Having finished their search of the first basement level with no more
success than the satisfaction of neutralizing another half-dozen of Horn's
employees, Saint John and Stringfellow Hawke descended to the bottom of the
emergency stairs, taking a moment to listen carefully before peeping out.
Though commendable, their prudence was also unnecessary; this level seemed
deserted, the main body of troops undoubtedly massed at the front of the
large house, where the sounds of a major firefight were still audible even
through the heavy timbers and stone walls.
Saint John nevertheless checked carefully before turning to his brother, who was leaning heavily against the metal banister, eyes shut and face decidedly grayish despite the fever. He grabbed the younger man's arm tightly, broad-planed features grave. "I figured everything was going to wear off at once," he said quietly, without accusation. "You didn't have much morphine, and even Benzedrine can't work if there's no reserves left to work with."
"I'm all right," Stringfellow panted, forcing open unfocused eyes filled with the rapidly worsening pain of his injuries. "We're too close to stop now."
"I don't think you're going to have much choice pretty soon," the older man returned matter-of-factly, still making no move. "Think you can stay on your feet a while longer?"
String nodded firmly. "Got to. It's for Dom."
Simple appearances qualifying the statement less-than-reassuringly, Saint John waited until the other had straightened determinedly away from the wall before he released the arm he was still clutching and stepped into the corridor, String at his back. He glanced in both directions again and sighed. "Fighting's closer than before. We need to tap Airwolf for help again." Once more he used the radio to contact their air-borne allies, this time getting a more definite response.
"Your level has cleared out pretty well," Jo said after a moment's pause during which she rechecked her scanners, "and the power is off in several sections. The left end of the hall reads as seven people all in some form of transit, probably evacuating. The right shows two separate readings. The closest room to you, fifteen feet distance, has one human with depressed life signs -- injured or unconscious. The second is at the far end next to the elevator, and shows four people clustered together in one room. ... Both show steady electronic pulse in the door, whatever that is."
"Electronic locking devices," Stringfellow Hawke supplied grimly. "Either Dom or Michael could have been hurt by those scum and left for dead."
"You'd better hurry," Mike announced, overhearing through the radio. "Epsilon Guard has secured the exterior, and forced several of Horn's troopers to retreat into the building. They're filtering towards your position."
"Roger," Saint John called, having to break into a run to keep up with his already departing brother. "We'll be in touch." He repocketed the radio, catching up in front of the white panel that doubled as a security door. String fired two shots into the locking mechanism; Saint John slung the Ingram over one shoulder and brushed him back with an outflung hand. He fitted his fingers into grooves in the door, then tensed, his powerful muscles bulging under his flight suit. The heavy door slid open silently, allowing them access into the dimly lit interior.
"There's a body lying there next to the ... bed?" Saint John entered rifle barrel first, stopping to stare at the altered hospital gurney with it's restraining straps; he shifted his gaze to the still figure on the floor, then knelt, pressing two fingers against her throat. "It's a woman. She's alive. Looks like somebody punched her in the face." He frowned, becoming aware of the conspicuous silence behind, turning to see his brother standing stock still in the doorway, blue eyes wide and fastened on the heretofore unnoticed image being projected onto the wall. Saint John turned his head, following the younger man's line of sight, scanning the handsome, fair man's image once. "Is that Horn?" he asked, coming to his feet and crossing rapidly to the other's side. "String?"
Stringfellow Hawke flinched visibly at his brother's light touch, shaking himself free of the momentary nightmare that had gripped him. He gulped and took one step forward until he could see the fallen woman. "That's Zarkov," he snarled, his gun just 'happening' to dip in her direction.
Reading the intent accurately, Saint John snagged his arm, tugging back toward the door. "Good -- we'll know where to find her when this is all over."
String glanced at him, genuine hope lightening the anger in his sapphire eyes. "That means the next one ... it might be Dom!" The exclamation was followed by a burst of energy that carried him through the door and down the hall at a lope; mentally following Jo's directions he traversed the length of the corridor, stopping before the last closed panel in a series, standing at an angle to the elevator and across from another set of emergency stairs.
Without pausing to consider the consequences of guessing wrong, String threw himself against the door, pounding on it with one fist. "Dom?" he yelled rather more loudly than caution might dictate. "Dom, you in there?"
