A/N: Thank you to everyone reading and especially to max2013, Dinogal95, Anaid, Penny Blossom73, Guest, late2bbparty, Tree66, and SiouxAnne3 for taking a moment to drop a comment or review. Everyone enjoying this story has them to thank for the Thursday update.
Happy Thanksgiving to all my US readers!
"Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it." ~Helen Keller
"Y" is for Yank
The silence, though not total, was strained.
By unspoken agreement, Don and the girls projected a calm if not patient facade, trying to reel David back. Don chomped another piece of gum (or two or ten, he couldn't really say, he'd just folded the rest of the pack between his teeth after Jackson left them and commenced to chewing), leaning against the short side of a rectangular stainless steel table and stool combo bolted to the floor. Megan sat cross-legged on the tabletop next to him, Liz on a stool on her other side. There were eight stools total, painted puke green, though maybe it was supposed to be lime, and Don was pretty sure Liz had tried all of them, Goldilocks in search of 'just right.' She wouldn't find it here, though, not in this stuffy room with its taupe walls and furniture that couldn't be thrown.
David stalked the perimeter, his shoes scuffing the floor as he turned in precise angles to follow the walls. He paused at the door after every circuit, and Don tensed each time, waiting to see what he'd do. So far, all he'd done was shake his head and grumble and then move on, but his hands were starting to fist, and he glared malevolently at everything. Don didn't know how much longer he'd refrain from yanking that door off its hinges.
He checked his watch for what must've been the hundredth time since they'd been shown here. How long did it take to retrieve a prisoner? (And that was so wrong, Colby a prisoner, Don urgently pushed it aside before his fury set David off and all pretense of control was lost.) Surely, it'd been long enough. Hell, Fulton knew they were coming. He guessed it'd taken much of their drive here for the prison officials to even figure out who and where Colby was.
Fricking Bright Eyes. Who the hell gave him that name? It had to have been Franklin. Because Bright Eyes was Colby, Don was beyond certain of that. He wondered why Chavez hadn't told him, wondered if he'd known. No, he decided, since the heads-up would've made the difference between Colby being with them now instead of wherever the hell they put him that kept him out of the knowledge of the majority of Seymour's employees.
And inmates? Don didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he thought David might not be the only one going nuclear if that wasn't true.
He checked his watch again. Twenty-six minutes since they were left here. That's it. For the second time that morning, Don started a five-minute countdown. God have mercy on all of them if they didn't have Colby here in—he checked his watch—four minutes and forty-two seconds.
"I really can't take you looking at your watch anymore," Megan said in a low voice, a wary eye on David.
"Yeah, sorry."
He ran a hand through his hair, stretched, trying to covertly twist away, and glanced at his watch. Four minutes and three seconds.
"Don."
David made another pass, his glower taking in all of them, before swinging away. Liz raised her eyebrows as she traded looks with both Don and Megan. Don was ready to swear under oath that he could see steam coming from Sinclair's ears. Hurricane David was about to make landfall and there was no shelter in sight.
Three minutes and nineteen seconds. Goddammit, where the hell was Colby?
A commotion from without had Don at the door before he thought of moving, Liz and Megan on his heels; a sharp yank pulled it open. At first, Don couldn't make sense of what he was seeing, and he stood in the doorway watching, comprehension slowly filtering in.
Down the corridor, a guard yanked an inmate to his feet. The CO growled something in his throat, shoving the inmate in the back. The inmate turned his head slightly, giving Don a clear view of his face. Colby. Of course it was Colby, the part of his mind that wasn't numb sniped, they'd been waiting for him for half an hour; who the hell else could it be with the prison on lockdown? Don felt strangely removed from his body. At the same time, he felt hot, and his head seemed stuffed with cotton. Was that why that persistent buzz was so muffled? he distantly wondered.
Colby, in full chains, bringing home the situation more than even waiting in an interview room in Seymour FCI, couldn't catch himself and dropped to his knees. The guard beat him with something—was that a whip?—before again yanking Colby back to his feet and pushing him. Granger tripped with the chain between his ankles, and the guard smashed him up against the wall.
