in the bed. I checked on them two minutes ago."
Danny exhaled. He felt a wave of relief so sudden and dizzying that he had to put out a hand to steady himself against the frame of the door.
"We´re all fine," Grace repeated, drawing him back.
Danny held up the envelope. "Where did you find this?"
"Underneath the door," his daughter said. "About forty minutes ago. I called you straight away."
"Did you see who it was?"
"No. But there's something else," Grace said, gesturing to the window. The blinds were drawn. "Outside," she said. "There is a car across the street."
Danny walked up to the window, parted the slats, and looked out. It was dark, the illumination provided by the lights in the windows of the opposite house. He looked farther up the street. Then he saw it. A black BMW with tinted windows. It was close enough to their house for whoever was inside to keep it under easy observation. "It's been there for a while," Grace said. "There's a man inside it. I saw him getting in."
"Did you see what he looked like?"
"It's too far."
"Anything, monkey?"
"Dark hair, I think. He was wearing a suit and a tie."
"Stay here," Danny said, heading for the door.
"What are you doing, Danno?"
"Stay here. Keep the door locked."
He slid the security bolt, unlocked the door and opened it. He was aware that his daughter was at the door, but he stepped into the warmth of the night anyway. He rested the heel of his right hand on the butt of his P30. As he neared the car, he closed his hand around the gun and pulled, starting to free it from the holster.
The BMW was thirty feet away. The tinted windows together with the glare of the overhead streetlamp that reflected off the glass meant that he couldn't see inside. He was fifteen feet away when he heard the engine growl into life. The headlamps sparked on and he blinked into the sudden illumination. He took out the pistol with his right hand and held up her left, calling out for the driver to stop the car. The BMW did not stop. Instead, it pulled out into the street and sped in Danny´s direction, passing him with the squeal of rubber and the roar of high revs.
Danny turned and fired his gun, aiming for the wheels, but missed. As the car picked up the speed, he tried again. One of the bullets hit the metal just above the wheel, but it didn´t slow the driver down.
He watched as the car slowed for the junction, the taillights glowing for a moment before the driver released the brakes and stepped on the gas once more. The engine hummed and the car turned sharply to the right, quickly passing out of sight behind the corner.
He glanced up and saw Grace's face looking from the window of the apartment. He gripped the gun a little tighter. His palm was slick against its butt, and he could feel the perspiration running down his back. But he wasn't sweating because of the heat. It was a cold sweat.
Hoffman?
He had black hair and he wore a suit despite Hawaiian heat.
Danny rushed back to the house, where Grace was waiting. She stared at the gun in Danny´s hand.
"Danno, what´s going on? And where is uncle Steve?"
Danny holstered the gun, and, releasing a sigh, he looked at his daughter. She was smart. She wouldn´t buy a lie that everything was okay. Besides, she was old enough to know the truth.
"Monkey, I think someone did this to stop me from investigating the case," he said after a while.
"What case?"
"You know, something had happened last night," he said, watching Grace´s eyes widen with worry.
"You mean to uncle Steve, don´t you?"
"Yeah."
"Is he all right?" she asked.
Danny faked a smile. "He will be," he said. "But he… uncle Steve had been arrested for something he didn´t do. He´s in jail now But we´re all working on getting him out."
Grace opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again. A quiet shuffle coming from somewhere above them carried over to Danny´s ears. He looked up to examine the sound and swallowed a lump in his throat. Jamba was sitting on top of the stairway, peeking through the railing and, Danny guessed, listening intently.
He let out a breath and headed up there, his heart breaking at the look in those big, brown eyes.
"Hey, buddy," he said, trying to mask the worry in his voice. "Did we wake you up?"
Jamba shook his head.
"Then what are you doing out here?"
"I want to go home," Jamba said, ignoring Danny´s question.
Danny sat beside him, not sure how to cheer the kid up. He was well aware of Jamba´s attachment to Steve, and considering their past, it didn´t surprise him at all. That´s why Steve had hesitated to leave the boy with someone else in the first place.
"Why would you want to go home? I thought we were having fun together." Danny smiled.
"Yeah, but… Steve´s not here. He said he would pick me up in the morning."
Danny´s heart dropped. "And he would love to, very much, but he can´t do that right now," he said.
"Because he is in prison?" Jamba´s eyes locked on Danny.
As Danny suspected, the boy had been listening. There was no way he could come up with a lie of Steve´s whereabouts now. "Something like that," he said. "But not for long, okay? He´ll be back home soon."
"You´re a liar."
Jamba´s words flustered him. "What? Why would you think that?"
"Because people don´t come back from prison," Jamba replied. It was hard to miss the tears that welled up in his eyes.
It took Danny a while to realize how did Jamba came up with such a thing. Realizing where the boy came from, and remembering the brutality experienced first-hand by the head of police in there, it was no surprise the prison in there meant almost certain death.