There was a muffled thump from within, then the door slid open and Hawke precipitated himself inside. He made it exactly one step beyond the threshold before his eye lit on something crimson puddling on the floor by his left foot. He followed the trail automatically, freezing horrifiedly at the sight of the beautiful and very dead woman lying against the wall. Angelica's eyes were closed, her pretty face wearing so serene an expression that one might have made the mistake of thinking she was merely sleeping if not for the ugly hole her hair was barely concealing.
String stared for a single second before noticing the man standing beside the body. Blue eyes rose to lock on the arctic ones of John Bradford Horn, who was regarding him with a disdainful sneer.
"It seems dear Anastasia's conditioning was less permanent than she thought," Horn began, outwardly unruffled by the hate flaring in the younger man's eyes. "I don't suppose you actually managed to-- UMPH!" That was when Stringfellow lunged forward, an inarticulate snarl his only vocal response to the taunting. He caught the older man in the midsection, his weight carrying them both backwards to slam against the wall, then tumble to the floor. Landing on top, Stringfellow planted his bandaged fist once against the sneering mouth, then wrapped his fingers around the man's throat and began to squeeze. Horn made a gurgling sound, his arrogance replaced by outright fear. He clawed at Hawke's hands desperately, fists impacting vainly on the young man's face and body, all without result. Stringfellow Hawke simply gritted his teeth and continued to choke the life out of his most hated enemy.
Momentarily frozen by the suddenness of the attack, Michael and Dominic could only gape stupidly, while little Amy screamed and threw herself back behind the radio console. The men recovered at roughly the same time, the both forcing themselves into motion toward the downed men. "Don't kill him, Hawke!" Archangel wheezed, throwing himself at one of the taut-muscled arms and pulling. "We ... need information about ... his organization."
Santini mirrored the action on the other side and with as much success. "C'mon, kid," he grunted, throwing his considerably lessened bulk backwards in a futile attempt at breaking that death grip. "Y'know this ain't gonna be good for you. String!"
Santini's rough voice penetrated the murderous glaze in which the younger man was wrapped. The vicious countenance blanked, utter astonishment smoothing away the hatred. Hawke stared open-mouthed at the changed face of his closest friend cum foster father, tracing the heavy scarring that started on the lower jaw to disappear under the t-shirt. He blinked several times before comprehension sank in. "D-Dom?" he whispered, nerveless fingers loosing their hold on Horn's throat. "Is it really...?"
Santini chuckled, his gravelly voice filled with genuine pleasure. "You were expecting Little Orphan Annie?" he retorted, brown eyes shining damply. He opened his arms. "C'mere, kid!"
With a strangled cry, Stringfellow Hawke threw himself into that welcome embrace, burying his face in Santini's shoulder and not noticing when Michael rolled Horn out of the way. "That explosion should have killed you."
Santini growled happily, a tear sliding down his seamed cheeks. "You ought'a know how hard it is to kill an old chopper jockey like me! It was you I wuz worried about!"
"Th-they said you were d-dead!" Hawke stammered, hugging the older man as tightly as he could. "Michael said...." He stopped, pulling back to stare accusingly up at the white-garbed, now-erect agent. "You said it was all a trick of Zarkov's -- that Dominic was only in my mind."
Michael's grin faded; he lifted one shoulder, looking uncomfortable. "So, I was wrong. It's safe to come out now," he told Amy Newman, who was regarding him from cover.
But the young pilot wasn't to be put off. He stared hard at the agent, blue eyes narrowing with a mixture of enlightenment and betrayal. "So it was all a lie," he decided at last, not noticing the tight grip Dominic was maintaining on his shoulders. "You knew all this time about Dom being alive." He started to rise, bandaged fists clenched, but Dominic placed his palm flat on his foster son's chest, giving him a solid shove.
"Let it go, String," he said sternly. "He called it right this time. Letting Horn get Airwolf would have cost a lot more lives than one old man's. I couldn't have lived with myself if that had happened, and you weren't in any condition to prevent it." His voice softened when the look of betrayal did not fade from the other's face. "I wouldn't've wanted him to do anything less. And I wouldn't have expected any less from you."
"He would have let you die," Hawke spat, his blue gaze still boring unforgivingly into Archangel's carefully neutral one.
Dom raised his hand until he could cup the younger man's neck. "C'mon, kid. You know if they could'a used me against you, they wouldn't have let up for a minute ... on either of us. This way just saved us both a little pain."
