I'd like to add one note of appreciation and one caveat here. Appreciation goes to Suis and her husband who gave this story the once-over for law enforcement material. They both said that there was no way in heck that the FBI would have allowed Don to stay in charge . . . but that said, I wouldn't have a story if I took him out, so to go for it if I wanted. G> As Cheryl has said, sometimes you choose to ignore the facts in favor of the story. I've tried to give an at least marginally plausible reason, but for those who are sticklers, yes, I know.
The Unquantifiable Variable
By Becky Sims
April, 2005
The Eppes family and the characters and situations from the TV show "NUMB3RS" are the property of the Scotts and the creation of Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci. No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
Chapter Five, part one
"Pete, any luck with the phone?" asked Don from outside the FBI van that was serving as the technological portion of the Command Post.
"No, not yet. For whatever reason, he doesn't want to talk with us." Pete Jacobsen took off his headset and scratched his skull where it had been resting. "I don't like it, Don. This noncontact usually means we don't have anything the hostage-taker wants. If that's the case, the chances of Charlie and everyone else in there making it out alive are pretty slim."
"It's early yet," Don offered.
"True, but this isn't a planned hostage-taking. These fellas were going to hit the savings and loan and run for it. They never counted on having to deal with hostages."
Detective Nolan rounded the corner, two cups of coffee in hand. He gave both to Don, who passed one in to Pete. "My men are just about finished checking the cars. There are only five we couldn't account for, and we've given the VINs and license plate numbers to your Agent Sinclair. He said he'd let you know what results he got from your database. I'm waiting to hear back from the DMV on the names and addresses for them."
"Good. If we could figure out who we're dealing with, we'd have a better idea how to go about it." Don rubbed his chin, thinking through the options that were coming clear and not liking any of them. If they couldn't talk the hostage-taker out, they'd have to do an enter-and-clear, and that was a good way to get innocent people hurt or killed. Like Charlie.
"Don?" Terry called. "One of our sharpshooters just called in – there's something going on in the front of the store."
Nolan and Don exchanged quick glances. Don dumped what was left of his coffee and ran to Terry's position. She had settled herself behind a Honda Civic that was about forty yards and a slight left angle from the entrance. There was just room for the two men to join her.
The sun was glinting off the plate glass of the store, making it difficult to see more than shadows. "I hope our shooter can see better than I can," Don said, and pulled out his portable telescope.
"He's the one in the back of that silver minivan." She pointed to a vehicle parked about thirty yards in a straight line from the entrance to the store. "No confirmation from our other man in the front, but his angle might not be as good."
Don could see where the pushout window of the van was opened just enough for the sharpshooter to do his job, but not enough that anyone inside the store would notice anything odd. "Our man in back?"
Nolan shook his head. "No action."
He pointed the telescope to the store entrance and studied the scene carefully. "One – no, make that two people moving around in the foyer. Looks like they're carrying or pulling something. One of them is a woman – must be Solana."
One of the double doors opened a crack, and a single hand appeared. Cautiously, an upraised arm clad in a blue button-down shirt showed, then Charlie limped out of the door. He looked straight at the car Don was hiding behind, and Don could clearly see the scraped bruise on his forehead, the blood-soaked jeans, and the stress in his eyes. He was holding both hands up. Wait, his lips said.
"Yellow light," Don commanded, allowing the sharpshooters to only take a shot if it appeared the hostage-taker was about to kill someone. "We need to see what's going on."
Charlie propped the door open, then went back inside.
"What is he doing?" swore Nolan softly.
"I think this is our first communication with the hostage-taker," said Don. "It's just not happening by phone."
Charlie reappeared, walking awkwardly backwards, carrying a burden that turned out to be a man who didn't fit the description of any of the hostages. Charlie angled his way through the doorway, and they saw that Solana had the man's feet. The pair carried him out and to the left as far as the last window, then set him down and went back to the door, Charlie limping painfully. After a moment, they came back out again, this time with a big blonde man who they set down beside the first man. Solana ran back inside, and just before going back in, Charlie turned to Don, his lips saying, One more.
"Why aren't they running for it?" wondered Nolan.
"The hostage-taker probably threatened Solana with her father's life if she didn't come back in," said Terry. "If he threatened Leeda as well, there's no way Charlie would try to escape, not at the cost of her life."
Don could feel the energy building in the policeman at his side. He knew the feeling, knew the desire to do something, anything, now that there was some action. "Not yet," he said into his mike, but he knew Nolan heard it, too. "They're bringing out someone else."
This time it was just Charlie, with Benito leaning heavily against him. It took them what seemed a very long time to get to where the two injured men were lying, but they finally did and Charlie very carefully lowered Benito to the ground. He straightened, and his gaze swept the parking lot. Don knew the moment he spotted their father, for he started chewing on his lip. He looked back at Don, then hobbled back to the door. As he pulled it shut behind him, Don saw the anguish in his eyes, saw his lips move again, and then his brother disappeared back inside.
Don turned away from the scene and slowly lowered his telescope, feeling like he'd just been kicked in the gut. He couldn't let his emotions control him, though; not now. He reached down deep inside and pulled his professionalism around him like a cloak. "All right, everybody" he said, forcing his voice and manner into some semblance of his normal control, "let's regroup. Nolan, have your men pull those three out of there and get them to the paramedics. Terry, get Pete and David and go see if Benito can tell you anything – let's get some good intel for once. We'll meet at the CP in ten minutes and pool what we know."
"What are you going to do?" asked Nolan.
Don grimaced. "Go talk to my dad."
They split off to their tasks, and Don approached his Suburban at the back of the parking lot with heavy steps. He walked around to the far side, which was shaded by one of the few trees, and found Alan and Amita waiting for him. He ran a hand over his face. "You saw?"
"We saw," answered his father. Amita twisted her hands in her skirt.
"I saw you with your telescope, too," added Alan. "What did he say, anything?"
"Not really."
"Not really? What does that mean? He did or he didn't say something?"
"The first time he came out, he asked us to wait. After they brought out the first two men, he said there was one more." He stopped.
Alan searched his face. "And the third time?"
"Your eyes are better than you've been letting on," Don scowled.
Amita spoke for the first time. "He said he was sorry."
Don nodded.
"Sorry?" said Alan. "For what?"
"For getting in the middle of this," sighed Don. "For hurting you."
Alan rubbed at the back of his neck. "And let me take a wild guess – for putting you in the position of having to rescue your own brother."
"No," Don said slowly. "Not like that. He knows it's not like that." He looked up at the sky, trying to find the words to explain. Rescuing his brother. At one time it had seemed like a lifelong job, and he'd been honest enough with himself even back then to recognize the resentment. This was something different, though. "Dad, it's not Charlie's fault he got in the middle of this. He was just unlucky. It happens that way sometimes and he and I both know it, so there's no blame, no guilt left over from our childhood."
"Are you really so sure about that, son?"
Don nodded. "This is here and now, and this is what I do. Charlie's no more at fault than that little girl is. The blame sits square on the shoulders of the man in there with the gun."
Alan accepted his answer, but he wasn't finished. "If it's not your history with your brother that's tearing you apart, then what is it?"
He paced to the front of the car and gazed over the parking lot. The tools of his trade – the men and women, the vans, the threads of communications that connected them all, that held the operation together – everything was laid out in front of him. He turned back to his father. "The future," he finally blurted. "Dad, I have to do my job. I have to be objective, I can't afford to remember that my brother is inside, because if I do, I'll miss something and he could die. And I have to consider all the angles, consider the welfare of all the hostages – not just Charlie – and all the citizens I'm sworn to protect, and that means I also have to consider sacrificing him in order to get this guy."
"Don?" Amita gasped.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but we think there could be explosives. Look, there's an elementary school one block away for starters. I can't let that guy escape, no matter what the cost. And Charlie's words, his actions, they make me think we're right."
Alan took his shoulders in his hands and held him so he had to look straight in his eyes. "Tell me. Just what did Charlie say?"
But Don pulled away, leaned his forearm on the side of the car and dropped his head against his arm. "He told me . . ." He broke off, unable to say the words. He felt a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder and a gentle, woman's touch settle on his arm. He turned back to them, not caring if they saw the tears that clouded his vision. "He said, 'Do what you have to.'" He couldn't bear to add the final words he'd made out. Tell Dad I love him.
