By
Tru False
Author's Note: Reviewers, you guys are the best! I have to admit to being a long time fanfic reader, but a first time writer. I was hesitant to post, and I'm not really sure why, but I have to say the experience so far has been really great. To have your feedback and to see that some of the things that I am consciously doing (and sometimes unconsciously doing) are making it across to you is thoroughly rewarding. Thank you!
I noticed that I have been dropping an N from Cannon for quite a while now. Sorry—I know that sort of thing is annoying. Spelling never was my strong suit.
Lovers of angst, this one is for you.
Chapter 6
Danny had gotten a first-aid kit from one of the tellers and had sent Cannon into the bathroom to clean up. Sporadic curse words wafted out into the hallway, but fairly soon Cannon emerged with a gauze pad taped to his forehead and most of the blood washed off his face. His nose had stopped bleeding, but it was swollen, misshapen, and already turning the area under his eyes yellow and black. One side of his mouth was very swollen and also yellowing…Don imagined Charlie must have gotten a good one in with the rock. All in all, his appearance was fairly gruesome, and although Don hadn't seen his face before the fight, he couldn't imagine the guy had looked much better normally—his shaggy blond hair fell over a squat face that housed too-small eyes and a wide, unattractive nose.
There was some more cursing from Cannon, who took an extra moment to throw one last dirty look at Don before he and Danny went outside to collect Charlie. Where Don had spent so much time staring anxiously through the doors before, he now found it difficult to make himself look. He wasn't sure what he was going to find. He indulged himself in a quick glance over at Terry. She was looking right back at him…a show of support. He held her gaze briefly before he forced his eyes back to the doors.
A few seconds later, Cannon appeared outside carrying a completely limp Charlie under the arms. Danny had his feet. Cannon struggled to get the door open and keep it ajar while he held Charlie's weight. He shifted Charlie and almost dropped him, half-catching him on his thigh and making one big push to open the door wider and bring him through. Danny was clearly struggling with Charlie's weight…he said something like "hold up a sec," but Cannon didn't listen and Charlie's feet slipped right out of Danny's grasp. Charlie's weight came down and Cannon dropped him completely this time.
"Ah, Hell…it don't much matter now anyway," he offered as he hoisted Charlie's top half up and drug him along the ground the rest of the way through the door and into the entry hall. He let him fall to the ground inside as if he were nothing more than a rolled-up carpet. The door shut behind them and Danny locked it.
Charlie had landed on his side facing Don, about eight feet in front of him. He was so still and pale that for one terrifying moment, Don was sure that he was dead. But then his eyes opened a crack and he lolled over onto his back. He seemed to struggle, his chest heaving up and down and his throat working reflexively. Don realized then that his brother couldn't breathe. Seconds passed, and Don slowly died. Finally though, Charlie forced out a cough…the blood that had been choking him spewed out of his mouth and ran down his chin. He grimaced painfully and swallowed. Then he began to draw in the most horrible, wracked, rasping breaths that Don had ever heard. Charlie's black sweatshirt was zipped up, but Don could see two small patches of wetness reflecting in the light…chest wounds.
As Don watched his brother struggle desperately just to pull in air, he felt pure rage boil up inside of him. Anger was no stranger to him, but he had never felt anything like this. It was something primitive. He screamed at the perpetrators through his gag, calling them every name he could think of, telling them to let him go and help his brother, telling them they were going to die the most painful, horrible deaths imaginable when he got his hands on them. Of course, it was all unintelligible to them.
"What's he all worked up about?" Cannon asked, taking in Don's muffled outburst.
"Probably the fact that you shot up his buddy there," Danny replied.
"Jeez." Cannon leaned down towards Don. "What are you, queer or somethin'?"
Don's raving only increased and he pulled with all his might against his restraints. Cannon just laughed and walked away.
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Charlie now understood that he had never really known what pain was before. For one thing, he hadn't been hurt that much in his life. He had broken his arm when he was five—he knew that had hurt—but then, he'd been little and he barely remembered it. When he was twelve, he had gone over the front handlebars of his bike. In college he had stepped on a nail at a charity building site. But this… This pain was all consuming. It was widespread. Total. This had to be what dying felt like.
The pain was so complete that it was difficult even to think. He tried opening his eyes again and found he was looking at a ceiling…somehow, he had come inside. That was probably a good thing. Don was inside, he remembered, and a tiny glimmer of hope lit up inside him. Don would come soon. Don would help him. Don would fix things. But as the seconds passed, Don didn't come. There was some kind of commotion happening not far from him…muffled yells…it was hard to understand anything that was happening around him. Everything sounded like he was underwater, and there was a regular rasping noise that flooded his ears and drowned things out. He thought he heard talking, then maybe someone laughing. Charlie tried turning his head a fraction to the side, but as soon as he did, his vision swam and went dark around the edges. He slowly moved his head back, closed his eyes, and promised never to do it again.
Charlie had never been a particularly religious person, but he prayed now. He prayed for the pain to stop. He prayed for Don to come. He prayed he would wake up from this nightmare dream. He prayed to draw just one easy breath. But all Charlie's prayers went unanswered. As he lay there on the cold, hard ground, struggling just to remain conscious and to breathe, he felt completely alone. He thought of his dad. He thought of Don. He thought of Amita, and even Larry. He thought of home. If he had had any strength left in him at all, he would have cried.
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When the guy had coughed up all that blood and started gasping for breath, it had made Danny feel sick to his stomach… kind of like watching a fish flailing around on dry ground. Next thing, the guy's partner had gone crazy. That had surprised Danny, because he had played it so cool up until then. Of course, all Redd had done was to make some wise-ass remark and then take off. Jackass. Danny stared at the guy on the ground…he wasn't real old…in fact, he looked pretty close to his own age.
Slowly, he reached up and pulled his ski mask off. It just didn't seem that important anymore. Redd was already unmasked, and besides…just watching that guy struggle to breathe, Danny knew they were all screwed now—for real this time. Protecting their identities had gone out the window a long time ago. The cool air felt good on his face. He looked down at the gun in his hands and sighed heavily. Jesus. This had never been part of the plan.
A movement to his right caught his attention. He looked over and saw Lonnie, his kid brother, pulling his own ski mask off a few feet away. Danny felt like laughing and crying all at the same time…the kid always had to be where Danny was—he had taken immediate advantage of Redd relieving him and headed over to be with Danny instead. And he always did whatever Danny did. Look at where that had gotten him now.
Lonnie was only fifteen…he didn't need to be seeing this kind of thing. Danny looked at him closely for a minute. He favored their dad in looks so much it was scary. But the similarities ended there, thank God. Lonnie was the one thing that Danny truly loved in this world…the only good thing that his no-account daddy had ever done. And here Danny was, doing his absolute best to screw him up.
Guilt weighed heavily on his mind as he watched his brother. He could always read Lonnie's expressions easily…the shock and distress were clear as he stared at the guy on the ground. But there was something else there too …interest…a little fascination, even. Danny didn't like it. He moved quietly to Lonnie's side. "Hey." The kid was still staring, his mouth slightly agog. "Hey," Danny tried again, and this time Lonnie startled slightly, broke his stare and met Danny's eyes. "Don't look at him anymore. You hear me?" The kid paused, then nodded slowly. Danny motioned to the main area where Redd was busy antagonizing the hostages. "Come on," he said quietly as he put his hand on Lonnie's shoulder and gently turned him into step with him. "You don't need to see that, you hear?" He ushered Lonnie forward and followed him away from the area.
The least they could do was to let the guy die in peace.