Archangel did not move nor did he look away. "They were going to kill us all anyway," he returned steadily, the white knuckled grip he kept on his rifle broadcasting his agitation though his voice did not. "I couldn't take a chance on Airwolf falling into their hands for no reason."
"Dom isn't no reason," Stringfellow gritted back.
"Better to go out that way, knowing they couldn't use me to hurt you any worse." Dominic shook him gently until the penetrating gaze shifted from the blond agent to him. "Michael made the right decision. It couldn't have been an easy one." He leaned closer, emphasizing each word of his trump card. "You know what it's like to have to trade one life for many."
The betrayed look shifted its focus from Briggs to Santini, Hawke's expression that of a child who'd been slapped and didn't know why. Santini looked back calmly, forcing his point home, painful though it might be, and slowly the tension went out of Hawke's slim body, the anger fading if not disappearing from his eyes. "Yeah, I know what it's like." He clenched his teeth and looked away, the impression he gave curiously one of loss. "I wish it had been anyone else but you, Michael." He straightened preparatory to standing, then swayed dizzily, nearly keeling over but for Dominic's continued hold.
"String!" The older man pulled him into a sitting position, supporting him briefly until the spell passed. He studied the battered countenance and dulled eyes closely for a moment, his lips tightening with disapproval. "What are you on?" he demanded, loosing one hand to wave a finger under Hawke's nose at the immediate disavowal. "Don't lie to me, kid, I know you too well. They doped you up to get you to come back here, didn't they?" He shot an enraged glance at Briggs, who lifted one hand, fingers spread.
"Don't look at me," the agent objected, glancing back when Amy again tangled her little fist in his shirttail. "I've been here with you, remember?"
Recovering his balance if not much of his energy, Hawke gently disengaged himself from the other's tight grip and used the radio stand to pull himself to his feet. "I'm all right," he stated flatly, bracing himself against the counter and turning from his friends to Horn. "I-- Hey!" His bellow drew all of them toward the disheveled industrialist, who had used the distraction to advantage and was busily typing something into the computer keyboard. Hawke grabbed for his missing Browning, while Archangel swept the barrel of his own commandeered rifle around and pulled the trigger, riddling two of the terminals with a lead shower. Horn dove for cover, one arm coming up to shield his face from plastic splinters. From all appearances, however, Michael's actions had come far too late; where once the monitors had shown the view immediately without the room, they had all switched as one and now showed an analog clockface, the hands set at ten minutes and counting down.
"What did you do?" Hawke demanded, jamming the barrel of the Browning under the industrialist's chin. "Tell me."
Arctic eyes returned the glare, undistressed by the implied threat. "Not being a total fool, I had the foresight to set a self-destruct mechanism somewhere in the building. I had planned to use it after I'd achieved my goal. However...." He waved one manicured hand negligently toward the body of his daughter, which lay forgotten in the corner. "I don't think I've anything to lose by jumping the gun, do you, gentlemen?"
Lips drawn back, Hawke swung the man around, slamming him into the nearest monitor; the blond head made a dull clunk when it hit the glass. "How do we stop it?"
Horn gurgled as his breath was cut off but managed to gasp, "You can't. There was no abort code built in."
A tense hush fell, broken only by the sound of Michael's fingers playing across the remaining keyboard. He worked frantically for ninety seconds then straightened. "No good; I can't get access."
Hearing truth in the statement, Hawke released Horn, allowing Michael to snag the man's collar and haul him toward the door. "We have to get out of here," the pilot said, offering Santini a hand up. "Dom, can you walk?"
"Yeah. We were just getting ready to move anyway." He pointed to the multiple clockface, which now stood at seven minutes. "We had troops camped on the elevator and these stairs until now. Oh, thank you, honey." Santini smiled at the little girl, who had appeared at his side with the discarded crutch in one hand and the dropped pistol held between thumb and forefinger of the other. With Stringfellow's shaky support, he managed to stand and balance himself until he could get the crutch under his shoulder, his brown eyes following the boy's sad ones when they noticed the missing foot for the first time. "Later, String," he admonished gently, although a spasm of loss crossed his own craggy features as well. "We've got to get out of here."