Someone somewhere made a sound of objection. Don was so stupefied by the blatant brutality he stood there uselessly watching, trying to wrap his head around it. Chavez had said … Marshals had done... But guards too?
"Don!"
He slowly shook his head, realizing the buzzing was somebody yelling at him. And had been. He knew that was important but couldn't figure it out. The first tendrils of something were slowly filtering through his shock, and he ground the gum between his teeth. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, was too surreal, too wrong to be believed.
Another vicious strike had Colby moving again, only to have the guard yank him back by a short chain and shove him up against the wall.
"What the hell are you doing?" David shouted, pushing Don out of the way, surging out of the interview room.
It couldn't've lasted for even a minute, but time snapped back into place and Don shed his mute paralysis, taking a step, feeling vaguely as if he was in a dream or maybe underwater.
"Training him for you," the guard grunted; he turned from David, bringing the whip or whatever the hell it was down on Colby. "He's a stupid one, our little pet."
"Training him?" David repeated in a silky soft voice that at once raised Don's hackles and sent shivers like spiders down his spine. "With a quirt?"
Shit, shit, shit.
Don scrambled after him, recognizing that that new voice meant David was thisclose to homicidal.
The idiot guard wasn't paying attention to David, didn't recognize his precarious position, made more so when he yanked Colby so hard he lost his footing again and went down.
Don reached them just as David grabbed the guard by both shoulders and rammed him into the wall.
"Hey!" the guard sputtered.
"Don't feel so good, does it?" Sinclair growled.
Don pulled him off, shoving David back a step or two.
"What the hell is his problem?" the guard yelled, rubbing his head. The nametag pinned to the breast pocket of his uniform read 'E. Olsen.'
"My problem?" David bellowed, spittle flying.
Shit. Increase in volume was doing nothing for Sinclair's temper.
"Aside from the fact that you've assaulted a federal agent?" Liz demanded.
Megan knelt beyond her, mostly shielding Colby from view, and Don had yet to hear his voice.
"Who? Bright Eyes?" The guard scoffed. "He's a traitor and a terrorist, so he's on the pay-no-mind list. We were told to do whatever we wanted to him."
David got around Don and grabbed the guard's wrist, yanking the whip—apparently a quirt—out of his hand, and Don idly wondered how the hell David knew what it was. All speculation ended when David whacked it across Olsen's chest.
E. Olsen shouted in outrage and pain.
"What?" David asked in that new silky soft voice. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it?" He raised the quirt.
The guard didn't back down—either he was too stupid or too high on adrenalin to read David or he thought he knew what David was capable of, comparing him to men behind bars, men who may have never killed—and Don grabbed Sinclair. He wouldn't let him jeopardize his career or mental wellbeing on this idiot.
"David. David!"
He yanked Sinclair from Olsen, Liz covering the guard, and got in his face, pushing David further back. "That's enough, man. Help Megan with Colby."
He injected all the authority and command of his position as he could into his voice, putting on his best Boss face, needing to get through to David. Part of it was to cool David off, most of it was to check on the rest of his team. There was precious little noise coming from over there, nor had either of them moved that Don could tell. He didn't know what it meant, but it scared him, so he took control of it and this situation and sent help to the one who needed it most.
"Now, David. Help Colby."
And he'd use every tool at his disposal—in this case Colby's name—to get David on task, reminding him Colby was here, they had him, he was alive. (Hopefully; the continued silence over there was wrecking Don's nerves. Colby had to still be alive. They just found him; they couldn't've lost him again already. Please, God.)
"Yeah, alright," David grumbled, backing off. He threw the quirt at the guard, a coin knocking solidly into his head.
"Hey!" Olsen yelled indignantly.
"Shut up," Don snapped, snapping his gum.
"He's not a traitor," Liz said, "and he's certainly not a terrorist."
"Yeah, well, not according to every other agent who's been interrogating him."
"Which other agents?" Don demanded.
"Like I kept track of their names or agencies. They wanted Bright Eyes—"
"His name is Colby."
"—I brought them Bright Eyes. Damn, dude, he was always in worse shape after they'd finish with him than when he went in." Olsen glared at them, all injured pride and bravado and even contempt, and Don wanted to take a swing at him. "How come you're not in the loop?" he asked suspiciously.
