Michelle sat on a stool in the kitchen, her leg propped onto an opposite stool, blinking the last of the tears from her eyes. She had watched Marco's whipping in a rage second only to Tony and his wife's, longing to rush in and snatch the whip. She pictured herself lashing the terrorist with the same whip, righteous indignation preventing her from giving way to tears for the man who had first welcomed her into Tony's family. Blinking aside her tears she remembered their first meeting two years before, after Tony had followed a lead by himself and ended up with critical injuries in hospital. She had slipped into his room before work the following morning after calling the hospital to make certain he remained in his coma, tiptoeing silently over to his bedside. Her cheeks flushed as she relived the next few minutes - bending over her dearest friend, the man she was unable to stop fantasizing about, indulging her desire to brush the hair from his deathly pale face and kiss his forehead. "You gotta wake up, Tony," she'd whispered, her voice shaky as she saw just how many tubes were connected to him. "He will," a voice assured her from just inside the door. "He's tough." Horrified at having allowed someone to creep up on her unnoticed, she turned, noting a man who bore a striking resemblance to Tony. His eyes searched hers, his smile warm. "Marco Almeida," he introduced himself, extending his hand. "Tony's father," he added unnecessarily. She remained silent, her cheeks burning. "And you are?" he prompted kindly. "Just a colleague," she gasped out, fleeing the scene. Half dead of embarrassment she paused once she rounded the corner of the corridor, tempted to return and beg the kindly stranger not to breathe a word of it to Tony, but too ashamed to face him a second time. Shame won out, she slunk back to her car praying he would be decent enough to remain silent about her visit.

No, she had sat through his whipping dry eyed, sickened by the brutality, remaining dry eyed until Rita left her side and started bathing his wounds. Tears filled her eyes at the scene and she had been unable to stop them. Once they started, they continued unchecked, tears for the dead on the plane, tears for the unknown American woman and the heroic pilot, tears for Marco and tears for them imprisoned by such brutal men. Tony would be next, she just knew it. He was as proud and unable to overlook injustice as his father was, even more so.

'Michelle, it's going to be okay,' Rita told her softly, taking advantage of the momentary departure of the Australian woman. 'Marco's tough, he was raised on a farm. He'll have the scars for a while, but as long as no infection sets in, he'll be fine.'

'But they're leaving him tied up in the sun,' she protested, wiping a fresh batch of tears.

'It's not exactly warm. I'll take him some more water in the afternoon,' Rita decided, her eye on her distant husband. 'I'm more concerned about him catching a cold,' she admitted, wiping her own eyes. 'Hey, it's over. We got lunch to prepare.' She nodded her head at a large sack of potatoes, determined to distract herself from their dismal fate. 'You know how to peel potatoes, dear?'

Michelle shrugged, certain she could manage. How hard could it be, after all? She nodded, wishing she had brought her vegetable peeler from home, a useful tool for peeling the occasional carrot she'd put into sandwiches before she met Tony. She'd saved her fingers from several slashes with the knife she had attempted to use before one of her classmates with whom she kept in contact had sworn by the peeler. 'Yes.'

Saying yes to the ability to peel potatoes with a wicked carved knife and doing so were two separate things. The knife dug deep into the potato, removing a good half of it together with the peel. Cursing under her breath she dropped the third of it she'd salvaged into the bowl set before her, reluctantly reaching for the second one. The second and final one, it turned out. Determined to do better, she angled the knife horizontally, pulling the peel. Feeling it catch and not wishing to angle the knife again, she gave it a firm tug. The knife slipped from her grasp, cutting deep into her hand. A puddle of blood soaked the potatoes before her as she yelled out from shock.

'Dammit! Damn this place to hell,' she swore, covering the cut with her right hand.

Once again Rita slipped her arm round her, removing the hand to examine her injury. 'Don't move, Michelle. I'll find something to tie it up with,' she instructed, hurrying from the kitchen.

'I want to go home,' Michelle muttered as she sat by herself in the dingy kitchen. 'I just want to go home. I don't care if I never go on another vacation in my life!'

Tony laid his father onto the sheepskin, hovering over him anxiously. 'Are you okay, Papa?' he asked softly, noting the deep slashes covering his back.

'I'll live,' Marco remarked wryly. 'Weren't you supposed to clean out? You don't wanna annoy Ali, believe me!'

'I was just going,' Tony assured him, standing up. His father was in pain and obviously wished to rest. Kneeling down swiftly he glanced around, noting they had the room to themselves. 'I love you, Papa.' He hugged his father round the neck carefully, feeling a hand grasp his arm.

'I love you too, Antonio. Now get started, and I'll rest a bit.'

Tony pushed the mop around idly, his mind miles away. Dressed in the shapeless brown t-shirt he had been ordered to put on and a pair of baggy trousers he was relieved no one from CTU could see him. He wondered whether they were even searching for him or whether he had been given up for dead. Ali walked past, giving him a hard look and he was forced yet again to call on his reserves of restraint to prevent strangling him on the spot. You'll pay for what you did, you bastard. My face is the last thing you're gonna see as you take your final breath, that's a promise! He turned his face away, shoving the mop back into the bucket.

