Nixie
Disclaimer: The Numb3rs characters aren't mine… just one more thing to add to my list of why Valentine's Day blows….
A/N: Ok first off can I just say how much v-day sucks? (Yes you are going to have to listen to me rant about valentine's day…. just because…you can skip this if you want…really…anything important I'll put after the bold print later on…. w ell its in bold print you can't miss it…. ok I'm going to stop now while I'm ahead….) I mean really, it's a nice sentimental holiday but its completely pointless—it's a way to make single people feel crappy and to make couple waste their money on useless crap. Most popular gifts: flowers (they die, waste of money), Jewelry (costs extortionate amounts of money and tarnishes), Chocolate (everyone is all 'health awareness' now and so chocolate make you fat and clogs your arteries…. plus its temporary…not a long lasting gift), stuffed animals (cute, but serve no purpose), and finally my favorite, cards (read it once, smile and throw it away…complete waste of money…easier to draw a stick figure and a note on a piece of construction paper…honestly)…. So while it's a nice romantic idea…it's a stupid stupid stupid holiday and it sucks. This holiday depresses me…. if you want to make me feel better and maybe even like v-day a little you should all leave reviews saying that you love me and my story…ok done ranting. END OF V-DAY RANT…. quasi important info HERE---- Official business is all made up in this chapter, as always—I'm leaving ch.19 as it is since it got positive reviews, oh and there isn't going to be much after this—maybe another one or two chapters tops…. last chapter and this chapter were bother supposed to be separated into four chapters but I mashed it together into two chapters because I'm beginning to loose stream on this fic. Oh and David is in charge because in Don's team, he's the next one who's been there the longest…if that makes sense. Also, not sure on the dialogue here, let me know if it sucks too badly. Anyway-- holy shit I'm gabby today. Ok, ok, I'm done…on to the story!
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Chapter Nineteen: Deliver Me (Sarah Brightman)
Don rubbed the crease in his forehead agitatedly as his brother's voice began to pick up volume.
"Don, your daughter is missing! We need to call dad and let him know what's going on!"
"Charlie," Don began slowly, trying not to lose his temper, fully aware that it wasn't his brother he was truly angry with, "Dad still has a week left before he's due back home—I don't want him to worry and besides there isn't anything he can do here except worry."
"That doesn't mean you shouldn't call him!" Charlie paced with a furious energy across the floor of the FBI conference room, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes flashing with annoyance and a hint of anger.
"Look, if we don't find her in the next four or five days, then you can call dad. Ok? Besides, it will probably all be over by then anyway."
The young math professor's face contorted in wordless frustration before he finally threw up his hands in disgust.
"Fine. Just…fine…." The younger man collapsed into the nearest chair, "why do you have to be so difficult?" he muttered as Don turned to leave the room.
"I'm not being difficult Charlie," the agent said halfway out the door, "You are."
" 'You are' " Charlie muttered in a squeaky mocking version of his older brother voice after Don left the room. The professor sighed and leaned his head onto table in front of him. The last five hours had been hell on his nerves. He thought he could handle anything after his Don's blowout, but he was unfortunately mistaken. His brother had taken on a headstrong and unflappable attitude since being allowed to work on the case and the phone call his brother received an hour ago hadn't made the situation any easier to deal with….
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"Eppes."
"Hello Agent Eppes, how are you doing this afternoon? Not too busy I hope."
"Let me talk to my daughter."
"Tsk, tsk. Demanding aren't we? I'm afraid I can't let you talk to your daughter just yet. You'll just have to take my word when I say that she's still alive, although she won't be for much longer if you keep working on this case…"
"How do I know that my daughter isn't already dead?"
"Well, now, that is the million dollar question isn't it?"
"What do you want?"
"What do I want? What I want, Agent Eppes, is for the FBI and all other law enforcement to stay out of my business. What I want is for all the files on this case to be destroyed. What I want is to be able to run my business in peace. That is what I want."
"I can't do that and you know it…. besides, even if I figure out a way to get all of that okayed and taken care of, how do I know that you won't just turn around and kill my daughter out of spite?"
"You'll just have to trust me."
"You kidnap my daughter and you want me to trust you?"
"That is a dilemma now isn't it? …At any rate, I'm afraid I have to go…I'll talk to you again soon."
"Wait—"
Click.
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So now, Don was a man on a mission. He was unstoppable. He took no breaks, spoke little, and kept an almost unnerving hold on his emotions.
It was seventeen hours after Nixie's initial disappearance before their hard work paid off.
"Don! We have a possible location!" Colby Granger jogged up to the older agent who had been leaning over his desk with a fierce look of concentration across his face. Don leapt up as soon as heard Colby's exclamation.
"Where?" he demanded grabbing his coat as they both began to move to the conference room where both David and Megan were working; Charlie had gone home the hour before—he'd needed to take a break and chill for awhile.
"It's a warehouse downtown…" Colby spoke just as the two men walked into the conference room, the other two agent's heads popping up at the sound of his voice.
"What's a warehouse downtown?" David asked, rising from his chair.
"A possible location for our kidnappers." Don spoke curtly.
"Here's the address." Colby handed Sinclair a file, "I managed to finally hunt down a couple witnesses who were paid to deliver some of those photos of kids to the LAPD—one of them finally told me about this warehouse—At first no one seemed to remember but with a little encouragement it 'suddenly came to them'—especially once I reassured them that any money the bastards gave them was theirs to keep. Apparently it was a rather large amount…enough for a lot of the witnesses to keep their mouths shut."
