Steve stood in the kitchen and glanced around cautiously. He waited until he was sure no one was looking in his direction before making his move. With a quick swallow to acknowledge the pain he was about to inflict, he deliberately let the sharp knife he was cutting with slip into his hand. He didn't have to fake the mild curse that left his lips as the blade dug into flesh, and it had the desired effect. Everyone turned to stare as blood began to stream onto the worktop. Steve clamped his other hand firmly over the wound, only lifting it to place the towel that somebody handed him in between. "Could somebody get my father please?" Steve spoke over the concerned voices.
He waited for one of the young uniforms to volunteer, checking the reactions of the others in the room for any signs of suspicion but there was only a mixture of mild concern and curiosity.
He looked down at his hand feigning his own concern. "I'm gonna try and clean this, I'll be in the bathroom," he stated, hoping that he sounded natural. Still unsure as to whether the house was bugged or there was a traitor amongst his fellow officers, it was important that he didn't give anything away. He glanced around one last time before heading for the bathroom.
He was just taking a cautious peak at the damage when Mark entered.
"Steve?" the tone was questioning.
Steve looked up like a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, well aware from endless lectures that he needed to just keep pressure on the wound and let the professionals deal with assessing the damage, but there was no look of reproach on his father's face, just continued concern. "Cut my hand," Steve offered by way of unnecessary explanation for Mark's summons, the crimson soaked towel was evidence enough.
Mark moved over pulling his glasses from his top pocket. He nodded, trying not to show how worried he really was. Steve normally didn't ask for medical help unless he had no choice, minor wounds were always strapped up and ignored until Mark insisted on checking them, so either this cut was severe or there was something else wrong. Either way Mark stepped swiftly across the room, closing the door behind him. "Let's take a look at it then," he said, putting his glasses in place and gently pulling the towel away. He allowed a slight grimace at the amount of blood and the depth of the cut. He looked at Steve over the top of his glasses. "Looks nasty, how did you do it?"
"Cutting some chicken," Steve replied, drawing in a breath as the probing, however gentle sent a shock of pain down his arm. "I did it deliberately."
Mark's gaze instantly lifted from the injury back to meet Steve's, a look of mild panic forming, as he rapidly processed the implications of such a statement. Was Steve trying to get out of being responsible for delivering the ransom? Were there deeper psychological reasons as to why he wanted to hurt himself?
The look registered in a fraction of a second before Steve continued. "I needed to talk to you," He stated earnestly.
Mark's curiosity was piqued. "And you couldn't just ask to see me?"
"Not without possibly arousing suspicion."
Now Mark really wanted to know what had driven Steve to such a painful summons, but his next question was cut off by the opening door. Agent Parnell appeared, holding on to the handle, as he remained framed in the doorway. "I just heard; how bad is it? Will you still be able to deliver the ransom tomorrow?"
Although the questions were directed at Steve, it was Mark who answered; He nodded. "He should be fine. It's not too bad but it may require a couple of stitches. Could you see if you could find Dr. Travis for me? Ask him if he could bring his bag."
Agent Parnell spared a glance down at Steve's hand and the blood soaked towel before nodding himself. "I'll see what I can do," he stated, pulling the door closed as he left.
"Stitches?" Steve asked.
"Well it's quite a deep gash," Mark replied looking back down. He handed Steve another towel. "Here keep pressure on it," he instructed. His mind flitting between his curiosity to find out what was going on, and the proper care of Steve's injury. "Besides, I'm sure that whatever it is you have to tell me you didn't want Agent Parnell involved, or you wouldn't have gone to such extremes to get me alone."
Steve gave a quick nod of acknowledgement. "Since Jess is coming anyway I might as well wait and tell you both at once."
Mark turned his attention back to the wound in an attempt to distract his curiosity. "You say you were cutting chicken?"
"Yes, why?"
Mark let out a sigh. "And you'd already cut some before you decided to use the knife on yourself?"
Steve didn't like the tone his father was using. "Yes three or four pieces, I wanted to make sure that it looked like an accident."
Mark shook his head. "Well if there ever is a next time, try to use a clean knife. The risk of infection. . ."
The rest of the lecture was cut off by Jesse's arrival. The conversation mirroring the one Steve had had with Mark, as Jesse was told that Steve had purposefully inflicted the wound on himself. The shock and mild panic were the same. The questions worded almost identically until they got to the crux of the matter.
"So why did you feel the need to cut your hand to get to talk to us?" It was Mark who asked, managing to get the question out marginally before Jesse, which was a fairly remarkable feat when Jesse was curious about something, but then Mark's curiosity had been burning for longer.