'Ciao Giovanni,' an Italian called, stepping over the wet patches carefully. 'A horrible thing, this morning,' he continued, joined by a second man. 'Think they'll do it again?'

'Sí,' he replied bitterly, resuming his mopping with his back to them, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation.

'That Mexican is tough; I was expecting to hear him scream.'

Tony nodded in silence, splashing water about liberally.

'But they must have hurt him worse than he showed, coz he collapsed…'

'Donde?' he exclaimed, horrified.

They stared at him in silence. 'Dove, you mean. You're not Italian, are you?'

Tony chewed his lip, searching their faces. The chances of betrayal were slim, but he dared not risk it. 'Yes, I am, only we moved to Spain when I was a baby,' he lied, hoping they'd believe him. Leaving the mop, he hurried to the door.

'Your father is alright for now, I carried him back inside,' the first man told him, scrutinizing him.

Tony stared at them in silence, his brain struggling to come up with a suitable reply.

'Don't worry, we all know you're not Italian. You haven't spoken to any of us, and you look too much like the Mexican to be anything other than his son. You're American, I take it?'

Tony nodded silently. 'Keep that to yourself, would you?'

'Certamente! Look, you go to your father, he's in real pain. We'll finish up here.'

Tony thanked them and hastened back to the sleeping chamber, pushing through the crowd to his father's side. Kneeling down, he felt his father's forehead, relieved to find his temperature was normal. 'Papa, what's wrong? Where does it hurt?' he whispered softly, swallowing tears at the sight of his father in obvious agony. 'And don't gimme any crap about being alright!'

Marco turned his head to face him, wondering how much of the truth he could admit. 'It's quite uncomfortable, that's all. I was going to the bathroom…'

Tony helped him up, shocked at how slowly his father shuffled over the courtyard, frightened by his ragged breathing. He had appeared better during the previous hour. An icy dread knotted his stomach as he recalled his first aid training. Were we on patrol, I'd be calling for the rescue chopper around now! He watched his father's face wordless, aware of the futility of further questioning. 'Alright, Antonio, I'm fine from here,' his father assured him, removing his arm from Tony's shoulder.

Tony nodded and leaned against the doorframe, determined to prevent anyone access whilst his father was inside. Something was wrong, his father was taking far longer than usual. Pushing himself off the doorframe he strolled inside, closing his eyes in disbelief at the pool of blood on the floor. 'Not so good Antonio,' Marco said lightly.

'It'll stop, Papa. They just got a kidney,' he whispered, longing to scream his rage and fear aloud. 'I'll get you back to the bedroom, you need to rest.'

Jack settled in the armchair he had been offered, his gaze taking in the family he had driven to speak to. Jo, the man who had answered the phone brought him a beer, waving his hand round the room. 'We're all here, Mr. Bauer. My sisters Anna, Rita, Jane and Maria,' he said, introducing them so rapidly he doubted he would remember any of them. 'You had something to tell us about our parents?'

'Yes I did,' Jack said, a stab of guilt slicing through him as he noted their hopeful faces. 'It's real important I speak to all of you. Are you all present?'

'Yeah, except my brothers Marco and Bob. They're in the Gulf, in the navy,' Jo explained. 'Mr. Bauer, where are our parents? We saw they shot one American on the news. What happened to them?'

Jack sighed. 'We don't know anything for certain,' he admitted, 'but there's a chance they're alive, assuming false identities. From the list of survivors we saw that everyone in the front and middle of the plane survived, while the dead were seated in the final few rows. Your family sat in business class… Among the dead we have a few unlikely survivors whose faces match the photos of the remaining Americans.' He paused while they cried aloud in relief. 'That's all we got to go with right now, but believe me we're doing everything we can to discover their whereabouts. What I need from you is complete silence. No interviews with the media, no mentioning this to friends, nothing. If they are alive and hiding, the last thing they'd need is information about their identity leaked and getting back to the hijackers.'

They nodded soberly. 'Mr. Bauer, we won't mention this to anyone. You've got our word on it,' one of Tony's sisters assured him. 'We haven't spoken to anyone so far either. Will you keep us apprised of the search?' she begged.

Jack nodded. 'You got my word on it,' he assured her, eyeing all of them in turn. His gaze took in the rest of the room, the walls covered by framed photographs of the large family, a box of toys along one wall, a guitar propped up in a corner.

'It's Tony's,' Jo said, eyeing him.

Jack nodded, feeling like an intruder in his friend's home. He had been invited to Tony's apartment a couple of times and shared several beers with him, but the short time he had spent in the family home had shown him an entirely different side to his friend. He was no longer amazed that Tony never failed to visit the place. Sweeping the room his eyes paused, drawn to a bullet lodged directly opposite him under a large clock. 'You had a problem there?'

To his surprise the Almeidas grinned at each other. 'Tony done that,' Jane explained smiling at him bashfully. 'Our cousins were here when he was around ten years old and they were playing gangsters. They had toy guns and kept firing at him. He went to get my father's gun to shoot back.'

