Chapter Six: I'd rather be fishing

Charlie sat on the floorboard in the backseat of a beat-up Chevy Cavalier. Marcus sat in front of him, wedged into the corner by three Hispanic men who looked to be almost the same age as the dismayed mathematician. They were laughing and speaking rapidly in Spanish. Although Charlie had taken Spanish as a foreign language credit for his first B.A., try as he may he couldn't understand a word of their dialect.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to replay the final scene from his backyard. But he was unable to dismiss the images from his mind. His father had walked out the back door right into the middle of a stand off between Don and these six men. At the first sign of another person, even an old man in his pajamas, these guys open fired. He saw Don dive toward the door, toward their father, but then Roberto had pulled him around the corner and down the sidewalk, where he had shoved him into the floorboard of the car. The others quickly piled in after them and they had taken off down the street, a few of them still firing wayward shots out the windows of the car at nothing in particular.

Charlie felt a heavy oppression centered over his chest. He wanted to scream and cry…or just start hitting them…..these laughing bastards who had, more likely than not, just shot his father and his brother. Instead, Charlie continued to stare at the four pairs of legs that lined the back seat and tried to suppress the anger, grief, and fear that was welling up inside him. He blinked away his tears, but Marcus saw them.

He leaned forward and spoke quietly.

"Was that your old man?"

Charlie nodded slowly.

"Dude, I think it's ok. It looked like the FED got in the way."

Charlie tried to suppress a sob, but failed. Marcus must have interpreted it as an expression of relief since he leaned back in the seat. Then he crossed his arms in a defensive posture.

"Roberto just wanted to talk to you about what you told the cops. If that FED hadn't shown up, you'd be home in bed by now. This wasn't supposed to happen. We didn't come there to hurt you."

Charlie looked scornfully at the young man as he rubbed his throat, where several bruises were starting to form. He tried to hide the shaking in his voice, without much success.

"And whatdo you think happens to me next, Marcus?"

Roberto suddenly leaned his head over the front seat to glare shrewdly at him.

"Well, you're not dead yet….but I think your FED is. He was sure determined that you weren't leaving with us…wasn't he?"

The man gave him a knowing look.

"Maybe if he'd had his shoes on, he coulda moved a little faster."

Charlie darted his eyes at the gangster. These guys meant business. They were the real deal, not just a common run of the mill group of wanna-be gang bangers. Now they knew he was connected to the FBI. Charlie swallowed hard. They hadn't expected a confrontation when they came to his house. Although not likely, they might have talked to him and left, but it was to late for that now. If this was the leadership group for the 18th that Lt. Walker and his task force had been looking for, he might as well call it quits right now and try to hurl himself out the door of the car. As if reading his mind, the man next to Marcus pulled his gun and shoved it into Charlie's face.

"Don't go nowhere just yet."

Charlie curled himself up in the floorboard, and leaned toward the door, trying to get farther away from the gun. But there was no where to go and the man followed him with it, keeping the barrel directly in his face. He looked up and stared accusingly at Marcus. The young man, well aware of the situation he was responsible for, shrugged his shoulders and turned his head, unable to look him in the eye.

Charlie buried his face between his knees, mostly to keep his eyes off the gun that was now pressed directly against the top of his head. He tried to imagine that his father was alright. That Don was alright. That his brother had been fast enough. Fast enough for both of them.

He considered praying….but it had been so long.

No. Don was fast. He was alright and he had already called his team together.

Megan, Colby and David. Even Lt. Walker. The whole FBI. Maybe the entire LAPD. They all knew he was out here. They would find him.

Charlie felt something poke him hard in the side of the head, prompting him to raise his eyes. He found himself looking directly down the barrel of the gun now. He lifted his head the rest of the way and the man grinned at him, resting the gun on Charlie's forehead, directly between his eyes.

He remembered Jose and how he had looked on that slab in the morgue.

Closing his eyes against the sensation of cold steel against his skin, Charlie found no solace in his usual refuge. The numbers wouldn't talk to him and the silence in his mind was devastating.

So Charlie did pray……that he wasn't going to die in the backseat of a beat-up Chevy Cavalier.

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Authors Notes: I know it's a short Chapter.I'm hoping to post chapter seven later today as it will be short as well.

Keep your comments coming! I love it! You're cracking me up...and making me type faster.Don't stop now, you've got me on a roll!

(Oh, and I researched Mexican/Salvadorian street gangs in LA for this piece...and they are pretty darn brutal. It's not unheard of for them to just...well, up and kill people.)

Chapter Seven: Well, you're not Superman

(YES - I'm talking about Don!)