"Good work Granger." David nodded, as he studied the file, "Reeves go and assemble a team—they're never going to know what hit them." Megan nodded and began to head towards the door, but paused as Don spoke.
"I'm going." He spoke the two words with finality and a bull-stubbornness that seemed to make an impenetrable fortress out of the simple phrase.
"Don…" Sinclair began.
"Look," the older agent interrupted, "Either I go with you, or I find a way there on my own—I'm going…this is my daughter we're talking about…" The last part was spoken with an underlying plea wrapped within the words. David hesitated.
"Alright Don…but only because I know you'd do something reckless if I said no."
"Thanks."
"Let's go."
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The tension in the air was palpable as the team readied themselves outside the warehouse. The SWAT members moved with silent efficiency, and Don tried to remain calm and not fidget with his bullet-proof vest too much, the bright yellow letters 'FBI' reminding him that he in this situation he's a professional and not a worried father.
In the uneasy quiet, they gathered outside the entrance, Don following behind a SWAT member, and David Sinclair standing, ready, behind him. Reeves and Granger were with the two other teams at two other separate entrances into the warehouse.
Don felt as if a malevolent force was waiting just beyond the door; a sinister force that was waiting just for him—he felt the fear clench his throat shut, unable to stop the images in his brain, painting the picture of his daughter's death—the death that he truly feared—not his own, but hers.
Suddenly the walkie-talkie attached to the SWAT member's vest crackled to life.
"Go, go, go!" The voice shouted with ferocity over the radio waves.
It was like an action movie that had been paused was now not only put back in 'play' but in fast-forward. They surged forward as one and for a moment, Don wasn't an individual, not a single mind, but just one faint stream of consciousness in the mass that was the SWAT team.
Instantly, it was utter pandemonium.
Don's mind registered the voices that shouted 'FBI! Put down your weapons!' His mind registered that the weapons were not put down and finally his mind registered that they were being fired upon.
The firefight raged. This was a criminal den and they were all present and accounted for, not to mention armed. Don acted on instinct, firing as he saw guns aiming at himself and other members of the team. He vaguely noted in the back of his mind, seeing Reeves and Granger inside the other entrances, using as he was, the several crates scattered around the base floor of the warehouse for cover. He could feel Sinclair's presence behind him, the blaring gunfire surrounding him on all sides and he heard the occasional and distinct sound of reloading.
Abruptly, in the bedlam, Don's world stopped.
He heard a scream.
He saw her run out into the open, away from the kidnappers.
Nixie.
It all became a nightmare.
Don felt himself suddenly moving, not really aware of his decision to move at all; he bolted out with seemingly agonizing slowness, racing towards his daughter, his heart thundering in his chest, his muscles taunt as he ran. The gunfire continued all around him and he saw, with painstaking clearness, the detail of the shards and splinters of the crates flying through the air as they were slowly but surely demolished, pulverized by the raining bullets. He knew the gunfire was loud, but his ears ceased to hear—it was all muted, dampened as his vision narrowed on the small child who was now just a few feet before him, frozen in place as hell reigned all around her. He was vaguely aware of anxious shouts but they were wordless to his ears; his vision blurred and he prayed that he would make it in time; it was all so surreal, that he thought; ah, now I will waken from this dream.
It wasn't true, as much as he wished it were.
Then, he was there, and he slid towards her, still moving so, so terribly slow! And then she was in his arms, shaking and crying, shrieking with every bullet that ricocheted near them. He sheltered her small body with his, not willing to risk moving her, not willing to race towards cover, afraid—no—terrified, that she should catch a stray bullet—so he was her shield.
She wailed in terror when he felt the bullet slam into his vest and he knew that she had felt it too and knew what it meant. His back ached where impact had been and he held her closer. She sobbed now as he cradled her, and he made no sound as another bullet struck him, this time into his unprotected shoulder; the piercing pain lanced down his arm, and in the haze that now engulfed him, he felt the oozing liquid of his own blood run down his arm, dampening his sleeve. Everything had long ago ceased to have any clarity, all the lines and angles blurred together in the air that was turbulent with gunfire. His senses were muddled and his vision was obscure at best and all that ran through his mind was a single thought: keep her safe.
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Suddenly, after what had seemed like hours, it was over.
He first noticed the explosive sounds of gunfire were now absent, and he could now feel the wild beating of his daughter's heart as he still clutched her to his chest, her hands grasping the edges of his vest with all her strength. In the disorder and chaos, he heard a voice call his name as he stroked his daughter's hair and murmured reassuringly.
"Don!"
He felt himself being pulled to his feet and he picked up Nixie in his arms, not willing to let go just yet, still scarcely able to believe that he had her back again. He heard words being spoken by someone…someone he knew…David! But it didn't matter what he was saying—he allowed himself to be guided outside the warehouse and refused to let go of the child. Soon however, his legs gave out and his surroundings became even more indefinite. He couldn't remember how many times he'd been shot, or if he'd been shot again past what he recalled. He was vaguely aware as Nixie was removed from his arms, and at first he protested, until he saw Megan's concerned face looking at his. He whispered reassuringly to his child once more before he was loaded onto the ambulance—when did it get here? And when was he put on a stretcher? He couldn't remember….
The last thing he saw, before his world collapsed into darkness, was his daughter's face, Nixie's face, leaning over his, her tears streaking down her face, her eyes red and exhausted, yet shining with some confirmation of some untouchable faith—an unshakable faith—in him.
He faintly heard the melancholy chorus of the sirens as he slid into blackness.
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A/N: the only thing I'm iffy on here is the dialogue. Let me know what you think.