Roger cursed himself yet again for getting involved with the Kolplays. At the time, when he first met Jimmy, it had seemed like a good idea. These people shared the same views he did, they shared the same beliefs, but they went about it the wrong way. It wasn't until he was in to deep that he noticed how extreme they were. Now here he was, in the custody of four boys who were risking everything for their friend, bother and partner. Wasn't that one of his values?

Roger sighed, and walked up to Stan, the big barley looking tech who was watching the monitors. A quick glance at the screen showed the hostage…boy…Frank, was having hard time breathing. He was wheezing, coughing, and gagging. He looked out of it; moving his head from side to side weakly, covered in sweet, and a small stream of blood ran down his cheeks. Even though the imagine was bad, he could tell Frank was sick, running out of air and chocking on his own blood. He shivered.

"Hey Stan, how's it going?'

"Roger! What you doing out here?" Stan said, standing up and shaking Roger's hand.

"Oh I just came to talk….my shift ended and I was just wondering around," Roger said easily, sitting down in a vacant chair. He was surprised at how calm and easy he seemed to be, how naturally the words flowed from him, and prayed it wasn't just his imagination. A quick glance around reviled that Stan's partner was absent, and Roger felt a peg of fear.

"Hey, where's Bart?"

"Oh, he went to take a piss. He'll be back soon. So what's up with you? How's your girl?"

"Oh, nothing much, Helen's getting ready to fly out to see some school friends"

"That's nice. Who's she going to see?"

"Oh, a few girls, a Sarah Anderson and her sister Kim I think. Both nice girls, I believe I met them once," the two fell quite as Frank started to gag again. "So, how's he doing?" Roger asked.

"He'll be dead in another thirty minuets, forty at the most," Stan asked, with only a hint of guilt.

"Doesn't it bother you what's going on?"

"Not really. I mean, shame it's a kid but…." BAM! Stan never finished his thought as he slumped forward in his chair, unconscious.

Through out Roger's and Stan's conversation Joe, Biff, Chet, and Phil had been working their way towards them. Biff had reached Stan first and taken the liberty to introduce the back of Stan's neck to his fists.

"Chet, help Biff with this guy, he could wake up at any minuet. Phil…Phil…" Joe started, but Phil had moved from his position next to Chet to in front of the monitors. He stood there, still, and white as a ghost. "Phil?" Joe asked as he walked towards him, at the same time snapping Phil out of his trance.

The instant Phil noticed Joe heading his way he stepped in front of him and pulled and tried to push him back, "No Joe, you don't want to see…" but it was too late.

"Oh my God…Frank…" Joe couldn't swallow, he couldn't breath. He was so over come with emotion he almost fell. His first feeling was a relief, he had found Frank and he was still a live. But that was quickly replaced with fear and panic as he watched his brother struggle to breath.

"You boys don't have long, he's got forty minuets at the most, and there's one guy who's still not here," Roger said gently, breaking through to all the boys.

Frank tired to force himself to calm down again. He has just spent two minuets hacking up his lungs. His air was growing thinner, and his chest felt heavier. There was a steady stream of blood flowing down his throat that caused him to go into fits, making the air thinner and his head hurt more.

He no longer had the energy to move about, so the fever that he had been fighting had finally started to take control. He could feel the heat on his every pore, in his lungs, burning his head. Like a fire in a dried forest, it was consuming him.

He was dieing. He knew he was dieing.

"Come on Frank, Joe's only moments…" Frank broke out coughing and it took him longer to get control, "Joe's on his way…he'll be here soon…Just got to hold on…keep awake…just keep awake…."

Frank's eyes started to close as his mind started drifting off…his breathing became shallower and labored.

Fenton lead the way down the stairs. He could hear voices coming from the vault room; muffled sounds drifted his way through the newly opened doors. Every now and then he picked up a male voice, gruff sounding, like he'd smoked way too much in his life.

"How much longer this going to take?"

Then there'd be a muffled, "Hush, almost there," or "don't rush me," from another man that Fenton recognized as Mike Williams' voice.

As they approached the doorway to the vault room, Fenton felt something inside him. It wasn't really fear though he knew that he and Sam were un armed and out numbered, it was something more primitive then fear. It was almost like anger, but it went deeper then that. Here in this room were men who were a part of a group that was torturing his son, which in his primitive subconscious meant that they were also torturing his son. Hatred only scraped the surface.

"Fenton, what's the plan? We can't just go in there and say hands up," Sam said from behind him, snapping Fenton back into the rational man he was.

"Sure we can."

"Fenton…."

Fenton moved to the door way and yelled in his best police voice, "This is the Bayport Police, you have ten seconds to throw down your weapons and com out with your hands up!"

"Fenton have you gone fucking insane?" Sam hissed as he pushed himself next to the other door frame.

"Ten!" Fenton yelled then hissed back, "Just be ready."

"Nine!"

"If you get me killed…" Sam started.

"Eight!"

"I'm…"

"Seven!"

"To Kill…"

"Six! Five!"

"You…."

"Four! Three! Relax. Two! One!"