Hawke took a shallow breath, again wrapping one arm around his midsection and glancing around puzzledly. "That's funny. He was right behind me." He ducked out the door at a rapid limp, leaving Michael to bring up the rear with Horn.
"Right behind you? Who was right behind you?" Dom hollered, hobbling in his son's wake.
***
Saint John nevertheless checked carefully before turning to his brother, who was leaning heavily against the metal banister, eyes shut and face decidedly grayish despite the fever. He grabbed the younger man's arm tightly, broad-planed features grave. "I figured everything was going to wear off at once," he said quietly, without accusation. "You didn't have much morphine, and even Benzedrine can't work if there's no reserves left to work with."
"I'm all right," Stringfellow panted, forcing open unfocused eyes filled with the rapidly worsening pain of his injuries. "We're too close to stop now."
"I don't think you're going to have much choice pretty soon," the older man returned matter-of-factly, still making no move. "Think you can stay on your feet a while longer?"
String nodded firmly. "Got to. It's for Dom."
Simple appearances qualifying the statement less-than-reassuringly, Saint John waited until the other had straightened determinedly away from the wall before he released the arm he was still clutching and stepped into the corridor, String at his back. He glanced in both directions again and sighed. "Fighting's closer than before. We need to tap Airwolf for help again." Once more he used the radio to contact their air-borne allies, this time getting a more definite response.
"Your level has cleared out pretty well," Jo said after a moment's pause during which she rechecked her scanners, "and the power is off in several sections. The left end of the hall reads as seven people all in some form of transit, probably evacuating. The right shows two separate readings. The closest room to you, fifteen feet distance, has one human with depressed life signs -- injured or unconscious. The second is at the far end next to the elevator, and shows four people clustered together in one room. ... Both show steady electronic pulse in the door, whatever that is."
"Electronic locking devices," Stringfellow Hawke supplied grimly. "Either Dom or Michael could have been hurt by those scum and left for dead."
"You'd better hurry," Mike announced, overhearing through the radio. "Epsilon Guard has secured the exterior, and forced several of Horn's troopers to retreat into the building. They're filtering towards your position."
"Roger," Saint John called, having to break into a run to keep up with his already departing brother. "We'll be in touch." He repocketed the radio, catching up in front of the white panel that doubled as a security door. String fired two shots into the locking mechanism; Saint John slung the Ingram over one shoulder and brushed him back with an outflung hand. He fitted his fingers into grooves in the door, then tensed, his powerful muscles bulging under his flight suit. The heavy door slid open silently, allowing them access into the dimly lit interior.
"There's a body lying there next to the ... bed?" Saint John entered rifle barrel first, stopping to stare at the altered hospital gurney with it's restraining straps; he shifted his gaze to the still figure on the floor, then knelt, pressing two fingers against her throat. "It's a woman. She's alive. Looks like somebody punched her in the face." He frowned, becoming aware of the conspicuous silence behind, turning to see his brother standing stock still in the doorway, blue eyes wide and fastened on the heretofore unnoticed image being projected onto the wall. Saint John turned his head, following the younger man's line of sight, scanning the handsome, fair man's image once. "Is that Horn?" he asked, coming to his feet and crossing rapidly to the other's side. "String?"
Stringfellow Hawke flinched visibly at his brother's light touch, shaking himself free of the momentary nightmare that had gripped him. He gulped and took one step forward until he could see the fallen woman. "That's Zarkov," he snarled, his gun just 'happening' to dip in her direction.
Reading the intent accurately, Saint John snagged his arm, tugging back toward the door. "Good -- we'll know where to find her when this is all over."
String glanced at him, genuine hope lightening the anger in his sapphire eyes. "That means the next one ... it might be Dom!" The exclamation was followed by a burst of energy that carried him through the door and down the hall at a lope; mentally following Jo's directions he traversed the length of the corridor, stopping before the last closed panel in a series, standing at an angle to the elevator and across from another set of emergency stairs.
Without pausing to consider the consequences of guessing wrong, String threw himself against the door, pounding on it with one fist. "Dom?" he yelled rather more loudly than caution might dictate. "Dom, you in there?"
There was a muffled thump from within, then the door slid open and Hawke precipitated himself inside. He made it exactly one step beyond the threshold before his eye lit on something crimson puddling on the floor by his left foot. He followed the trail automatically, freezing horrifiedly at the sight of the beautiful and very dead woman lying against the wall. Angelica's eyes were closed, her pretty face wearing so serene an expression that one might have made the mistake of thinking she was merely sleeping if not for the ugly hole her hair was barely concealing.
