A/N: My apologies to those who were frustrated by the last chapter. The 'cliff-hanger' wasn't intentional. I simply ran out of time. I suppose, if I wrote these pieces in their entirety and then submitted them, I wouldn't keep running into time constraints. As it is, I ask that you all bear with me – this is all off the top of my head.

This piece is a continuation of the events of Chapter 15. It is also the second last chapter. At least, I think it is.

Chapter 16:

Don sidled up to the doorway of the living room, gun held at the ready. Chancing a quick glance around the frame, he was taken back by the sight of a slowly growing pool of red on the carpeting. Whoever had been hit was out of his line of vision, but Don didn't think the victim was still alive, judging from the size of the stain.

Stepping quickly to the opposite side of the opening, he peered through again. He couldn't see any of the agents he had been standing with a few moments ago. There was also no sign of McKesson. Judging from the sounds of gunfire outside, Don figured no one had noticed the shooting going on inside – he definitely hadn't heard it. Anger rose in him for the second time that night as he thought of the five agents he'd walked away from less than ten minutes ago. They had had no way to defend themselves against an armed criminal bent on revenge. And I left them to their fate, he berated himself. I was armed, they weren't. I could've…

Don's train of thought was abruptly broken as a loud report sounded inside the room. He dove into the light, performing a shoulder-roll and coming to his feet with his weapon trained on McKesson's head.

"You're very slippery, aren't you Agent Eppes?" the other man drawled. "I thought Travers took care of you in the kitchen." The other agents were standing grouped together in the corner, every one with a murderous look on their face.

Don didn't trust himself to speak. He quickly glanced down at the prone figure on the worn shag. It was Verona. Looking back at McKesson he stood upright and took a step forward. McKesson said, "I wouldn't if I were you." He swung his hand up, showing he still held his pistol. Pointing it at the remaining agents, he added, "I'll be forced to shoot another one." Don's gait didn't falter. His aim never wavered from its target. McKesson brought his gun around, pointed it at Don's chest and pulled the trigger.

The shock of the round hitting the vest knocked Don off his feet and the air out of his lungs. He was vaguely aware of movement from the corner, but wasn't able to tell the fool to stay put. There was a shot, and something heavy hit the floor.

Forcing himself to draw air into his stunned respiration system, Don rolled up on one side and pushed himself off of the floor. From his sitting position he could see another agent lying in a circle of crimson, like a macabre painting. Climbing to his feet, he ran an experimental hand over his chest before once again drawing a bead on McKesson.

"You're either brave or stupid, Agent Eppes," McKesson drawled. "Which is it?" The sound of gunfire outside increased, joined by the wailing of sirens.

Fighting to maintain his balance, Don replied, "Probably both." He saw movement from the agents in the corner. He stepped sideways, hoping the act would cause McKesson to turn with him, thereby keeping the others out of his line of sight. "You, on the other hand," he snarled, "Are just plain stupid." Don could have jumped for joy when McKesson followed his progress around the perimeter of the room. He could see one of the men creeping up behind McKesson, gun reversed in his hand. "You and Travers thought you were so clever, beating those charges."

"With your help," McKesson grinned. "Thank you ever so much for that, Agent Eppes." The agent behind him faltered, confusion written on his face.

Don tried to regain lost ground. He needed the other agents to trust him. "Yeah. That worked pretty good, didn't it? You thought I did you a favor, and then when it looked like I needed some help, you jumped right in." He smiled slowly. "Worked like a charm." McKesson's face contorted in rage. He brought his gun up level with Don's head.

Several things happened at once. Don ducked and dove to one side, the agent behind McKesson brought the butt of his pistol down in a skull-crushing arc – and McKesson pulled the trigger. Don felt the second round slam into his vest, grateful for both the protective body armor and the other man's poor aim. It hurt nevertheless and he lay motionless for a moment in an attempt to bring the pain under control. Slowly pushing himself up from the floor again, he saw the man who'd cold-cocked McKesson standing nearby watching him warily.

"Thanks," Don gasped. The effort required to actually stand up was beyond him for a second, so he remained where he was.

"Was what he was saying the truth?"

"Depends on how you look at it," Don replied. He still hadn't managed to get his pain receptors under control. He distantly registered the thought that the firefight outside seemed to have ended.

Taking a step closer, the other man said, "Sounded like he was saying you were one of them."

Don glanced up. "Don't be thick. Of course he was supposed to think that." He shifted slightly as he realised one corner of his vest was digging into his waist. Damn! That hurts, he thought. Refocusing his attention on the man in front of him, he added, "If he'd thought for a moment that I wasn't dirty, we never would've been able to build a case."