"That´s not true. That´s not how it works here, buddy," Danny tried to explain, but the boy didn´t listen anymore.
"I don´t want Steve to leave me," Jamba said, his voice breaking. Tears were streaming down his cheeks by now.
"What are you talking about? Listen to me." Danny leaned over to wipe the tears off Jamba´s face with his thumb. Then he gently tilted the boy´s chin to make him look up at him. "Steve loves you and he´d never leave you, okay?" he said. "He´ll come for you. You´ll just get to spend a little more time with me, Charlie, and Grace by then, okay?"
Jamba didn´t answer.
"Come here." Danny stood up, lifted him off the floor, and wrapped him up in a hug. The boy was surprisingly light, comparing to Charlie at his age. "It´s going to be all right, kid," Danny said and snuggled him close as he carried him down the stairs. "I´m gonna bring your dad home."
"You promise?" Jamba whispered against Danny´s shoulder.
"Yeah. I promise."
A quiet sniffle was the only answer, and Danny continued to hold the boy close, running his hand up and down Jamba´s back in a soothing manner.
Still shaken by both, the obvious threat to his loved ones, and Jamba´s reaction at learning the truth this way, Danny looked at Grace over Jamba´s shoulder. She was watching them without a word. Looking at her, he once again exhaled in relief. It was hard to believe how close those people got to his family. Hoffman might not know it yet, but threatening the most important people in Danny's life was a mistake he would regret.
"Monkey, go pack your bag," he said. "Get one for Charlie, too, and call your mom to do the same. Then wake your brother up."
"Pack a bag? Where are we going?"
"HPD safehouse. You can´t stay here."
A klaxon sounded.
Steve opened his eyes and, for a moment, he didn´t know where he was. He was on his back, lying on a thin mattress that did nothing to cushion his back from the hard metal beneath it. He saw the marked walls, the single light bulb, the bars that blocked him inside the tiny cell.
He felt groggy. It had taken him several hours to fall asleep. He had tried again and again to pierce the veil that had descended on his memory of the evening with Lynn, but, despite his best efforts, it was hopeless. He was unable to fill in the blanks between the moment that he had met her in the bar and his sudden awakening the following day.
He heard footsteps approaching and barked commands of the guards.
The guard reached his cell and drew his baton back and forth across the bars. It was the same guard that brought him to the cell yesterday. "Get up," the man said. "Bring your plate and mug. It´s breakfast time."
As soon as the cell door opened, Steve sensed something wasn´t right. He was led across the corridor, and once they reached the doorway with a transparent window built in, he knew exactly what it was that didn´t make sense. Other prisoners from a different unit were lined up behind the door, waiting for the command to move.
The door opened, and for a second Steve considered asking why was he being sent to the canteen with everyone else, but didn´t want to bring more attention to himself by arguing with a guard out in the open. Maybe it would be wiser to keep a low profile and hope none of the prisoners would recognize him. Perps Five-0 had arrested didn´t usually end up in FDC, but there was always a chance someone had, or that someone had seen his face in the news.
He paused in the doorway, considering his options, but stumbled forward with the hard shove to his back.
"Move," the guard said.
Steve followed the rest of the inmates as they shuffled along the landing to the stairs. They gathered there, covered by a guard with a shotgun in a glass-fronted booth above them. There was a shouted command and the men at the front of the queue started to make their way down. Steve followed, very aware that he was a cop in the crowd of dangerous criminals. He wasn´t happy about it, but he would most certainly not show it in any way.
He followed the crowd along the corridor that led away from the lobby at the foot of the stairs. He had come into the building in the opposite direction yesterday, so he paid close attention to his surroundings in an attempt to assemble a more complete understanding of where he was being kept. He saw an open archway that led to a large communal shower room, another that opened into a large bathroom, and then another row of barred doors that guarded cells from which the most dangerous prisoners were not being released.
The corridor bent around to the right before they reached a set of double doors that had been wedged open. Beyond the doors was a large hall. There were four rows of tables separated by a passage that led to a serving area, with metal cabinets and a hatch where the inmates who worked in the kitchen distributed the food that had been prepared. The tables were busy with men who had already been served. There were guards around the perimeter of the room. It was noisy and raucous.
Steve joined the queue of men waiting for food. The meal was something that looked like pieces of cheap imitation of meat marinated in soy sauce and served with rice. Steve proffered his plate to the server. The man doled out a meager amount. Steve waited, expecting another ladleful, but the server scowled, and then Steve was nudged firmly in the back by the inmate waiting behind him.
He took the plate and looked for a place to sit. The tables were busy, but he noticed one with empty spaces at one end and set off toward it.
He sat. The others around the table looked at him with undisguised hostility but, when they saw that their aggression did not faze him, they returned their attention to their food and ignored him.
Steve ate. The food was unpleasant, but he hadn't been given anything to eat since his arrest and he was starving. The men were not trusted with cutlery, so he fed himself with his fingers, the stringy food leaving greasy stains on his skin.
