Hey! Huge apologies for the late update! Life simply took over and I didn't get to write much. Thanks for your support and patience.
Steve didn't think it was possible for it to rain any harder, but he had been wrong.
It was.
The trek through the dark night was strenuous and colder than one would expect on a tropical island, particularly with his clothes sopping wet. His exhaustion, which got progressively worse as he fought to keep walking, didn't help his cause either.
His vision was fuzzy and the whole world was slowly becoming a spinning blur. He was barely able to think clearly at this point, and the soft blanket of leaves under his heavy feet kept tempting him to stop and lay down on them for just a few minutes. To close his eyes and rest.
But he couldn't.
And he knew he wouldn't be able to continue if he did so. So taking it one step at a time, he pushed harder, channeling the exhaustion and pain instead of giving in to it.
The trek reminded him of one of his most torturous experiences, back when he'd been in SEALs training. He had made it through back then, and he would do the same now.
But, a contrary voice reminded him, you were younger then. You weren't shot. You had two good arms. You weren't a fugitive. And it wasn't raining like this.
He shook his head, pushing those thoughts out of his mind.
More than two hours later and Steve passed the tree line and could see the city bellow him. He was shivering violently and he knew his energy, his resolve, his will was all at rock bottom.
He also knew what state he was in. Dirty, clothes scruffy and torn and wet. Blood seeping through the thin bandage on his arm. Blue and purple bruises scattered across his face. But he was hardly going to be able to do something about that right away. What he needed was a means of transport.
As he approached the streets, he remained on the lookout, but there was still no sign of police nor anyone else being after him. He'd heard nothing of them for some time now, so maybe he'd managed to lose them. It would get more difficult out in the public, but it was a risk he had to take.
Steve, head down, moved on into the center of the cluster of buildings and stopped by a tree across the road from a run of three shops. He stood in wait thinking through his next step. He didn't have to wait too long. Perhaps he was due a bit of good fortune after all.
A black Range Rover pulled up into one of the roadside parking spaces. A man and a woman got out and the woman held an umbrella above them while the man talked on the phone. Both were smartly dressed, both in their forties or perhaps early fifties. The man had a deep scowl on his face as he blasted down his phone to someone. The woman looked embarrassed by his ranting but he didn't seem to notice at all.
Steve moved across the street, walking at a pace to intercept them as they walked toward the café a couple of buildings along. He could hear the conversation more clearly now, but he didn't care. He made a beeline for them. The woman saw him at the last second. The man – momentarily staring up to the sky, exasperated, as he moved – didn't see him at all. Steve barged into him, and ended up taking a tumble onto the grit-covered ground.
"What the hell are you doing!" the man screamed to Steve, glowering down at him like he was a piece of dog muck. Then he glanced to his companion whose expression was only a little more friendly.
"Sorry," Steve said, groaning as he spoke. "I'm really sorry. Please... help me up." He held out his hand and the man looked seriously put out by the suggestion.
"And now we even have these homeless bums infecting the island. What next?" the man said as he glared from Steve to the woman. The woman grumbled her agreement and shook her head in disgust before the two of them walked away leaving Steve on the ground.
He didn't mind, though, as he accomplished what he wanted. He struggled up to his feet as he watched them heading into the café. Then, the key fob clutched in his hand, he turned and strode for their car.
Next stop, the address Catherine had texted him.
Just one block from the harbor he had to slow down and eventually stop the car. The vehicles lined up in a row at this time at night were off and raised suspicion. Steve craned his neck, and sure enough, spotted two police cars blocking the road. The officers made the driver of the car in the front get out despite the rain while they searched the vehicle.
Steve swallowed hard, knowing it was him who they were looking for. He pulled up the stolen car on the side of a road and rushed outside, disappearing in a side alley. It wasn't far from here and he'd simply have to continue on foot.
It was a question of time before they found an abandoned vehicle. Of course, he expected the couple he'd stolen the vehicle from would have reported the theft to the police as soon as they'd realized, and provided his description. So no doubt the police would know Steve was in the area. He had to move fast and find Roederer before HPD found him.
Not long after that, he arrived at the marina, but couldn't see anyone in the darkness. The rain finally started to recede, but it didn't stop completely. It was quiet, except for the sound of waves washing off the shore and the raindrops falling down onto the ocean.
There was no sign of anyone at all, and worry whirled in his gut. What if his plan wouldn't work? What if Chin and Kono weren't able to do what he so desperately needed right now? Was he really alone in this?
One bullet in a stolen pistol he kept covered up with his t-shirt was all he had. He would have to improvise, then. Sucking in a breath, he stepped forward.
That's when he heard a whistle behind him. He turned around.
A man stood on the opposite side of the pavement to Steve. He was staring at Steve with a smug grin on his face.
"Yeah, you," he said to Steve.
Steve stopped and faced him, said nothing. Was this Roederer's guy?
"Come on, follow me."
The man turned and went to walk away. In the opposite side to the marina.
Steve didn't budge and the man soon stopped.
"I thought you were here to see the boss," the guy said facing Steve again. "Are you coming or not?"
Steve continued to glare at him. Definitely Roederer's man, then. Had they been expecting him? How would they know he was coming?
He glanced around one more time. No sign of his friends. He was alone. But this might be his only opportunity to face Roederer and end this madness. His ohana would never be safe with this man running free. But what if he would be walking right into the trap?
"So?"
"No," Steve said. "I don't think so."
The man stepped in his direction and Steve readied himself.
"Let me rephrase that," the guy said. "You're coming with us. Whether you like it or not. So don't make this difficult."
Us? The whistler and…?
He heard the steps behind him a beat too late.