Mulling it over for a second, the agent finally offered Don a hand. He took it gratefully and eased himself to his feet. "Thanks."

"No problem, I guess."

Don stuck out his hand. "Don Eppes." The other man took it. "Brian Cramer," he replied. "I guess I should be thanking you."

Shaking his head, Don replied, "There's nothing to thank me for."

Cramer looked at the two bodies on the floor. "The rest of us could've ended up like that." He shrugged. "That's something."

Don gazed at the two men sadly. He whispered, "That wasn't supposed to happen."

Cramer looked down at them as well. "It never is, is it?"

-x-

Alan stepped out of the elevator to find his youngest son having a heated argument with a member of the hospital's staff.

"Whoa, whoa Charlie!" he interjected. "What's going on here?" To the young man at his elbow, he said, "I'm Alan Eppes – Don's father." Indicating with his thumb, he added, "His too, although I'm not sure if I should be admitting that. What's happened?"

"I'm Doctor Hildebrand," the young man replied. "Don's physician. Your son here seems to think he knows better than I what would be best for his brother."

Charlie let out an exasperated sigh. Turning to Alan, he explained, "I was merely trying to say that I think it might be a good idea to stop Don's sedative."

"Professor Eppes," Hildebrand began calmly. "I told you – the best thing for your brother is complete rest. Sedation is only helping the healing process."

"That's why he's been running a fever – because it helps," Charlie snapped. "Amazing medical techniques you've got here."

Alan cut in, "Don's running a fever?" Charlie's dark curls bobbed as he nodded his head vigorously. Turning to the doctor Alan asked, "What's causing it?"

"It's a low-grade fever. He's receiving intravenous antibiotics," he replied. "It's nothing to worry about."

Charlie snorted in exasperation. "I'm telling you…"

"And I'm telling you," Hildebrand interrupted. "It's better for your brother to be under sedation. Now if you'll excuse me?" He walked away.

"What's the matter with you, Charlie?" Alan asked. "They know what they're doing."

"Dad," Charlie began. Instead of completing his thought, he took his father by the arm and steered him into a nearby lounge. Sitting on a plastic couch, he waited until Alan did the same before continuing. "Don's fever had been gradually getting worse."

Alan leaned his elbows on his knees. "What're you getting at?" he asked.

Charlie shook his head. "It's not a medical thing, Dad. It's a personal one. I think Don is fighting." He sighed and leaned back into the cushions. "I think that's what's causing the fever."

"But fighting what, Charlie?" Alan was puzzled. "He's got the medications he needs – you heard the doctor…"

"He's fighting to wake up, I think."

Alan snorted. "What kind of nonsense is this? It's not like you to think up some inane thing like…"

Charlie jumped up from the couch and began pacing, anger in his every move. "It's not inane. Maybe it sounds farfetched – I suppose it does." He stopped and looked at his father earnestly, willing him to understand. "If Don were awake right now, what do you think he'd be doing?"

"Trying his damnedest to get out of here." Alan raised his voice slightly. "All the more reason for him to be kept sleeping until he's better."

Quickly resuming his seat, Charlie said "Trying to get out of here. Exactly. Why? Because Don hates to be cooped up – he hates to be controlled." Alan was silent. "I think Don's getting sick because he's using energy to fight off the sedative. I think…" Charlie paused, looking down at his hands and lowering his voice. "I hope I'm right, Dad. There's nothing scientific, or mathematical, or even logical about it." He glanced up at his father sheepishly. "Maybe I'm getting one of those 'gut feelings' Don's always going on about." He waited.

Alan leaned back in his seat and rubbed his chin thoughtfully with one finger. Like Don, thought Charlie with a pang of sorrow. After a minute or so, Alan asked, "What do you want to do?"

He leaned forward eagerly. "Tell them to stop the sedative. Let him wake up."

Alan, too, leaned forward. "Ask yourself one thing first, Charlie." At his son's quick nod, he continued, "Is this something you want for Don? Or is it for you?" He put up his hand as Charlie opened his mouth to protest. "Hear me out. You're scared for Don. You don't like seeing him like this. I feel the same way." He looked at Charlie intently. "What if you're wrong?"

Charlie considered this. "Well… what if we ask first? Find out if it'll hurt him to do it? See if they can… I don't know… reverse it, or put him back under, or whatever… if it's no good?"

Standing, Alan agreed. "Though, if his doctor says 'no' Charlie," he added. "Then that's it – no arguing, alright?"

Nodding, Charlie followed his father out of the lounge in search of his brother's physician.