Before Don could reply, David lunged past him, brandishing something.
"You put a collar on him?"
He savagely swung his arm, smacking the guard with what must be said collar. It hit heavier than Don expected, and he winced when it connected with Olsen.
"Ow!"
"As if he was a dog," David roared, overwhelming the guard's protests. "As if you owned him." He pounded Olsen with each enraged word.
"You can't do this," Olsen yelped. "I know my rights."
"Yet you can beat him with a quirt? How the hell does that work?"
The guard grabbed at the collar when David brought it down again, and David let him have it. He seized Olsen, slamming him up against the far wall of the wide corridor.
"I want a lawyer," Olsen said smugly.
"Lawyer?" David repeated as if it were an insult. "Did you let him have a lawyer? Did you let him contact an FBIAA rep?"
The CO's expression gave away both answers, and he seemed to catch on that he didn't have nearly as much control as he'd thought.
"Did you?" David barked, wrenching the guard back.
"Police brutality! I have witnesses. I'm gonna have your badge and your ass."
Technically he was right, Don supposed, glancing at Megan, who was their moral compass. He had jumped the rails when she'd been kidnapped by Crystal Hoyle, had let Edgerton get answers from Buck Winters. Ian wasn't here, and Don had no compunction about setting David loose. Yeah, they had Colby, but there still wasn't anything from that part of the corridor. Megan said nothing, though, didn't seem to know what was going on beyond Colby. And that simultaneously pissed him off and scared the hell out of him. He shook his head at Liz.
"Police brutality?" David parroted, which seemed to piss the guard off. "How you gonna prove that? With those surveillance cameras you turn off when moving Colby?"
Olsen finally looked wary, casting nervous glances between David, Liz, and Don, and finding no help anywhere.
"You're FBI," the CO pointed out, as if suddenly uncertain, or as if they'd forgotten and he had to remind them. Don almost laughed. "You uphold the law. You have to do the right thing."
Sinclair ripped the FBI badge from his vest and threw it down the corridor. "That man is my brother. What the hell does the FBI mean to me, compared to him?"
"The law says—"
"Sometimes you have to go beyond the law to get justice. What do you think I want more?"
Olsen relaxed against the wall, relaxed in David's grasp. Don tensed.
"Was it your idea to put a collar on him?" David asked in his new silky soft voice, only Don could hear the underlying rage. Sinclair smirked a little, reading the guard, and let go of him, stepping back.
Don was reminded of a cat playing with its prey and moved closer, swinging around to come in at an angle, keeping both antagonists in view. A glance showed Liz still covering the CO, Megan still shielding Colby. He strained his ears and heard the softest of murmurs from over there. He heard no response from Colby.
Olsen feinted, charging low at David.
Who had him up against the wall with a forearm against his throat before Don could shout a warning.
The hair lifted on Don's arms as Olsen's face abruptly turned ashen, lips and chin trembling. His breath came in and out in short bursts, damp eyes fixed on David's face.
Most bullies never entered a fair fight, preying on those weaker than themselves, those who were vulnerable or alone. Most of them, when confronted with a superior power, submitted to that raw force, recognizing a greater strength and seeking to please it or serve it, whichever kept them from becoming victims themselves. That wasn't what Don was seeing.
Oh no. Olsen was petrified. All at once and without any apparent trigger, other than David.
"David," Don said quietly. He tried to speak at normal volume, but his voice lowered without conscious thought, reacting to Olsen's fear.
Sinclair turned his head, and Don took an involuntary step backward. He locked his knees against further retreat. The monster from the koi pond was fully in David's eyes, the cold certainty of death staring back at Don. This wasn't the David who was Don's friend and colleague, who was an FBI agent and compassionate man.
Nope.
This was the David who had no thought other than protecting a much-loved younger brother, who'd witnessed abuse of said brother, who'd lived in terror and even guilt for nearly seven weeks. David was beyond cognition, running on emotion only, instinctively protecting his brother from any perceived threat.
One look told Don that David wasn't seeing friend or foe in this wide prison corridor. There was only threat or not-threat to Colby; only kill or die in his brain.