String stared for a single second before noticing the man standing beside the body. Blue eyes rose to lock on the arctic ones of John Bradford Horn, who was regarding him with a disdainful sneer.
"It seems dear Anastasia's conditioning was less permanent than she thought," Horn began, outwardly unruffled by the hate flaring in the younger man's eyes. "I don't suppose you actually managed to-- UMPH!" That was when Stringfellow lunged forward, an inarticulate snarl his only vocal response to the taunting. He caught the older man in the midsection, his weight carrying them both backwards to slam against the wall, then tumble to the floor. Landing on top, Stringfellow planted his bandaged fist once against the sneering mouth, then wrapped his fingers around the man's throat and began to squeeze. Horn made a gurgling sound, his arrogance replaced by outright fear. He clawed at Hawke's hands desperately, fists impacting vainly on the young man's face and body, all without result. Stringfellow Hawke simply gritted his teeth and continued to choke the life out of his most hated enemy.
Momentarily frozen by the suddenness of the attack, Michael and Dominic could only gape stupidly, while little Amy screamed and threw herself back behind the radio console. The men recovered at roughly the same time, the both forcing themselves into motion toward the downed men. "Don't kill him, Hawke!" Archangel wheezed, throwing himself at one of the taut-muscled arms and pulling. "We ... need information about ... his organization."
Santini mirrored the action on the other side and with as much success. "C'mon, kid," he grunted, throwing his considerably lessened bulk backwards in a futile attempt at breaking that death grip. "Y'know this ain't gonna be good for you. String!"
Santini's rough voice penetrated the murderous glaze in which the younger man was wrapped. The vicious countenance blanked, utter astonishment smoothing away the hatred. Hawke stared open-mouthed at the changed face of his closest friend cum foster father, tracing the heavy scarring that started on the lower jaw to disappear under the t-shirt. He blinked several times before comprehension sank in. "D-Dom?" he whispered, nerveless fingers loosing their hold on Horn's throat. "Is it really...?"
Santini chuckled, his gravelly voice filled with genuine pleasure. "You were expecting Little Orphan Annie?" he retorted, brown eyes shining damply. He opened his arms. "C'mere, kid!"
With a strangled cry, Stringfellow Hawke threw himself into that welcome embrace, burying his face in Santini's shoulder and not noticing when Michael rolled Horn out of the way. "That explosion should have killed you."
Santini growled happily, a tear sliding down his seamed cheeks. "You ought'a know how hard it is to kill an old chopper jockey like me! It was you I wuz worried about!"
"Th-they said you were d-dead!" Hawke stammered, hugging the older man as tightly as he could. "Michael said...." He stopped, pulling back to stare accusingly up at the white-garbed, now-erect agent. "You said it was all a trick of Zarkov's -- that Dominic was only in my mind."
Michael's grin faded; he lifted one shoulder, looking uncomfortable. "So, I was wrong. It's safe to come out now," he told Amy Newman, who was regarding him from cover.
But the young pilot wasn't to be put off. He stared hard at the agent, blue eyes narrowing with a mixture of enlightenment and betrayal. "So it was all a lie," he decided at last, not noticing the tight grip Dominic was maintaining on his shoulders. "You knew all this time about Dom being alive." He started to rise, bandaged fists clenched, but Dominic placed his palm flat on his foster son's chest, giving him a solid shove.
"Let it go, String," he said sternly. "He called it right this time. Letting Horn get Airwolf would have cost a lot more lives than one old man's. I couldn't have lived with myself if that had happened, and you weren't in any condition to prevent it." His voice softened when the look of betrayal did not fade from the other's face. "I wouldn't've wanted him to do anything less. And I wouldn't have expected any less from you."
"He would have let you die," Hawke spat, his blue gaze still boring unforgivingly into Archangel's carefully neutral one.
Dom raised his hand until he could cup the younger man's neck. "C'mon, kid. You know if they could'a used me against you, they wouldn't have let up for a minute ... on either of us. This way just saved us both a little pain."
Archangel did not move nor did he look away. "They were going to kill us all anyway," he returned steadily, the white knuckled grip he kept on his rifle broadcasting his agitation though his voice did not. "I couldn't take a chance on Airwolf falling into their hands for no reason."
