#5 Baby, It's Cold Outside
'As close as he could', to Steve's chagrin, turned out to mean near the top of another escalator. Over the railing he could see baggage claim stretching out below on one side, ticketing on the other.
Surely there had to be an elevator around here somewhere…he glanced around, but no friendly sign was readily visible. He made a face. Don't be such a baby, Sloan. Just get on the darned thing. Hold onto the rail if you have to, but you're wasting time.
He studied the baggage claim area below again. His heart skipped a beat as he spotted their perp, circlinga baggage carousel on one side. All hesitation gone, he stepped onto the first moving stair. His stomach dropped and pitched a little at the first lurch of movement, but he quickly forgot it at the sight of Harper, moving in to get behind their perp. He touched his ear. "Cahill?"
"Here, sir."
"Change of plans - I'm on my way to baggage in case Harper and Stiles need backup. Manning, you ready too?"
"Yes, sir." Manning's voice crackled with static, but came through.
"Good. Everybody look alert. I think this is finally it. And remember that damned shiv - we don't need anybody else sliced up."
The woman riding next to him on the escalator gave him a peculiar look, as if wondering why he was talking to his shirt. He offered her a weak smile and returned his eyes to Harper. He was almost right behind their man. The perp, in turn, had one foot resting on the rim surrounding the carousel, watching for his bag.
Come on, Steve urged silently. Come on! Grab it!
Harper shadowed the figure, waiting for him to make a move, trying to blend in with the rest of the travelers. The perp leaned forward, stretching for a passing bag, and Harper pushed his way right behind him. Steve craned his neck over the escalator railing, holding his breath. Above him, the music promised that it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go.
Yeah, he breathed to himself, it really is. Come on, now - just grab it -
The perp almost had his hand on the bag when, without warning, he suddenly reared back and turned on one heel, kicking the other at a nearby luggage cart. The luggage cart shot directly at the surprised-looking Harper, who caught it in the stomach and cannoned backward into the crowd of hopeful travelers watching anxiously for their suitcases. They all went down in a heap like bowling pins.
Steve swore before he could stop himself, gave an apologetic grimace as the lady next to him looked at him again, disapprovingly this time, but he was already trying to get his unyielding legs moving, pushing through the startled escalator passengers. "Harper's down - " he barked into his mike. "Manning, move in - Stiles - where the heck are you?"
Was this guy psychic or something? His men were good - he knew they were - how did he keep making them? He could see their man skip away from the tangle of tourists as Harper struggled to extricate himself, saw him reach for the bag again, clasp the handle.
Impatient with his progress, Steve braced his hands on the moving railing and swung himself over the top, dropping the distance to the linoleum floor and landing in a clumsy crouch. He felt a suspicious tearing across his thigh as the butterfly bandages gave and a flash of agony that upset his shaky balance and dropped him to his burning knees. For a second the world was washed with red and he touched the floor with one hand, trying to right himself, then forced himself to his feet in a stagger, blocking out a series of worrisome sensations along his legs. Probably that was going to hurt like hell later…
He shambled with a taut-legged limp towards the baggage carousel just as the perp yanked his bag free. He gauged the distance between them, hissing his disappointment, eyes sweeping the area for some glimpse of Stiles. He saw him trying to push his way through the crowd. He wasn't going to make it on time either.
"Manning…?" They couldn't lose him again - they just couldn't…
Steve tried to pick up his pace, but his body refused to cooperate. The perp swung around with the bag in his grasp and tried to dodge into the crowd. A bulwark of flesh blocked his path.
"That's my bag."
Steve stared at the broad woman in stretch pants and a bulky sweater with Santa's face emblazoned across the front, parked immovably in front of his perp. He certainly didn't recognize her as one of his. She had a full face that looked as if it might usually display a jolly smile, but the rigors of holiday travel had long since stamped that smile out.
She reached out and clamped her hand around the bag's other handle. "I've been waiting for three hours for that bag to show up. It's mine."
The perp glanced nervously toward where Harper was still trying to unearth himself from the luggage cart and pile of quarreling, overtired bodies, and pulled on the bag. "You're mistaken. This is mine." He gave it another hard tug for emphasis.