With exaggerated motions, Don slowly holstered his gun (pretending his hand wasn't shaking), ending that threat, and held his empty hands up.
"David … man, it's okay. Colby's safe."
Beyond David, Liz had her gun trained on Olsen or Sinclair, Don couldn't tell which, and he urgently motioned for her to put the damn thing down. He didn't see David draw his own weapon (though he was in the perfect position to see him thumb the safety off), but suddenly it was in his hand, and he was facing Liz.
"It's okay, David," Liz said, staring at him, eyes wide. She moved carefully so her back was against the opposite wall. "See, David? It's okay … I'm not going to hurt Colby." She jerkily tucked her gun away, holding her hands up in surrender.
Don had seen a wolf once while hiking in New Mexico. It'd been standing less than fifteen feet away, staring at him, and Don, alone and unarmed, felt a primal gut-clenching dread, a terror hardwired into the human brain from when dire wolves roamed the Earth and man was prey to them as readily as deer or rabbit. He felt that same visceral reaction now, looking at David.
Working Fugitive Recovery, working Violent Crimes Squad had exposed Don to the worst of human behavior, to the most hardened of murderers. None of them could compare to this David Sinclair. He had feared none of them. But this David right here? Oh yeah, Don was terrified, both of and for this David. It was a sobering thought.
Olsen squirmed against the wall, snapping David's attention back to him. He jammed the Glock's muzzle up under the guard's chin.
"Franklin," he blurted. "He put the collar on Brigh—, on your frie—, on your brother," he stumbled over the word. "He switched him to dog food. The stomach tube was his idea. He's the one you want."
Dog food? Stomach tube? The anger that had been subsumed by fear erupted again.
"What the hell did you do to him?" Don growled.
"Did you try to stop it?" David asked at the same time. The silky soft tone was gone, replaced by a cold that burned.
Don shivered. So did Olsen.
"What was I supposed to do, dude?" Olsen swallowed convulsively, licking almost compulsively at his lips. "You follow orders—" he broke off, eyes darting to the FBI badge lying down the corridor. "Don't you?"
David readily answered the first question (Don thought the second was pretty much self-evident and didn't need a verbal response). "Go over his head and call the BOP. Go to the deputy warden. Hell, this is a federal prison, making it Marshal business so call them. Call the frigging FBI. You knew it was wrong. Nobody treats inmates like that in this country." Spittle was flying and David was yelling by the end, but that gun stayed steady.
"C'mon, dude … everyone was doing it." The whining tone wasn't helping Olsen's case, and Don wished he'd shut his mouth.
It was too late. Something shifted in David's expression and Olsen breathed, "I'm sorry. Please."
"Why shouldn't I kill you?" David's voice was guttural, something dark and dangerous twining through it, and if Don closed his eyes, he'd be back at the koi pond in Charlie's backyard with the smell of dead fish heavy in the air.
Shit. How did he yank David off this path without detonating all that rage? He didn't want this death impacting Sinclair's career or mental health.
"Because you're a good guy," Olsen whispered. He sniveled when David dug the gun in. "You're FBI—you don't really want to hurt me."
David straightened, shaking his head.
"You are a good man," the CO tried again. "A better man than me … a forgiving man."
"He's FBI. He's the best of us all," David retorted, voice deep and growly. "That meant nothing to you."
That was too much, and Olsen crumpled. "I can give you the names of all the guards involved! It wasn't just me and Franklin. I can tell you everyone who interrogated him—"
Olsen let out an inarticulate cry as David shoved the Glock 22 into his mouth. The CO froze, eyes wet with tears. His chest stuttered with rapid breaths.
"You said you didn't know. You lied."
Choked, muffled sounds issued from the guard's throat; unable to move, unable to take his eyes off David, he did nothing about the sweat quickly beading on his upper lip.
"It makes me wonder what you're really sorry for," and David's voice was more menacing than Don had ever heard. "For what you did to him or that you got caught?" Olsen's head tipped back as David shifted the Glock's barrel in, angling the muzzle to the roof of the mouth.
Shit. Five and a half pounds of pressure was all it would take….