"Dom isn't no reason," Stringfellow gritted back.
"Better to go out that way, knowing they couldn't use me to hurt you any worse." Dominic shook him gently until the penetrating gaze shifted from the blond agent to him. "Michael made the right decision. It couldn't have been an easy one." He leaned closer, emphasizing each word of his trump card. "You know what it's like to have to trade one life for many."
The betrayed look shifted its focus from Briggs to Santini, Hawke's expression that of a child who'd been slapped and didn't know why. Santini looked back calmly, forcing his point home, painful though it might be, and slowly the tension went out of Hawke's slim body, the anger fading if not disappearing from his eyes. "Yeah, I know what it's like." He clenched his teeth and looked away, the impression he gave curiously one of loss. "I wish it had been anyone else but you, Michael." He straightened preparatory to standing, then swayed dizzily, nearly keeling over but for Dominic's continued hold.
"String!" The older man pulled him into a sitting position, supporting him briefly until the spell passed. He studied the battered countenance and dulled eyes closely for a moment, his lips tightening with disapproval. "What are you on?" he demanded, loosing one hand to wave a finger under Hawke's nose at the immediate disavowal. "Don't lie to me, kid, I know you too well. They doped you up to get you to come back here, didn't they?" He shot an enraged glance at Briggs, who lifted one hand, fingers spread.
"Don't look at me," the agent objected, glancing back when Amy again tangled her little fist in his shirttail. "I've been here with you, remember?"
Recovering his balance if not much of his energy, Hawke gently disengaged himself from the other's tight grip and used the radio stand to pull himself to his feet. "I'm all right," he stated flatly, bracing himself against the counter and turning from his friends to Horn. "I-- Hey!" His bellow drew all of them toward the disheveled industrialist, who had used the distraction to advantage and was busily typing something into the computer keyboard. Hawke grabbed for his missing Browning, while Archangel swept the barrel of his own commandeered rifle around and pulled the trigger, riddling two of the terminals with a lead shower. Horn dove for cover, one arm coming up to shield his face from plastic splinters. From all appearances, however, Michael's actions had come far too late; where once the monitors had shown the view immediately without the room, they had all switched as one and now showed an analog clockface, the hands set at ten minutes and counting down.
"What did you do?" Hawke demanded, jamming the barrel of the Browning under the industrialist's chin. "Tell me."
Arctic eyes returned the glare, undistressed by the implied threat. "Not being a total fool, I had the foresight to set a self-destruct mechanism somewhere in the building. I had planned to use it after I'd achieved my goal. However...." He waved one manicured hand negligently toward the body of his daughter, which lay forgotten in the corner. "I don't think I've anything to lose by jumping the gun, do you, gentlemen?"
Lips drawn back, Hawke swung the man around, slamming him into the nearest monitor; the blond head made a dull clunk when it hit the glass. "How do we stop it?"
Horn gurgled as his breath was cut off but managed to gasp, "You can't. There was no abort code built in."
A tense hush fell, broken only by the sound of Michael's fingers playing across the remaining keyboard. He worked frantically for ninety seconds then straightened. "No good; I can't get access."
Hearing truth in the statement, Hawke released Horn, allowing Michael to snag the man's collar and haul him toward the door. "We have to get out of here," the pilot said, offering Santini a hand up. "Dom, can you walk?"
"Yeah. We were just getting ready to move anyway." He pointed to the multiple clockface, which now stood at seven minutes. "We had troops camped on the elevator and these stairs until now. Oh, thank you, honey." Santini smiled at the little girl, who had appeared at his side with the discarded crutch in one hand and the dropped pistol held between thumb and forefinger of the other. With Stringfellow's shaky support, he managed to stand and balance himself until he could get the crutch under his shoulder, his brown eyes following the boy's sad ones when they noticed the missing foot for the first time. "Later, String," he admonished gently, although a spasm of loss crossed his own craggy features as well. "We've got to get out of here."
Hawke took a shallow breath, again wrapping one arm around his midsection and glancing around puzzledly. "That's funny. He was right behind me." He ducked out the door at a rapid limp, leaving Michael to bring up the rear with Horn.
"Right behind you? Who was right behind you?" Dom hollered, hobbling in his son's wake.
***