Steve breathed a thankful prayer for holiday travelers and circled around behind him, trying to get closer, cursing his own pathetic pace. He touched his gun, wanting it ready, but resisting the urge to draw it in this crowd.
"It's mine!" The woman didn't give an inch, towering over the small, wiry perp, as solidly immoveable as Mount Rushmore.
"It's not!" The perp's voice was a hiss, his eyes locked on Harper, who was now sitting up. He tugged again, more forcefully. "It's my bag! See? It's got a yellow ribbon!"
"I always tie a yellow ribbon on mine." The woman pulled back, almost yanking the smaller man off of his feet. Steve was closer now - not close enough to grab him, but close enough to hope he could at least block his path if he tried to escape. "I've been waiting and waiting for this bag and I'm not going to let go now. Give it to me!"
"Lady, I said this is my bag and I mean it's my bag! Now let go!"
"YOU let go - or I'll call the police!"
Nice, Steve thought approvingly. That ought to give him pause.
The perp did indeed hesitate for a second, and Steve, suddenly remembering the shiv, figured he'd better find a way to move in fast before a civilian got hurt. It must have occurred to the felon that reaching for the shiv would mean letting go of the bag, because instead he leaned back with all his weight and pulled, putting his entire body into it.
Steve rested his hand on his gun, trying to close the distance. There was the sharp, rending sound of plastic and cloth giving way and the bag split open, tumbling its contents all over the hard floor.
The crowd exploded into murmurs of mixed horror and amusement at their first entertainment in hours, watching with interest as a series of multi-shaped bundles, wrapped in plastic garbage bags and secured with duct tape, spilled out and scattered the linoleum. One of them, about the size and shape of a soccer ball, rolled toward Steve and he lifted one foot to stop its progress, anchoring it with the toe of his shoe.
The woman blinked in surprise at the oddly shaped contents, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the nasty aroma emanating from them. "Guess it wasn't mine," she admitted indifferently.
The perp stared wildly at the scattered pieces, followed the progress of the one to Steve's shoe, then up from the shoe to Steve's face.
Steve gave him a broad, indulgent smile, indicating the wrapped bundle at his feet. "I believe you said that this was yours?"
The perp met his eyes and Steve could tell that he recognized him from the escalator. He saw a mortified but determined-looking Harper pick himself up and dust himself off, moving in with his cuffs at the ready, Stiles still working his way through the crowd toward them. He watched the perp's eyes as he took note of them too.
They were blocking all the exits. He had nowhere to go.
Steve relaxed a little as Harper got the perp by the shoulder, making a big show of displaying his cuffs.
Steve shook his head. Hamming it up a little for the crowd.
He'd have to have a talk with him about that later. But it was Christmas and…he allowed himself a satisfied smile. It was finally over.
Keeping Stiles in his peripheral vision as Harper read their collar his rights, he glanced at the clock again and grimaced. He'd better slip in a quick call. Then he'd really love to get off of his feet - Karen was right. Running around did not agree with him right now.
He chose a new speed dial number since the party at Bob's must be just about over and his Dad would be heading home. Besides, there was a good old-fashioned tape machine at the beach house that wouldn't hang up on him if he paused too long. He listened for the rings, watching as Harper closed the cuff around one of the perp's wrists, and used the brief wait to contact the surveillance room. "You getting all this, Cahill?"
"Got it, sir. This mean we're going home?"
"Pretty soon now." He glanced over at Stiles, who was still fighting the crowd to reach them, holding his badge high to gain him access, but the cranky crush of travelers was slow to respond and let him through.
The rings stopped as the machine picked up and he smiled involuntarily at his father's cheery recorded holiday greeting. That was Dad. Just a big kid at heart.
"Hey, Dad - " he began at the sound of the tone. "I know I missed everything, but it looks like we're about done here. I'm sorry about clean up, but tell Jesse that I'll make it up to him. I'm - "
What the hell…? Unexpected movement by the carousel drew Steve's eye and he lowered the phone, tensed automatically for action. With a gesture that had become all too familiar, he caught a quick flash of metal and saw Harper jump back, startled, loosening his grip.
I told you to watch for that, Steve thought impatiently, stuffing his phone back into his pocket and moving forward. That's what you get for showboating. We are DEFINITELY going to have a talk about this.
With a wild look, the perp pushed at Harper, staggering him, and jumped onto the baggage carousel.