Steve sat on the edge of the bath and told them everything he could about the two phone calls, reciting verbatim the instructions he'd been given. Neither Jesse nor his father interrupted. When he'd finished there was only a tense silence.
"Woh " Jesse was the first to comment. " What are you going to do?"
Steve couldn't explain it but even faced with a question that he still could not answer, he felt a little better. Sharing the dilemma seemed to somehow diminish it. He shook his head wearily. "I don't know. I'm pretty sure that if I don't do as this guy asks then he will hurt CJ." He let out a deep breath. "What I'm not sure about is what he'll do if I do follow his instructions. If he has no intentions of letting him go, then I'd be better getting the FBI involved, at least if they're following me then there's a chance they could catch him or them before they get a chance to do anything."
"But if you speak to the wrong person. . ."
Steve dipped his head. "Then it's game over."
"So what are we going to do?" Jesse asked.
Steve stared at him for a moment. The subtle change in the question held so much meaning that it took him a few seconds to process it. He'd felt alone for so much of the last few weeks that he'd almost forgotten how good it felt to have people on your side. He looked at his father and felt a sharp stab of regret at the amount he'd been pushing him away. His gaze returned to Jesse, the 'we' was totally unquestioned. Whatever happened, whatever he did he would always have that support.
Even if he didn't deserve it, the negativity pushed its way out, the roots too deeply embedded to be countered by a little positive thought.
"Well the first thing we need to do is sort out the cut on your hand," Mark stated, "because if we get caught in here just talking, then the rest of our discussion will become pretty much academic."
Jesse took his cue and moved over to his bag, pulling out some gloves first and handing a pair to Mark. "OK let's take a look."
Steve pulled the towel away and offered his hand forward. Jesse blew out a long slow breath as he studied the wound. "Did it not occur to you to fake an injury of some sort, a wrenched shoulder, locked back or something."
Steve shook his head. "I couldn't risk people becoming suspicious. It had to look real."
"Well you certainly succeeded there." Jesse continued to probe. "Sorry," he apologised as Steve let out a sharp hiss of pain. "Did you have to cut this deep?" he asked.
"I wasn't looking when I did it." Steve admitted. "Does it really need stitches?"
"Oh yeah," Jesse replied. "I'd say five possibly six."
"Dad said a couple." Steve stated accusingly turning his attention to his father.
"I always underestimate," Mark replied. "It cuts down on the pre-stitches complaining. I've been doing it since you were six." The 'so you should be used to it by now' went unspoken.
Steve's eyes narrowed but he couldn't think of a good comeback to that. His attention switched to Jesse who was preparing a needle. "I suppose that means an injection into the hand?" Steve asked, looking distinctly unhappy at the prospect.
Jesse nodded. "You know for somebody who just dug a knife into themselves to get to talk to us I don't see how you can be squeamish about a little needle."
Steve stared at him. "Did you know you had a glint in your eye when you said that."
Mark couldn't help the small smile; the conversation was so normal, so far away from the trauma of their current situation that it provided a welcome relief. Soon they would have to face the dilemma and make plans but just for a few minutes it was good to think about something else. "Ask him what he was cutting when he did it" Mark interjected, fanning the flames.
Jesse looked at Mark catching the conspiratorial look. He turned his attention back to a slightly guilty looking Steve. "What were you cutting?" he asked.
Mark didn't give Steve a chance to answer. "Chicken," he stated.
Jesse looked aghast at Mark then back at Steve. "Steve what were you thinking, do you know how many bacteria. . ."
Steve rolled his eyes; he hadn't avoided the lecture after all.
DM DM DM
Steve bent over double, the heavy pack on his back almost overbalancing him as he attempted to draw breath into tortured lungs. Stars formed on the edge of his vision and he used all of his powers of concentration to force his breathing to slow and deepen before he hyperventilated himself into oblivion. He had just about managed to get his breathing to a point where drawing air in was no longer physically painful, when the phone in front of him began to ring. He picked it up not bothering to even say his name to the machine that had been sending him on a wild goose chase for the last hour and a half. The techies had already determined that all of the messages were being fed from a preprogrammed computer that was sitting in an unused lawyers office downtown. It had been checked out and there were obvious signs of a break in, but the techies had also determined that interfering with the program could cause it to stop running, and so everyone was holding back whilst Steve was bounced around downtown LA, with barely enough time to make it between calls and no prospect of negotiating extra time from the machine that currently determined his fate.