He was shoveling the soggy rice into his mouth when he realized that he was being watched by the men at the next table. He looked over at them and held their gazes until they returned their attention to their food.
By now he knew that he was about to face his first test.
So much for keeping a low profile.
He finished his water, put the plastic cup on the table with his plate, and, taking a breath, he stood.
The men who had been watching him stood, too.
There were four of them. None of them was large—none of them taller or heavier than Steve—but they had the tough, wiry build of men who had nothing better to do than work out for hours every day. They were tattooed, with every inch of flesh covered in ink, and, as they got up from the table, he could see that he was in trouble. They fanned out around him, demonstrating enough knowledge of basic tactics to come at him from different directions at the same time.
He decided not to wait.
If he was going to take a beating, he would hand some out himself.
There were two ahead of him. Steve feinted in the direction of the man to his left and, as the man stepped back, he pivoted and threw a left-handed punch at the man to his right. The man was caught by surprise, and, as Steve's knuckles crunched into his jaw, he dropped to his knees.
The other men in the canteen stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. There was a moment of quiet and then exclamations of glee at the promise of free entertainment.
The other man ahead of Steve took a step back, but Steve surged forward and hammered him with a left to the ribs. The man gasped, and Steve followed up with a jab that landed in the middle of his face, collapsing the bones of his nose. The inmates responded with whoops of bloodthirsty appreciation.
Steve saw the guards on the perimeter of the room. None of them looked interested in intervening.
The third man leaped onto Steve's back, looping his arms around his neck and squeezing. Steve bent forward sharply, throwing the man so that he flipped through the air and crashed down onto the table. He jack-knifed, sliding backward and landing on the floor. Steve crouched down, jabbing his straightened fingers into the man's throat. The strike caused a spasm in his trachea, making it difficult for him to breathe.
Steve was about to stand when he saw a flash of movement to his left. It was too late to evade and he felt a crash as a chair broke across his shoulders. It shattered, wooden fragments falling all around him.
He propped himself against the table and turned to see that the first man was back on his feet again. The man with the broken nose was also standing.
Steve glanced down at the next table and saw a plastic cup that was filled to the brim with hot tea. He swiped it and, in the same motion, threw the hot liquid into the face of the first man. He squealed in pain, clawing at his face.
Many of the other inmates had closed in now, forming a tight semicircle that pinned Steve and the two men between them and the wall. Steve glanced at the faces of the orange-shirted inmates all around him: their eyes bulged and their mouths hung open as they screamed their encouragement.
There was a tray on the table. Steve grabbed it and backhanded the man with the broken nose in the face. He went down for a second time.
Steve took a step away, looking for the fourth man, but, before he could retreat—if that was even possible—he felt a sudden blow to the side of his head. Pain flashed out and he felt blood in his eye. He danced back. The man was at his side, opening and closing his fist.
He put his fingers to his brow and when he looked down at them, he saw that they were daubed with his blood. He felt the usual surge of adrenaline and rode it.
Perhaps the inmate noticed the steel in Steve's eyes. He took a step back, away from him, but the wall of orange-shirted men watching the display did not part, and the man was shoved hard in the back. He stumbled forward, right at Steve, and Steve put him down with an elbow to the side of his head.
That was the four of them.
"That´s enough!" One of the guards shouted as he approached with more of his colleagues right behind him.
Steve looked in the direction of the voice, waiting for the guards to tell him and the others what to do. He felt the throb of the blow he had taken to the side of his head, but he didn't acknowledge it. He knew that the others were watching him, and he was not about to undermine the display he had just given them by showing any signs of weakness.
"Knees," the guard ordered.
Reluctantly, Steve did as told, and didn´t protest when the guard cuffed his hands. He was then roughly jerked upward, back to his feet, and shoved between his shoulder blades with a baton.
"Walk."
Biting his tongue, Steve walked on. This felt all kinds of wrong. If he had hoped the guards would be fair, he´d been wrong. They didn´t care who he was. Just like so many other people, they only saw a murderer, a man no better than any other in here. They thought he´d killed a woman, and there was little understanding for such people in prison. In fact, Steve´s guess was they were rooting for the others as they watched the fight.
As Steve made his way out, the looks of other inmates suggested this was just the beginning. He knew that those who didn´t know him yet would soon find out he was a cop, or even worse—a head of Five-0—and he would be in trouble. Ex-SEAL or not, he couldn´t fight them all.
He knew that if he didn´t get out of this place, things would no doubt turn really ugly soon.
*to be continued*
Okay, I guess you guys saw this coming, right? A cop behind the bars is never a good thing, especially one like McGarrett. I'm wondering whether I am actually physically capable of being nice to Steve in my stories at least once, but I guess not. I hope you won't hate me for what's coming next.
I'd really appreciate if you shared your opinion.