"David," Don tried. "He'll roll on the others. We'll get justice. Colby will get justice. C'mon, man."
Sinclair was beyond hearing or caring, Don wasn't sure which, he just glanced at Don with death in his eyes and Eppes knew then there'd be no reasoning with him: David was past that.
Part of Don got it. Hell, most of Don got it. He hadn't been that much better when trying to get Megan back from Hoyle and the only reason he hadn't gone off the reservation this time—for Colby—was he was trying to keep David from destroying everything in his way, innocent and guilty alike. And if this had been Charlie? Well, Don'd want blood too. He wanted blood now, for Colby, but he didn't know if that would satisfy David or make him want more. He didn't know if Sinclair could live with the consequences of his actions here, how it would affect the rest of his career. Or his life. Hell, he didn't know how he'd deal with it, or the girls.
"David," Megan said, yanking Don's attention. "Bring me the shackle key. These aren't standard issue cuffs."
Sinclair's head jerked in acknowledgement, but he made no other movement. Neither did anyone else.
"David," Megan said again, sharply, and Don wondered what that tone would do to the atmosphere of the corridor. "Colby needs you more than you need to kill them for what they did to him."
That got through even the primitive parts of David's brain that had taken over, for the black man slid the gun out of Olsen's mouth and stepped away. He only holstered it after the guard slowly unhooked the keyring from his belt and held it out. David took the keys, glaring the whole time, and said something Don couldn't make out. But it left the CO shaking and unconsciously nodding along as if he was a damn bobblehead.
Sinclair held his hand up as if it was a gun, pressing his forefinger into Olsen's forehead. "Bang," he growled, before making his way to Megan and (of more importance to him) Colby.
Don let out a breath. While glad Colby's mere presence could turn off homicidal David, he fervently prayed they'd never be in this position again. If that David never made a reappearance, it'd be too soon. And oh hell, if Colby wasn't such a damn fine agent, Don'd have him riding a desk for the rest of his career, drastically reducing the chances of another run-in with this David.
Yeah and maybe he ought to tell Charlie he couldn't consult for the FBI anymore either. David was a compassionate guy, not giving into his anger … unless it had something to do with Colby, his brother in all but blood.
Don, though, well Don was more emotional (especially when it came to his friends and family), willing to go to extreme depths to get his guy, get the results he wanted. Who could say what he would've done if it'd been Charlie and not Colby?
That was something he didn't want to know. Didn't want to expose his loved ones to that sort of monster. Didn't want to confront it himself.
Olsen made half-gagging sounds, rubbing frantically at his mouth and face, and suddenly Don was so done with him, with what he'd done, with what he hadn't done that he almost sicced David on him. "Liz, get him out of here. Call the ADIC and let him know what's going on. Megan, go with her."
Megan looked at him over her shoulder, smiling sweetly. It didn't reach her eyes and it certainly wasn't evident in her tone. "No. I'm staying with Colby."
Don sighed in frustration. He didn't need this, but he wasn't surprised (he never thought to ask David because he wasn't suicidal; he also didn't want to deal with an agent shooting team and if he pressed Megan or even hinted he wanted David to help Liz, Sinclair'd put a bullet between Olsen's eyes, rendering the whole thing moot). Even though Megan was a team player, even though she respected the chain of command and would normally obey Don—even if she didn't fully agree with him—these weren't normal circumstances and she wouldn't budge, not on this. Only because Liz was new to the team—hadn't been here with Colby from the beginning—was he able to pry her away. If he tried with Megan…. Hell, he'd be lucky to just lose his team's respect.
Besides, he wasn't a hypocrite. He wasn't leaving Colby either.
He looked at Liz, gesturing helplessly.
She smiled brilliantly. "I'm a big girl, Eppes. And an FBI agent. I can handle this by myself."
For his part, Olsen seemed relieved to be in cuffs, staying close to Liz while keeping an eye on David.
Jackson, on the other side of the reinforced door at the end of the corridor, called in to get it opened as Liz started his way.
"I've got this," she told Don. "Take care of Colby. I'll let Fulton know it's him."
She yanked Olsen after her, keeping him on the far side of Colby and David.