THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
Chapter Eight: Fancy Meeting You Here
Mark hurried back to the command post at a pace that belied his years, vaguely aware that Mrs Fortescue had been stopped by an agent at the perimeter. Only his innate courtesy and parental fellow-feeling had allowed his attention to be torn so long from the warehouse where his son's fate still hung in the balance, and now he could brook no more delays.
As he entered, his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the bank of monitors, searching eagerly for some positive sign, if not a glimpse of Steve himself, but the array showed a disappointing lack of activity. Ron was talking intently on the phone, so he caught Cheryl's attention.
"Have you made contact with Steve?" he asked hopefully, his heart thick and solid in his chest as he read the answer immediately in her despondent expression.
"The bomb squad's ten minutes out," she replied encouragingly, wishing she had something more reassuring to offer, knowing that as difficult as she was finding the delay, the waiting must be much worse for the anxious father in front of her.
Mark quickly filled her in on the news from the hospital and, with a grimace of apology, on Mrs Fortescue's current status, passing the inconvenient buck right back. As Cheryl left to rescue her former charge, Mark seated himself in front of the monitors, his back rigid and tense, and only his eyes moving, roving ceaselessly over the image of the warehouse and its environs, hating the enforced inaction. The only useful thing he had to offer was an analysis of the situation and, with grim discipline, he forced his mind away from contemplation of the danger engulfing his son to focus on slicing and dicing the ingredients of the case so far, mentally tossing them into the air to examine them from all angles.
He'd made little progress before Ron closed up his cell phone, approaching the monitors, the frown on his face echoing the frustration Mark was experiencing. However, his first words were meant to console.
"It's been quiet. There's been no more shooting."
Mark nodded, appreciating the consideration, but he found the silence more ominous than comforting. "We have to warn Steve about the explosives; there must be some way we can get a message to him," he pleaded.
Ron held up a placating hand although he sympathised with Mark's urgency. "The bomb squad should be here soon, and we'll get him out, but we have another problem on our hands right now. Somebody just tried to kill Hugo at the hospital."
"I know; it doesn't make sense. None of this makes any sense," Mark burst out in frustration.
Several people turned to look at him, and he knew he'd better control his reactions better or risk being dismissed as overly emotionally involved.
Steadying his voice, he introduced the first topic bothering him. "Look, for starters, Jesse and Ellie were taken as leverage against Hugo, we've been presuming by the North Koreans, in an effort to force him to give back the counterfeit money. Why would they try to kill him now? It can't be to silence him, he's been in our custody for too long for it to be worth it. Why kill the man you believe is the only way to get your money back? In our concern for Jesse and Ellie we've been missing the important point. Who has the missing money? Not the North Koreans or they wouldn't have bothered with hostages. There has to be another party involved, a rogue element, and they would be the ones to stand to gain by killing Hugo."
Ron nodded agreeably. "Well, we captured the man at the hospital. He's got a broken leg and concussion, but we'll be able to question him soon."
Mark was relieved that something had finally gone their way. "I'm betting either he has the money or is working for the man that does."
"We've been so busy reacting to their moves we haven't given much thought to the logic of the situation," Ron remarked thoughtfully.
"Maybe that was the point," Mark commented, almost to himself. At Ron's curious glance, he tried to explain the misgivings he was feeling inside. "Why the whole set up here -- the shooter, the explosives?"
"I presumed they wanted to prevent Nicolayev from handing his information to Steve.""It's possible," Mark conceded. "But why not just shoot him? Why the elaborate ambush and the explosives? That's also presuming Nicolayev is on the up and up - he doesn't strike me as the good Samaritan type. What did he stand to gain by helping Steve? I'd give a lot to know whose side he's on."
"Well, maybe it was just a trap to get Steve here," Ron suggested.
"Again, why? He's no threat to anyone; it's not like he'd got a lot of leads on this case."
"Then if they weren't after Nicolayev and they weren't after Steve, what's it about?" Ron asked with a mounting sense of frustration.
"That's the point. We're missing something. Maybe there's something in the warehouse. I don't know. I'm grasping at straws here, but I know there's more to this than meets the eye."
Ron rubbed his now-aching forehead with his thumb. "I'm not sure you're helping, Mark," he commented with a wry smile. "I'm more confused than I was. Look, here's the bomb squad. Maybe we can get some answers when they've cleared the place."
He went outside to brief the explosives experts, and Mark trailed behind, his eyes fixed longingly on the building in the distance. While he watched, at first uncomprehendingly, a yellow flame licked hungrily up one wall, just as a section of roof seemed to take flight.
"NO!" The anguished cry ripped from his throat was drowned out by the thunder of the explosion as the sound reached them a second later, and everyone turned as if pulled by a single string. The building seemed to ripple as sequential charges sent debris flying into the air, engulfing the building in flames.
