"Dad," Don said as he dragged his eyes open.

Alan turned to look at his son, his heart aching at Don's pained expression. "Yes?"

"See if there's anything we can use."

"For?" Alan inquired as he stood. "Barry took all forms of communication out of here."

"Just check around," Don suggested as he tried to ignore the ever-increasing pain in his leg.

Alan nodded and moved around the office, waiting for something useful to jump out at him. Mostly, all he saw were stacks of papers: invoices, schedules, sales numbers, and inventory request forms. He moved to four foot tall filing cabinet and pulled at one of the drawers, frowning as it didn't budge. Probably nothing but files in there anyway, he thought as he started to move away.

"Force it open," Don told him.

"I can't," Alan argued. "He'll hear it and come in here and shoot you again. I'm not taking that risk."

Don insisted, "It may be our only way out."

"If it doesn't involve you and me leaving together, then it's not an option. Got that, Don Eppes?"

"Dad-"

"No," Alan stated in a tone that brooked no argument. "Now, hush for a minute and let me look." Nothing else in the office seemed any more promising, and soon Alan found himself in front of the manager's desk. He took a seat in the office chair and slid the middle drawer open to reveal an assortment of pens and pencils, paper clips, highlighters, and other various supplies.

"Anything?"

"Just office supplies," Alan sighed. He half-heartedly pulled at the drawers lining the right side of the desk, not surprised when they refused to open. "Locked."

"Efficient manager," Don said in an attempt at humor.

Alan leaned back in the chair and wiped a hand across his face. "What now?"

"Office supplies?" Don asked, his voice perking up for the first time since he'd been shot.

"Yes," his father replied in confusion.

"Paper clips?"

"Several."

"Help me slide over there," Don said eagerly, already struggling to move.

"Okay, easy," Alan said as he quickly returned to Don's side, afraid that his son was going to hurt himself even more. The older man slowly shifted him to lean against the desk. "Now what?"

"Hand me a paper clip." Don blinked the sweat out of his eyes and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. The move, though he wasn't about to worry his father, had made the pain in his leg flare up to new levels, and Don wanted to get this done before he did anything ungraceful – like pass out face first on the floor.

"Here," Alan spoke softly as he dropped the requested item into Don's outstretched hand. He watched in part awe and part amusement as Don quickly formed the paper clip into a new shape.

Holding the item up for his dad to see, Don triumphantly beamed. "Lock pick."

"I see." Alan raised an eyebrow. "They teach you this at Quantico?"

Don was already fiddling with the lock, and didn't look up as he answered, "Um, sure."

"I don't even want to know," Alan rolled his eyes. "Though if it helps get us out of here..." He trailed off as he heard a soft click and smiled as Don pulled the top drawer open.

"Voila," Don said as he sagged against the desk in exhaustion.

"Good job, Donny. Now, you just rest there and let me keep looking." Alan hid a small frown as Don willingly complied with his order, knowing his son must really be hurting if he wasn't arguing anymore. Pushing the worrisome thought to the side, Alan began rummaging through the drawers, finally finding something that lifted his spirits – an unopened bottle of water and a cell phone. He grinned at Don and showed him the items. "Looks like we're in business."

--

Chris finished taping a wire to the hinge of the front door and stepped back to admire his handiwork. He officially had every single entry point – doors or even windows that might be broken to give entry – hooked up to their own wire, the dozens of which ran back to the exact middle of the store. Rutherford fought down a smug peal of laughter as he studied the display of beer in the middle of the store – the same display that had been there for days, but that he had just now subtly rearranged. Instead of surrounding a life sized cardboard cutout of a NASCAR driver proudly standing atop his car, the display now hid a more sinister item.

Rutherford moved to the cases and peered over the edge, down the floor below. His eyes lit up in excitement as he studied his creation. It had taken him months to get all the supplies he needed without raising anyone's suspicion, and another month after that to choose his target, case the location, and develop his master plan. Admittedly he'd never dreamed that he would be fortunate enough to wind up with a Fed as a hostage, but Chris wasn't about to argue with his luck. Eyeing the hidden device one more time, he moved to sit behind the cash register.

Now that his bomb was wired up and activated, all he had to do was wait for the locals to show up. Then he would really have his fun.

--

"Damn," Alan swore as he studied the cell phone.

"What?" Don asked weakly.

"There's not much of a charge. I doubt we'll even get a full minute out of it. Who do I call? 911? We're on a cell phone and I certainly don't know our address. You?"

Don shook his head. "Call the FBI."

"Like Megan or David?"

"Don't know their numbers. All programmed in my cell or written in my wallet."

"And that monster out there has our cells and our wallets," Alan replied angrily.

"Call the main office – I know that number. Tell them..." Don trailed off as he tried to catch his breath. "Tell them call my team."

Alan masked his worry at Don's growing struggle to breathe as he called out the phone number. Alan pressed the send button and eyed his son as the phone in his ear rang. Don was growing paler and, Alan suspected, growing hotter as well. The most troubling thing was the shortness of breath that he seemed to run into every time he spoke for a prolonged period.

"Los Angeles FBI Office," a cheerful voice announced in his ear. "How may I direct your call?"