"Taped behind the blue dumpster." The electronic voice stated. "Next call in twelve minutes." The line went dead and Steve slammed the receiver back in place, scanning the immediate area, moving out in a spiral. Whoever was pulling the strings had a malicious sense of humour. The envelopes with the next location were frequently placed under or behind objects that were out of the line of sight of the phone booths where the call was received. With every second counting Steve was forced to search frantically at each one, and any reserves of energy he might have had were almost completely exhausted.
He swore softly, then in a louder voice proclaimed. "I'm getting too old for this."
"That's the seventeenth time Steve," Agent Parnell supplied into the earpiece he was wearing. "The only comment that is beating it now is 'Have you any idea how heavy a million dollars is?'- That's still on nineteen times."
Agent Parnell had been calling Steve by his first name since the briefing that morning, the familiarity rather than the formality of his rank easing the tension a little. The banter had been happening since stop number 3, and Steve knew that it was designed to distract him from the pain and stress of the situation and the physical exertion, and, to a degree it was working, but it had worked an awful lot better an hour ago. The runs seemed to be getting longer, the time limits tighter.
"OK I've spotted the dumpster," Steve stated, trotting over to it and pushing it away from the wall so he could get a look. Without ceremony he ripped open the, by now familiar, red envelope and read the next location.
"That's well over a mile away and you have just under nine minutes Steve," Parnell stated. "How are you holding up?"
Steve considered the question. His back ached and his shoulders felt like they were rubbed raw from the straps on the rucksack that held the ransom. The cut on his hand was beginning to throb insistently, and the headache he was developing made the bright sunlight almost painful to look at. He knew that he was dehydrated and close to exhaustion. His shirt was soaked with sweat, which also beaded on his forehead and from beneath his matted hair, running down his cheeks. Almost taunting him as his body lost more of its precious reserves of water. Even so he was fairly sure that he could make the run easily if it wasn't for the weight he was carrying, and he didn't just mean the physical burden of the ransom. "Let's just say," he panted the words out as he began running again, "I hope this is the last one." But he knew that it wasn't. There had been no star in the corner of the card.
Mark knew it too; Steve hadn't used the words that would signal to Jesse that this nightmare was almost over. He hated watching his son suffer like this. He knew that the stress alone had worn him down the last time he'd had to do this, and then he'd been delivering the ransom for a stranger, with no requirement of betrayal at the end of his run. He listened carefully to Steve's breathing. "Have you managed to find anywhere to get water?" He asked into the microphone that he'd been allowed to have on the understanding that he only spoke sparingly. Agent Parnell had been swayed by the fact that it would help keep Steve's morale up, and, given that they didn't know how long this would go on, he'd agreed.
"No," Steve answered, "Sorry there hasn't been enough time." He knew that his answer would worry Mark so he changed the subject. "Does anyone know who was the first kidnapper to use this run around with the ransom idea, because if I found out it was the writer of that Starsky and Hutch episode, I swear that I'll track him down and chase him around the park for a couple of hours with a 9mm." He paused taking a few breaths before continuing. "I mean he's gotta live somewhere in LA right?"
"I'm not sure Steve. It might have been a kidnapper who tried it first," Agent Parnell replied, "I'll see if someone can check the database and get back to you on that one." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "But, given the number of these runarounds I've been on, if I find out it was some screenwriter who dreamt up the idea, I think I might join you."
"OK this next bit is uphill so I'm gonna shut up for a while." Steve said. The last thing he wanted was the people who were watching him worrying about the lack of contact, besides it was a tactic he was using so that when he finally removed the mike it would take them that little bit longer to register that something was wrong.
He concentrated all of his efforts on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping up the rhythm, attempting to keep his breathing at a steady manageable pace.
DM DM DM
Even as he read the instructions Steve had to admit that the location had been perfectly chosen. The alleys were narrow, the access in the direction he'd been told to head was limited and it was nearly impossible, in the maze of warehouses, to get a good vantage point. By contrast, the real direction he would head led him out of the edge of the buildings into an open area where the kidnappers would easily be able to spot if he had been followed, whilst still leaving them plenty of places to hide and sneak away if necessary. By the time his backup realized they had been had, and sent in the wrong direction, the ransom would be long gone. Dutifully he read out the instructions into the open line. Adding a loud expression of pain at the end.
"Steve what is it?" Parnell asked.
"Nothing I just caught my hand," Steve replied and Mark tried not to react to the signal. Doing his best to keep his expression neutral, he knew that it was time for him to start his distraction tactics.
"Agent Parnell, you've got to put a stop to this."
"Get the units rolling to the next location." Parnell told the operative beside him before turning his attention to Mark. "Look I know this is difficult. . ."