Without conscious thought, Mark started running, the pounding of his feet on the pavement echoing the denial that screamed through his head. He had got slightly more than half way when Ron, who had missed his abrupt departure, caught up with him, grabbing his jacket and jerking him abruptly to a halt, spinning him around. Still operating purely on instinct, Mark struggled clumsily to free himself.
"Let me go," he demanded hoarsely.
Heartsick, Ron tried to restrain the distraught man without hurting him.
"Ron, please. If Steve is still in there, he doesn't have much time!"
Ron gave him a shake, his own sense of failure draining his patience. "If Steve is still in there, it's too late. He's dead." It was brutal, but it had the desired effect.
Even at this distance, the heat of the inferno warmed their faces, and pieces of charred debris floated lazily to the ground around them, and Mark had to face the truth of that statement. His knees gave way and he dropped ungracefully to the ground, the heat drying his eyes as he stared unblinkingly at the conflagration.
Ron could hear him murmuring something, an anguished tone repeated again and again, but he couldn't make out the words. Awkwardly, he patted the older man on the shoulder, suddenly longing for Amanda's comforting presence as he watched the fire spread to the next building.
.. . . . . . . .
Jesse looked down at his friend's inert body, noting his improved colour with relief and wishing he would wake up and help plan their next move. He was no stranger to hard decisions and, in the high pressure turmoil of the ER, he could make life and death calls without breaking a sweat, but this was beyond his purview, and not only his best friend's life but also Ellie's could very well depend on what he resolved to do.
One thing was for sure, he wasn't about to leave Steve. That just wasn't going to happen. Yet Nicolayev was right, somebody had to go for help. He had no idea what to make of the Russian. Steve's introduction had been decidedly ambiguous. There was no doubt he'd been helpful so far, but there had to be a reason Steve had handcuffed them together and it certainly implied a lack of trust on his part. Ellie was in no condition to travel far by herself either.
"Where are we?" he asked, his mind working frenziedly through his options.
"My warehouses, near the dock," Nicolayev replied, without thinking. "I have an office close by and I could make a phone call for help from there."
Too late, he noticed the sharp look of mistrust increase in the young doctor's eyes.
"So," Jesse began slowly, not wanting to antagonise but determined to clarify their position. "You're the one who kidnapped us?"
"No, no, I did not do...I did not know..." Nicolayev began in flustered denial. He stopped and continued more calmly. "I did not know you were here. I was being framed."
"But Steve found us," Jesse continued, confused by the turn of events.
"I am afraid that was something of a...how do you say... serendipitous accident?" Nicolayev summoned up his most charming smile.
Jesse's cheeks puffed out in a silent sigh. Whatever his suspicions, Nicolayev was his only real choice. "You have to get help," he told the Russian firmly. "Do you know where the key to the handcuffs are?"
Nicolayev shrugged gracefully, his goal achieved. "I presume somewhere..." he gestured to Steve's pockets.
Jesse started a gentle search, locating them in the back pocket of Steve's jeans. He gazed sternly at Nicolayev who met his gaze guilelessly. "Call 911, then call Community General Hospital and ask for Mark Sloan and tell him what's happened."
The Russian rubbed his bruised wrists. "I shall do as you say," he agreed amiably, although his own plans bore little resemblance to Jesse's.
A small cough and muffled groan from Steve brought Jesse's attention back to his friend, and he started to talk to him soothingly with a precautionary hand restraining him from sudden movements.
"Take it easy buddy, don't try to move or talk. You've developed something of a leak. I've patched you up for now but too much activity will ruin my hard work."
Nicolayev took advantage of Jesse's preoccupation to back away steadily, sidling nonchalantly along the wall. He verified the gun's position with a quick glance, then slid down, finally grasping the weapon. It felt oddly warm and comforting as he hefted it triumphantly in his hand.
"Tell Mark that . . ." Jesse glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Russian was paying attention and his eyes fell on the gun.
"That's Steve's." He knew it was an inane thing to say even as he spoke, but he felt that he had to say something and he wasn't familiar with the etiquette necessary when speaking to a man of unknown intentions brandishing a gun. He didn't want to annoy the Russian, but nor did he want to appear intimidated. As unobtrusively as possible, he moved between Steve and the weapon, pulling Ellie in behind him.
For a moment, Nicolayev savoured the fear he saw in the young doctor's eyes, but he hadn't survived so many years in a questionable profession by burning his bridges unnecessarily and, although he had no intention of relinquishing the gun, he wanted to maintain at least the appearance of propriety.
"There are armed men out there. Surely you do not expect me to go out unarmed." He sounded hurt, innocence personified.
"Nic . . . olayev."