For a second Steve couldn't imagine what he thought he was going to accomplish, then he saw him slipping and sliding on the moving conveyer belt, making his way toward the small opening covered with plastic flaps that baggage was loaded through.
Damn, he was a slippery one!
He glanced back to see where Harper was, then Stiles, realized with a sinking feeling that rippled all the way down his tattered legs that he was the closest again. Just seemed to be his night for drawing the short straw.
Over his shoulder he yelled for Stiles to secure the evidence and the scene, and moved closer to the carousel, not jumping on, but trying to cut the perp off before he could get to the opening that led to the outdoors.
"Harper's down again, perp's trying to escape through baggage loading, all you folks standing by outside get ready, get any remaining airline personnel OUT of the area - we're coming through! Aim but hold your fire - I'm still counting on making it home alive for Christmas myself!"
He lurched forward and made a grab for the perp, but the man was too quick and right now Steve was too slow.
He dodged Steve's grip and dropped to his stomach, scrambling through the grey strips of rubber that protected the inside from the weather and sliding through.
Steve set his jaw. Wonderful. Guess the only thing to do is to follow.
He threw himself awkwardly full-length at the conveyor belt before he could think too much about it and ducked his head, covering it with his arms as the stiff rubber pattered at his face in time to a mellow quartet trilling to let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
The music disappeared, replaced by a hiss of rain as a thin, grey deluge peppered him, seeping into his hair and dousing his clothes.
Funny, he thought. Somebody up there is really, really funny…
He rolled off of the conveyer belt and onto the ground, catching himself with something less than his usual athletic grace. He could see the perp just ahead of him, pinned by the beams of multiple spotlights that sliced the wet darkness, heard a voice, magnified many times by the bullhorn, announce, "You're surrounded. Drop your weapons and put your hands where we can see them."
The perp froze for a second, glancing around in surprise. Steve wiped the rain out of his eyes and waited for the final surrender.
The perp started to raise his hands, but this time Steve knew enough to expect the unexpected, so when he saw him jerk toward a baggage trailer, he was ready for him. He gathered himself to jump and threw himself in the opening on the other side of the trailer just a heartbeat behind, catching his sodden quarry in a clumsy tackle that sent them both skidding along the small metal floor. They jettisoned through the flimsy curtain, the floor disappearing beneath them and the moist air whipping past them, and slammed into the wet tarmac.
Steve felt the jar when they hit all through his bruised back and up into his aching head, but he held on tight, mentally cursing California's rainy season as they rolled through a puddle, fountaining muddy water everywhere; cursing irregular duty; cursing criminals who never took a damned day off, even for Christmas. The perp was hammering his abused back with his fists and his one cuffed wrist and Steve knew he didn't have the wherewithal left to hit back, so he just held on grimly as they tumbled like an oddly made log across the blacktop, first one on top and then the other, pummeled by the rain.
An explosion of gunfire rattled the night from all sides, brightening it with flash, scenting the damp air with the heavy odor of gunpowder, and they stopped rolling by mutual,unspoken agreement and lay still, huddled together, waiting for it to pass.
One round was followed by a second round, then a third, and Steve finally yelled, hoping some of it would carry over the mike, "All right, all right! Hold your fire! I'm here too, you know."
The gunfire stopped, but in his mind's eye Steve could visualize them still standing at the ready, waiting.
The wiry figure was sopping and still underneath him. Remembering the shiv, Steve used his superior weight to keep him pressed against the ground anyway, trying to grab his breath back. "You'd might as well give in," he gasped, sucking in air. "We've got you covered. We've got the evidence - better to make it easy on yourself."
He hoped the answer wouldn't be a shiv across some new part of his body, but the form trapped underneath him squirmed a little, then nodded defeatedly.
"Yeah," he croaked. "Yeah. I give up."
Steve didn't let go, but he did allow himself to collapse limply on top of him, suddenly worn to weary immobility as the wind whipped the rain against him. He closed his eyes, but permitted himself a grin. "Somebody want to get out here and book this guy?" he called in the general direction of his microphone.
It was probably his imagination, or maybe a background remnant of sound carrying over the ear piece, but he could swear that he heard the triumphant burst of the opening chords of Joy to the World, plain as day.
TBC