"It's more than just difficult," Mark interrupted. "Steve's been running with a 30 pound pack for almost two hours now in blazing sunlight with no water. If this doesn't end soon, he runs the risk of collapsing from dehydration. You have to do something." It wasn't that difficult for Mark to get into the role of worried father, all of what he was saying was true. He became more animated. "There has to be some way you can help him without alerting the kidnappers. ."
Parnell stood. "Not without endangering the boy."
They both turned at the audible gasp, the colour draining from Mark's face. He hadn't counted on Amanda overhearing his distraction tactics.
DM DM DM
Steve removed the camera first, pushing the brim of his hat up so that it obscured the view. Next went the tracking device, throwing it as hard as he could in the direction that he was supposed to be running. He waited for a comment on the camera, answering with. "Yeah I'm just adjusting the hat, give me a minute," before ripping off the mike and earpiece and throwing them to the ground. He then turned and ran, heading East instead of West, taking left turns instead of right until eventually he emerged from the row of buildings into a wide open street. He scanned around, the business district deserted and quiet on a Sunday; there was no one else around. Blood thundered in his ears as he tried to process what to do next. His directions had run out but, blinking sweat out of his eyes, he spotted the phone booth about fifty yards away and figured that was where he was supposed to head. He forced weary and unresponsive muscles into action and ran the last of the distance, coming to a stop with his chest heaving from the exertion.
The screech of tyres almost caught him by surprise. The large brown sedan rolled forward, coming to a stop with an almost theatrical screech of the brakes around thirty yards away. He watched it pull away; tempted to follow its movement but something else caught his eye. He turned his head back to see CJ's small form standing still and silent. He scanned up and down quickly, relieved to see that the boy seemed to be unharmed. He took a step forward, and then his brain registered the screeching car. It swung round in a U-turn and pulled up so close that he had to step back again to avoid being hit. His attention locked back on CJ, who still stood unmoving, shaking slightly. He was too far away to make proper eye contact, to offer any reassurance. A hand appeared out of the side window of the car.
"The money." a masked figure demanded.
Steve shrugged the pack from his shoulders and handed it across, never quite pulling all of his attention away from CJ. There was no thought in his mind of trying to arrest the kidnappers; all he was interested in was getting CJ back. He wouldn't, couldn't risk dong anything to jeopordise that. The pack was yanked from his hand and pulled in through the window. Without another word, tyres squealed once more as the kidnappers pulled away.
Steve locked his attention back on CJ, and an eerie sensation rippled down his spine. He wasn't sure what made him react but every instinct screamed danger. He called on his last reserves of energy, his mind clearing as adrenaline shot through his system. The world narrowed to a tunnel that led form his current position to CJ's diminutive figure. He began to move forwards his legs pumping hard, his breathing the only thing he could hear, somehow hollow and raspy in his head. It felt like slow motion. Faster, faster, he needed to move faster. He couldn't quite explain it, but he knew that he needed to get to CJ, that the boy was still in danger. Despite having no senses that seemed to be registering the outside world, he somehow knew.
The sedan shot away from Steve, turning in another screech of wheels and sliding tyres, the back end shook as the driver aimed the car at the child and gunned the engine. If Steve had started his run a fraction of a second later he would have been too late.
He scooped CJ into his arms, his sheer momentum from the flat out run carrying him forwards, but he wasn't quite fast enough to be totally clear. Still somehow he managed to turn, to protect CJ from the impact. The car struck his hip hard, blinding pain shooting up his leg, but he remained focused enough to wrap CJ protectively into his embrace, one hand protecting the boys head as he went down, hitting the sidewalk hard as his momentum now carried him into a roll.
Jesse watched horrified as events unfolded in front of him. He ignored the instructions to remain at a cautious distance and hit the accelerator, pushing his car forward towards where Steve had fallen. The brown sedan executed another tight turn, it seemed to be heading for another try, but Jesse drove his car into its path. For a moment he thought the car had to hit his and he braced himself for the impact, but at the last second the other driver managed to swerve round him.
This time there were no u-turns, the car did not come back for a third try, instead it sped away into the distance. Jesse was relieved; he wasn't sure what he would have done if it had. His heart was beating at double its normal rate, pounding in his chest and he swallowed hard, steadying his breathing as he tried to recover from the shock. After a few deep breaths his mind was able to focus, and he turned his attention to his friend. "Steve," he shouted, leaping out over the door of the car as he sprinted to the figures on the sidewalk. CJ was sitting up and sobbing softly. Steve lay motionless.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .