A/N: Based on the 2nd Season episode, 'Stolen'. Dialogue lifted directly from the show, except for the last sequence.
Every instinct I had was screaming at me not to do it.
He was in George's truck, wearing his hat, claiming to be him even as he stared down the barrel of my 45. Over twenty years in the FBI, instincts don't just roll over and go away. He was dangerous – that was easy to tell, just from the calm stare leveled at the gun. He had to be out of his mind, thinking that he could fool me into believing he was George Harper. I'd been the man's head of security for the last seven years; did this think I was blind and stupid?
But for some reason, even with the boy's life on the line, something was telling me to stay calm, not to shoot him.
My gut hadn't failed me before, so I waited. Reigned in the urge to cuff this guy, or better yet, just squeeze the trigger. Pushed back the wild, insane beating of my heart that this was him, the guy who had kidnapped Patrick, and listened.
He said he was a doctor, who wanted to help. He'd come across the note, the picture, in George's pocket, after he'd been hit. God, those had been some of the worst moments of my life.
But somehow, despite spending his life buried in medical texts, he'd been able to figure out what was going on, and get himself to the meeting point, and pretend to be the local hospital's newest patient, hale and whole. Fooled the kidnapper into thinking he was George, with more success than he'd had on me.
He was on our side, trying to get Patrick back, just as concerned for the boy's life as I was.
And he was smarter than me.
I'd never seen someone work like this. His room, when we went to look at the security tape I never would have thought to check for, was bare. But there were massive amounts of random objects – the Pez, for one.
I've been trained to catalogue, to notice and remember the quirks. This guy had a lot of 'em. He would watch the tape, over and over, looking for clues, and ended up just as frustrated as me. He was pouring his all into this – and I can recognize when something is personal as opposed to professional. Strange to think it, but this man was eerily familiar with FBI routine, although he approached it from outside the box. Regardless, Jarod was taking this kidnapping very personally.
At least, that was what I believed, until the background reports of Jarod Pearce came back. "Got it."
"I want to check up on Harper, before I get the call," he said, voice low.
Fury ran rampant through me, boiling in my veins. I let him get ahead of me, before I pulled out my gun. "I almost bought your little blowup back there." He turned, lips tight. "That was my office on the phone. When I ran the background check on the driver, I ran one on you too. You're a tough man to track, Dr. Pearce. Maybe that's 'cause you died in 1979." I couldn't hold in the bitterness. "You didn't pretend to be Harper in that phone booth. You made a deal with the kidnapper." Gritting the words out through clenched teeth, I stared him down. "How much is he paying you?" I had him.
The phone rang.
"Look." Desperation, in wide brown eyes. "I know you think about Patrick like he was your own son. And you probably saw some pretty horrible things happen to children when you worked for the FBI."
I couldn't keep my mind off what I'd seen, the horror of what twisted people could do to the small innocents in their power.
"And you're afraid the same thing is going to happen to him." The phone was still ringing. Damn him! "But I swear to you that all I want to do is help this boy. And I can't help him unless I answer this phone call."
The ringing was loud in the silence. Nothing I could do; but there was something in his gaze that whispered of honesty. Seconds, only, to make my decision.
"Please. Trust me."
Absolutely no reason I should do it. None.
Except Patrick's life.
I nodded.
And life went to hell in a handbasket. Ten minutes we had to run back to the phonebooth on the corner of Myrtle and Lime. Then, a frantic two hours before we knew that, despite the money we were handing over, Patrick would be dead. The last thing we needed were free agents crawling all over the place.
I was cuffed to a bedstead, staring out into the hall, and I heard every word they said. Jarod was the only one who could help us, and they were after him. And the woman with them didn't care that Patrick would be dead without him. Less than five minutes; God, I could feel the boy's life slipping from our grasp.
I couldn't believe it when, despite the odds, Jarod escaped, running from them and after Patrick.
Adrenaline slammed into me; my heart was racing, and I was stuck, knowing nothing, doing nothing, and clamped to the damn bedstead. I shouted, and yanked at the cuff. "Let me out of here! Dammit, let me go!"
The woman with the chill blue eyes swore, and tossed the keys to the grey-haired man with her. They exchanged a knowing look; I couldn't care less. Patrick was all that mattered, and because of them, he was almost as good as dead.
I calmed down when the old man approached, and let him unlock me. As soon as the metal cuff swang free, I stood and turned on him. "I don't know what you're after," I snarled. "But your interference just caused a ten-year-old boy his life."
The man paled, and the woman sneered. I saw the carelessness in blue eyes, and shook my head in disgust.
The hospital was the only place I could go now; Jarod wouldn't desert Patrick, or George. One way or another, the answers would be there.
The ride was interminably long. Defeat crashed in on me, cold and crushing. I didn't know how I was going to face George, didn't know what I was going to do, say. It had to be done, but – God –
Noise inside the room caught my attention. Loud voices, tears . . . laughter?
And I could see inside, the familiar blonde head caught up against his father's chest, small body hugging tight. I froze outside the window, unable to believe what I was seeing. Patrick was alive; Jarod had come through!
Every instinct I had was screaming at me not to do it.
But it saved the life of my best friend's son.
Trust.