He was grabbed from behind. Two men. They twisted his arms behind him and he let out a painful groan. The sudden movement of his hurt arm was agonizing. The pain dimmed the edges of his vision and for a moment he thought he'd pass out, but somehow he managed to cling to consciousness. He struggled against the hold to no avail. The grip was strong and purposeful.
A grin never left the whistler's face as Steve growled in frustration. He turned and led the way. The three of them walked side by side, Steve in the middle, following Mr Whistler back the way Steve had just come from.
"Where are we going?" he asked through labored breaths, glancing at each of the men in turn.
"Just walk," the one on his right said.
"I'm pretty sure your boss is the other way. No offense, but I'd rather be speaking to him than you three chumps."
The insult got Steve nothing more than a grunt. They carried on in silence, away from the marina, into the narrow streets of the city that surrounded it. Unsurprisingly at this time and weather, they were the only pedestrians out there.
They turned left.
"Down here," he said, moving into a cramped lane.
Steve stopped just inside the lane when he saw another two men already there, waiting a few yards ahead. But his resistance was feeble and they marched him a few steps further.
He scanned the group gathering around him. The whistler and two more men in front, plus the ones holding him. Five in total. The three crowded around Steve in a circle, their hands down by their sides at the ready. No weapons in sight. That didn't make things any better, though.
He was fed up with being a punching bag. And five on one was hardly a fair fight even if he wasn't injured.
"You don't have to do this," he tried.
The man who'd whistled at him stepped forward. "We don't have to. We want to."
He threw a fist into Steve's belly. Steve had tensed his abs to protect himself but it was still a strong and painful blow. The blow of someone who knew how to fight.
Perhaps this wasn't as straightforward as he'd hoped.
While he was trying to catch his breath, the guy smiled. "You shouldn't have come here," he said. "Now we're gonna turn your body to mush."
His balled fist flew forward again. Into Steve's belly again. Then a shot to the kidney. Then another. Steve concentrated on the pain. Channeled it deep within. Focused on it as much as he could, tried to turn it into energy and fight that could explode back out of him.
Another gut shot knocked the wind from his lungs. His body went limp.
Five on one. But only one was taking the shots. Steve was sure the others wouldn't stand by. They'd all want in.
Sure enough a few moments later and the grip on Steve's arms relaxed. One of the men behind flinched as though he was about to shove Steve to the ground. Steve peeled out of their grip, grasped the man's arm, spun around, dragged the man's arm downward as he twisted. He threw his knee up as he yanked down harder and the man toppled over Steve's leg and was heading for the ground.
The man hit the deck and Steve stomped on his leg. Crack. That was him done. Four to go.
But the other four weren't just waiting around for their turn. They all descended on Steve at once. He took a blow to the head. He ducked and spun and sent a crushing uppercut with his good arm. Another man down and out. Three to go.
A blow to the kidney again. So hard it sent tears straight to his eyes and a wave of pain rushed through his body.
Steve swung his elbow back, made a solid connection. Swiveled and delivered a punishing hook which caught the guy there in the temple. He went down. But not out. Steve was too weak and disorientated for it to be a killer blow.
One of them jumped onto Steve's back. Grasped him around the neck. A tight hold. Choking. Steve's eyes bulged as he tried to breathe. He bucked and went to toss the guy over his shoulder, used his elbows to try and strike him, but the man held on tight.
Steve raced back. As fast as he could. Slammed the man up against a wall. Did it again. Again. Finally, the hold on his neck loosened. Steve grabbed the arm around his neck and threw himself forward. This time it worked. The man holding him went head over heels, over Steve. Both of them landed on the deck. Steve's fall was cushioned. The man landed with a horrific smack on his spine.
His arm flopped next to him. He was out of this fight. Two left.
A flying foot caught Steve full-on in the face. Blood spurted from his nose and his lip. He reeled back, scrambled to his feet. The two remaining fighters were both in front of him. One of them was Mr. Whistle. The other was the guy Steve had already floored with the hook. He looked woozy and wobbly. Mr. Whistle was snarling.
They both charged forward to Steve. Probably the stupidest thing they could have done. Fuelled by anger rather than good sense.
Steve went for the groggy guy. Grabbed his arm as it flew through the air. He twisted the man around, using him as cover. Lifted his knee and arced his foot forward – a front kick that at least helped to fend off Mr. Whistle. He twisted the arm into a hammerlock. Pulled until he heard the snap. Shoulder dislocated. He lifted his elbow and drove it down into the back of the guy's neck. He crumpled.
One left.
But Mr. Whistle was a quick mover. Flying through the air toward Steve with a spinning kick aimed for Steve's head. Steve could do nothing. The connection was solid. He was going down. Somehow he had just enough focus to avoid crashing head first, though his forearm scraped painfully on the tarmac as he landed in a heap. A boot to the groin caused Steve to see stars but he fought against it.
He couldn't lose this fight. It was simply not an option.
He turned over. Grabbed the flying foot as it headed for his face for the killer shot. Steve burst up and pulled the foot with him. The guy had nowhere to go. He toppled back and Steve added insult to injury by following him down to the ground. He landed on top, and the man groaned and winced in pain. His eyes rolled. A pool of red circled out from underneath his head.
Blood dripped from Steve's face onto the man's. He was still conscious, but he wasn't getting up in a hurry.
"Where is he?" Steve said. The man shook his head. Or was it just rolling? "Tell me where Roederer is."
Nothing.
Steve scrambled to his feet and looked around the fallen men. Two were out. The others were awake and glaring, clutching the stricken parts of their bodies.
Completely spent, fueled by nothing but adrenaline, he turned and headed back to the marina.
*to be continued*
Yeah, I know. I don't go easy on Steve at all. Sorry, not sorry.
Let me know what you think if you find a moment. It'd mean a lot.