Jesse spun round at the hoarse voice from behind him and knelt at Steve's side, gently frustrating his friend's efforts to lever himself into a sitting position. "Don't move, Steve. You've got to take it easy."
Steve's face was covered with a light sheen of sweat and his breathing was laboured. However, it was easy to read the grim determination in his expression. "Nicolayev. There's a task force on the hill, near the front gate. Not far. Take them there."
"I thought I told you to come alone," the Russian countered lightly, not committing himself either way.
Jesse was starting to feel like the net in a game of tennis and decided it was time to interject his own comments. "You're not going anywhere, Steve, and neither am I."
Steve closed his eyes for a minute, summoning the energy he knew he'd need to convince his friend to leave. He was familiar with Jesse's stubbornness when a patient needed his support. "Jesse, please. Dad's there. At the moment, he doesn't know if I'm dead or alive."
Jesse grimaced, imagining Mark's anguish. However, it wasn't a sufficient reason to abandon his friend. "Nicolayev can tell him. You know your Dad would never leave you in this condition for any reason. He'll understand."
Steve knew it would have been impossible to have pried his father from his side, but he still hoped to fare better with Jesse. He played his last card. "What about Ellie? You have to get her to safety."
Steve hoped that Ron's men had taken care of the sniper or he could be sending them out into more danger. There should have been adequate time for the FBI to have secured the area, and every instinct was screaming at him to get them out of the warehouse.
Jesse cast a guilty look up at the English girl who stood cradling her arm as she listened intently. She met Jesse's gaze steadily. "I can manage. It's okay." She understood why Jesse needed to stay with the injured man and although she hated the thought of leaving him in their former prison, she had no intention of playing the helpless, clinging female.
"And Nicolayev . . ." Steve pushed himself onto an elbow, ignoring Jesse's attempt at restraint. "If anything happens to her, I'm holding you personally responsible. You'll be finished in this town."
It was a remarkably good job at intimidation considering the man delivering the speech was almost flat on the floor. Nicolayev bowed his head politely, concealing his frustration behind lowered eyes. His usual strategy was to play both sides to his own advantage, but that opportunistic neutrality was getting harder to maintain as he was dragged unwillingly into the fray.
Jesse drew Ellie aside and stole a last kiss under the guise of checking her elbow. He hoped he wasn't making a terrible mistake letting her go with Nicolayev. With any luck they would quickly find help and this nightmare would soon be over. From the door of the container he watched them leave the warehouse and then returned to Steve's side. From the look in his friend's eyes, he deduced that his kiss had not gone unnoticed. To try to head off the ribbing he expected would follow, he reiterated his advice to stay quiet, but, not to his surprise, he was ignored.
"I was worried about you. But here you are, pretty girl, privacy, comfy hideaway. Are you sure you didn't arrange this yourself?" Steve's smile was forced as the effort to talk drained his final resources.
The memory of the steamy shared kisses that day caused Jesse to blush, much to Steve's delight, and he sought for a sufficiently quelling response."You're just jealous because she's not a psycho killer," he retorted somewhat lamely, realising too late that he'd tacitly admitted he had feelings for Ellie.
Before he could compromise either his dignity or the Hippocratic Oath, Jesse was distracted by the onset of another coughing fit that convulsed Steve. He patted his friend's shoulder comfortingly, holding the bottle steady. "I told you not to talk," he chided, wishing he had some some heavy-duty pain-killers to offer his friend. He knew that his impromptu surgery would be causing Steve as much pain as the original injury.
Steve looked down at the contraption on his chest. He had seen his father's jury-rigged devices often enough to recognise the inspiration behind it's construction. "Dad would be proud. Thanks Jess."
Jesse graced him with an abashed smile. "You know, he taught me and . . ." He broke off as a booming roar assailed their ears, rattling the metal walls of the container. His initial alarm evolved into heart-pounding fear as the noise continued, escalating to a deafening roar. Steve pushed himself to a sitting position, and this time Jesse didn't prevent him, almost paralysed by the relentless assault on his hearing.
The thunder finally died away, and the comparative silence seemed eerie after the former cacophony. "What was that?" Jesse asked in confusion.
"Explosion," Steve answered succinctly.
"I know that, I meant . . . Oh my God, Ellie. Do you think . . ." He jumped up and ran to the door of the container, slipping through and vanishing into the warehouse.
"Jesse, stop, wait." Steve tried to get to his feet, but his legs seemed to be the consistency of overcooked asparagus, and the violent bolt of pain that shot through his chest at the movement sent him down to his knees again, swaying dizzily.
The smell of smoke drifted in through the open door, but before Steve could try to make his way to see through the gap, he heard the sound of running footsteps. Jesse burst back into the container. His hair was tousled, his eyes wild, and panic was evident in the words that tumbled from his mouth.
"The warehouse is on fire and there's an inferno outside the door. We're trapped!"