"I'm with Special Agent Don Eppes and we have an emergency situation," Alan informed the operator. "I need to speak with his team immediately!"

"One mom-"

"The phone may cut out soon," Alan interrupted her. "Tell them we're at a gas station in-" He stopped as the cell went silent in his ear. "Hello? Hello?" Sighing, Alan tossed the phone back into the desk drawer. "It's dead."

"And so are you," Barry growled as he threw open the door. "Who in the hell were you just speaking to?"

"I was telling my son that he would be okay," Alan snapped, holding his ground against the mad gunman in front of him.

Barry's eyes trailed down to the open desk drawer and he stepped forward to see inside. Alan sucked in a deep breath and slid the drawer shut. The gunman cocked his head and gave him a menacing grin. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing," Alan protested.

"Really? Step against that cabinet," Barry ordered him as he gestured with his gun. When the older man hesitated, Barry stepped toward Don and put the gun to his head. "Don't make me say it again."

"No," Alan pleaded as he moved to obey. "Please don't hurt him."

"Then stand there and shut up." Confident that the old man wouldn't try anything with his son at the end of a gun barrel, Barry directed his attention to the injured agent. "Who was daddy talking to?"

Don remained silent as he studied the dangerous expression on the other man's face, trying to figure out if the truth or a lie was the best way to go. "He was talking to me," Don said, swallowing back a surge of panic as the gun pressed harder against his forehead.

Barry deftly opened the desk drawer with his left hand and pulled out the cell. He angrily pegged it toward Don's face, smiling as it made a loud crack against the agent's nose. Don closed his eyes but didn't flinch, afraid he might set the weapon off. "Who was he talking to?"

"The FBI," Alan spoke up. "I called the main office, but the phone cut out before I could tell them anything. Please, I won't do it again."

Barry glared at the older man. "You're damn straight you won't, or I really will kill your boy." Alan let out a sigh of relief, assuming Don was safe for the time being. "But you still need to be taught a lesson." Alan's blood ran cold at Barry's words. He watched seemingly in slow motion as their captor picked up a foot and stomped directly on Don's wound, grinning as both father and son let out a yell of anguish. Alan looked like he was about to rush him, so Barry cocked the gun and pinned Don's head against the wall with it. "I wouldn't."

"Please," Alan begged. "Stop hurting him."

"Sure," the man agreed as he ground his foot into Don's wound before letting the injured agent slump to the floor. "Remember, it'll be worse next time. A lot worse."

Alan watched as Barry left the room and locked the door behind him. He was immediately at Don's side, staring helplessly as his son lay on the floor, panting for air and clutching his wound. "Donny?" he called softly as he brushed a hand through the younger man's hair. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"Not..." Don tried to speak, frightened by how hard that small task had become. "...Fault."

"It is," Alan whispered despairingly. "I hate to do this, but I need to fix your bandage."

Don met his father's eyes as his stomach knotted in anticipation of the agony that would cause. "Dad..."

"I know, son," he soothed. He didn't want to cause Don any more suffering, but he had to get the bleeding stopped, or at least slow it down. "I'll be quick."

"Dad," Don whispered again, his voice breaking on the one syllable.

"I know," he repeated as he began tightening the bandages. Don's slippery, blood soaked hands were on his, desperately trying to stop him.

"Please."

Alan blinked back tears as he moved his son's hands and cupped his cheek. "Be strong for me, Don."

The strength and conviction in his father's voice broke through the haze of pain, and Don forced himself to keep his hands away from the injury. It became more difficult to breathe and he clutched his thigh as Alan added to and tightened more cloth strips around the original bandage. Don managed to keep his hands out of his father's way, but he dug his fingers into the flesh above the wound, feeling the need to do something to stop the torment. By the end of the ordeal, Don was breathless and silent, and a slight tremor had begun to course through his body.

Alan joined his son on the floor and pulled him into a sitting position, propped against the wall. Don leaned heavily against his father's shoulder as he closed his eyes and tried to overcome the relentless ache in his leg. He was startled as something hard and curved pressed against his mouth. Opening his eyes, he saw Alan holding the water bottle against his lips. Don reached up and took the bottle from his father, but found his hand was shaking too badly to drink. Alan lightly covered his son's hand with his own and together they held the bottle while Don drank his fill. "Thanks," he told his father as Alan capped the bottle and hid it in the bottom desk drawer.

"I'm sorry I can't do more."

"You're doing plenty, Dad." Don sighed and his brow furrowed in concentration. "I wish my mind didn't feel so foggy right now. We need to figure out what this guy is up to if we want to have a chance to make it out of here alive."

"I know," Alan agreed. "I'll work on that part and you try to rest."

"No, Dad," the younger man protested. "I need to be awake."

"You need to be alert," Alan countered. "And you won't be if you don't get some rest. I promise I'll wake you if anything happens." He pulled his son's head to lie on his shoulder to encourage him to take his advice. "Sleep, Donny."

He didn't want to – knew he shouldn't – but his father's shoulder was so warm and inviting and the pain in his leg was so agonizing that Don allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness.

TBC