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Terry was watching Don with growing concern. When his rant had died out, it had left him red-faced and heaving for breath. As his breathing slowed, he had fixed a laser-like stare on Charlie. In five minutes, she thought he had blinked maybe twice. Now he seemed to be almost breathing in time with Charlie—short, sporadic breaths—and she wasn't sure if it was intentional or if it was a result of the kick he had taken earlier. Either way, it scared her. He looked almost…catatonic.
Cannon had gone, and Danny and the kid had followed pretty soon after. She turned her head in their direction. They were talking quietly now and keeping a fairly casual eye on the hostages…it seemed like they had deflated somewhat after the excitement. They had all taken their masks off, and she looked at Danny. He seemed like a decent guy who had made some bad choices, but then—as she knew all too well—looks could be deceiving.
She turned her head left and looked outside. The bank was bordered on the far side by a fairly run-down residential area. Surely someone there would have heard the shots, would send for help. She looked up at the clock. It was almost four. Surely someone would try to come into the bank soon…if they just looked in through the doors, they would see her and Don and…Charlie. She fixed her eyes on him for a moment, but it was too hard to watch, so she turned her gaze back to Don, and was surprised to find him staring straight back at her. His eyes were bright—red-rimmed and swimming behind tears that he wouldn't let fall.
He shook his head at her. I can't do this.
She held his gaze for a moment and nodded back at him. Yes you can.
He shook his head again, harder. I can't…
She looked hard at him, and gave a single, slow nod. Yes—you can.
He blinked, then slowly turned his gaze back to Charlie. Her heart broke for both of them.
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Don was in his own personal Hell. Every fiber of his body screamed at him to get to Charlie—to go help him, and to stop this terrible thing that was happening. His muscles tensed reflexively to the point that they ached. He wanted to close his eyes, to make the images before them go away…but he couldn't do it. He owed it to Charlie to go through this with him. If that were all that he could give, then he would do it—though honestly, he doubted Charlie even knew he was there. He was scared, too…scared that while he was watching, Charlie would just disappear before his eyes. He had never thought about what it would be like to loose him. Charlie had been so coddled, so indulged and well protected all his life that Don had never given the scenario any real though. Now, it seemed to be happening. It was almost surreal. His brother was slipping away from him. He almost couldn't process it. Charlie—was dying.
A cold panic renewed itself and swept through him. He pulled against his cuffs once more in frustration. They dug into his wrists, which were already raw from all his previous efforts. It stung sharply, but he couldn't have cared less. He understood now what it was that made a trapped wolf chew it's own foot off to escape—if he could have done the same, he would have. And that's when the thought came to him.
In junior high, before baseball had consumed all his free time, Don had played on the basketball team. In the eighth grade, he had been injured during a game—he had dislocated his thumb. It occurred to him now that if he could pop the joint out again, he might be able to slip out of the handcuffs. As far as he knew, it had healed well—at least, he had never had any more trouble with it. But it stood to reason that once a joint was dislocated, you could do it more easily the next time.
He bowed his head in concentration, grasped his left thumb with his right hand, and pulled hard—straight out and down. He felt the tension and there was a little pain, but nothing gave. He tried again. And again. And again. The pain increased each time, but still the joint wouldn't give. At some point during his efforts, he realized something was missing…something around him had changed. He looked up, confused at first—but then comprehension dawned. No rasping sounds. He looked to Charlie and found that he was once again struggling silently against the fluid in his lungs. His eyes were open wide, his throat was working quickly, and his chest jerked up and down. Don held his breath. Charlie.
It seemed like an eternity, but then Charlie managed a small cough that expelled some pinkish, phlegm-like fluid. He pulled in a raspy, shaking breath and squeezed his eyes shut tight against the pain. Don saw a single tear slip out of the corner of his eye and roll down his face, dropping to the tile beneath him.
Something deep inside Don began to swarm with rage. He renewed his grasp on his thumb, bit down on his gag, and pulled hard. Then he wrenched this thumb back against itself violently. It occurred to him that he might break it, but he didn't care. Hell, he would rip it off if he had to.