Apologies for the delay -- I had planned to have this up Saturday morning, but we ran into a glitch at work and I've hardly even been home. Anyway, here's the end of the story. If you're one of those folks (like me) who likes to print stories off, you might want to wait a week or so -- I have a couple of minor things to fix up which I'll take care of in the next few days. Thanks for coming along for the ride. I hope you've had as good a time reading this as I had writing it!


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 Eight

At a nod from Don, Jacobsen picked up the phone and dialed. Don stepped out of the van, knowing the negotiator would do his job. He adjusted his earpiece and concentrated on the information flowing at him.

"Shooter Two; there's movement inside."

"Entry Team; we're in back and in position."

"Driver," Terry announced herself. "Car is in position and waiting for 'go'."

"Shooter One; I see two people inside, no threatening moves."

"Shooters," Don directed, "you're on yellow." If they saw Jason move to kill Charlie or one of the team, they'd fire immediately. If Jason made no move, they'd wait. Unless Don called green. And any time Don had ever been involved with sharpshooters given green, the target was usually dead before the word was completely spoken.


Inside the store, Charlie picked up the phone. He listened for a moment, then held it out to the gunman. "They want to talk to you."

The gunman took the phone and held it to his ear with his left hand, his right holding the pistol. "Do you have the car?" he asked. Silence. "No. I want the car, or the professor gets it in the head."

Charlie winced. How could the man talk so calmly about killing him? How could it be so easy for him? He inched backwards a step and bumped into the flashlight display. It seemed years since he'd been trying to make the decision between the green one and the blue one. A voice came back to him. Just don't shine it in someone's eyes.

He slipped one off the rack and hid it in his hand. Not much of a weapon, but maybe there'd be a chance to do something.

"How did you know that?" yelled the gunman into the phone. "How did you know my name is Jason? My brother talked, didn't he? He told you my name – he told you everything!"

Charlie tried taking another step toward the door while the gunman – Jason – was distracted, putting as much clutter between them as possible, but Jason spun and pointed his gun at him. His hand was shaking so badly that Charlie was sure he was dead, whether or not Jason intended to pull the trigger.

"No!" he howled into the phone. "I'm leaving, and I'm taking the professor with me. You better have that car out front when we come out, or he's dead, and I'll take as many of you with us as I can."

The probability of survival under the current system hit zero. No choices now. Even if he ran, he would probably die. But if he stayed, he would definitely die. He ran.


"Don!" Terry's voice came through his earpiece loud and clear. "I see Charlie – he's trying to run for it."

"Don, he's gone off the deep end." Pete Jacobsen's voice followed hard on Terry's.

Oh, shit! thought Don. "Nolan; execute, execute, execute!"

David flung the back door open and piled in, breaking left. His teammate headed to the right, and they ran up the aisles, Nolan and his people right behind them.


Jason ran after Charlie and grabbed him by the shirt. They both flew forward into the entranceway to the store, first Jason on top, then Charlie, a tumbling heap of flying arms and legs. Charlie tried to pull himself loose, but Jason had a madman's grip on his clothes. Charlie felt his shirt pull down around his arms, and he pulled them loose from the sleeves, but Jason had grabbed enough cloth to get the t-shirt underneath as well. He yanked, and Charlie went down again, hitting his head hard against the floor. Dazed, he felt himself lifted and before he could get his arms and legs moving again, his air was cut off at the throat, and he felt something very hard pushing into the side of his head.

"Get back!"

Charlie realized he was standing, though the only thing holding him up was the arm around his neck. He pulled at it, but Jason had the strength of a man driven mad.

"Get back, or I'll kill him!"

They were outside, and as Jason turned to find an escape, Charlie saw the rescue team coming out of the store behind them, then a car with Terry behind the wheel, and finally, in front of them was the rest of the FBI team with their weapons pointed straight at him – including Don.


Don's eyes widened as he took in all the implications of the situation in front of him. Charlie looked half out of it, fresh blood streaming from the gash in his forehead. Jason was literally holding him up, dragging him along like a doll. His right hand pushed a gun into Charlie's head, and there was no chance that a shot at him could disable him fast enough for it not to go off. His left arm was crooked around Charlie's neck, and he looked like he had something in his hand.

"Can anyone see what he's got in his left hand," he called into his mike.

"Grenade," came the voice he recognized as Shooter Two. "And the pin is out."

Don was beyond swearing. They'd done everything right, and it still had blown up in their faces. He pushed down all feelings, all his fear for his brother, and with a swift, silent plea, did what he had to. "Jason!" he called out, his pistol pointed right at the gunman's head. "Put the weapon down! You're not getting out of this, so drop the gun. Drop it now, Jason; drop the gun."

"You won't shoot – you'll hit the professor." His voice was on the edge of hysteria.

"I will shoot," Don yelled back as he gradually stepped forward. "I can't let you go, even if you kill my brother and everyone else here. I will not let you go, so put the gun down."

Jason's eyes narrowed, and his attention focused on Don. "You! You're the one who's done all this. You're the one took my brother from me— Well, now you won't have a brother either!"

"Your brother's not dead!"

Voice rising, he screamed, "Yes, he is – he's dead to me, just like my buddies, my girl – you took everyone from me, and now I'm gonna take your brother away from you!"

Don spoke quietly into his mike. "Shooters, if he so much as twitches that gun an inch away, go green."

Terry's voice spoke in his ear. "He's focusing all his problems on you, Don, making you the scapegoat for everything that's gone wrong in his life. You might be able to distract him enough for Charlie to get loose if you do it soon."

He knew what she was saying – his brother was heaving for air, eyes closed, nearly limp except for one hand that pulled uselessly at the arm around his neck.

"Jason," he said, taking another step forward. "It's not Charlie's fault. He's just my little brother. Don't punish him for what he hasn't done. Let him go, and we'll work this out."

Jason's eyes flitted from Don to the car and back.

"Terry," Don said quietly, carefully not looking at her, "get out of the car on the passenger side. Get out, now."

And then, as if in slow motion, Don saw Charlie raise his right hand. He squeezed, Jason's right eye was suddenly illuminated and he recoiled, letting go of Charlie, who slipped out from under his arm and staggered to the right. Two shots fired immediately, Jason jerked back against the building, and he flung his arms out. The grenade flew out of his hand and then the world blew to hell.


The blast knocked Don off his feet, but he hit the ground rolling and came up a little dazed, but standing. As the smoke blew in wisps around him, he saw Jason dead on the ground with a bullet through his head. He cast wildly around for his brother. A gust cleared and he saw two bodies on the sidewalk – one a petite policewoman, the other, his brother. Neither were moving. He ran to them, sliding to his knees the same time as Nolan. The girl was moaning, and Nolan called for paramedics. Charlie lay crumpled against the pallets of grass seed, motionless, his eyes open and staring.

"No," moaned Don. He rested one hand on Charlie's chest and pushed two fingers against his neck, feeling for any sign of life. Nothing. No movement. He shifted his fingers, pushed harder. "Oh, God, don't do this – please, don't do this."

And then he saw Charlie blink.

He cradled his brother's head in one hand. "Charlie – are you there, buddy? Can you hear me?"

His brother's chest heaved in a convulsive gasp for air, once, twice, and then a blessed, weak voice said, "Don?"

Don's heart dropped back into place; tears flooded his eyes and choked him. He dropped his forehead to touch his brother's. "Yeah, buddy. I'm here."