Jack whistled aloud, shaking his head at the thought.

'No one got hurt,' Jo hastened to explain unnecessarily as the bullet remained in one piece letting him know it had hit nothing on its flight.

'Except for Tony,' Jane reminded him.

Jack blinked, failing to understand how anyone standing where his friend must have stood could possibly have been injured by a bullet that flew directly ahead and embedded itself permanently into a wall.

'Not from the bullet,' Jane explained seeing his puzzled expression. 'My father was furious!'

Jack grinned again, picturing the scene. 'And I thought someone got sick of the cuckoo clock,' he remarked. This time he joined them in their hearty laughter.

'It's actually the second one of those,' Anna explained, waving her hand at the clock. 'Bob shot the bird on the first one with an arrow. It never went back into the clock after that!'

'Tony tried to fix it,' Jane explained, wiping her eyes. 'It just hung in the air with an arrow through its head, but he couldn't get it out in time. My mom walked in…..'

Jack shook his head, envying his friend his entertaining family. 'Is that him?' he inquired, pointing to a grinning young man in naval uniform.

'No, that's Marco. Bob's right there.'

Jack settled back on the couch, strangely reluctant to leave the place after his dismal week. 'So Tony shot the wall and Bob shot the clock. And Marco?'

'He shot the neighbor's cat,' Jo explained merrily, pointing through the window. 'It stopped on our wall. He was just teaching Bob and me how to aim our arrows and he got that cat first time! My parents had to pay them a fortune for the vet bills!'

'And you shot…?'

Jo shook his head. 'I was a good kid. I only watched the others,' he sighed regretfully.

Marco stirred an hour before dawn woken by a numb ache in his lower back. The previous day's events rushed through his mind as he groaned softly. Putting out a hand he felt his surroundings for a tin mug, longing for a drink. His fingers brushed something warm and soft cuddled beside him, a head resting at the crook of his shoulder. He grinned in the darkness, noting it had been a long while since one of his children had spent the night cuddled so close to him. Shifting position gingerly so as not to wake Tony, he found his cup filled with cold water and drank it, straining his eyes to see his son. Tony's face was bitter, hard, a look he had rarely seen on him before, his knees drawn up to his chest for warmth. Guiltily he realized he had he been wrapped in both their sheepskins.

How long were you up watching me last night, Antonio? Most likely all of it, by the looks of things. Wincing, he pushed himself up and spread the sheepskin over them both, dismayed to feel how cold Tony's hands were. You should know better than that, m'ijo. You never ignore your own needs before you take care of another! He felt his pulse, relieved to feel it strong and steady. It appeared he would survive the ordeal, though not without a loss of face. What a weakling you turned out to be, Marco Almeida. A few blows with a whip and you're struggling for your life! Carefully he reached out to touch Tony's hands a few minutes later, checking whether they were a little warmer than before. As though sensing the touch, Tony stirred, waking within a second, fully alert.

'Papa?' he questioned, sitting up and reaching for his wrist. 'How are you? I want the truth, remember?'

'I'm a little better, Antonio,' his father assured him, marveling at the rapid wake-up, so unlike the teenage Tony who had had to be warned several times about getting up, even threatened with a loss of TV before he would stagger over to the breakfast table. 'How long were you watching me?'

Tony shrugged, his face turning red. 'I don't know. I meant to watch you all night. I'm sorry, Papa.'

'You've nothing to be sorry about,' his father assured him, hugging him. 'You're still cold, you couldn't have slept long. Half an hour max, I'd say.'

Tony yawned, clearly worn out from his long vigil. 'Two guys spoke to Ali, to get a doctor to see you. They wouldn't let me ask him myself, they said I'd kill him! They're right,' he added, his eyes taking in every detail of their surroundings. 'Ali refused point blank.' Once again his face turned hard as he wriggled out of the skin. 'Lemme feel your back, Papa.' Gentle fingers probed the injury. 'It's pretty badly swollen, but not more than yesterday.' He let a sigh of relief escape as he gave in to the urge to rub his eyes. 'You're gonna be okay.'

'Sure I am,' Marco replied confidently, his pride in Tony growing. 'Tony, it's just as well Ali didn't allow any doctor near me. Who knows what they're like round here? Come back under the blankets, it's freezing. Your mom will kill me if you catch a cold!'

Tony rolled his eyes, returning to the blanket. 'It is a little cold,' he admitted, shivering slightly. 'This place would be unlivable in the winter.'

Marco drew him closer, determined to warm him up. 'Get some sleep. I'm not going anywhere!'

Tony snorted, allowing exhaustion to claim him. 'You promise you'll wake me if you're sick?' he mumbled.

'You got it,' his father agreed, amused to feel the first even breaths on his cheek indicating his son had fallen asleep. He blinked to clear his eyes, touched by Tony's obvious love and concern. It was something he would remember for the rest of his life, making the whole ordeal almost worthwhile.

Michelle lay on her sheepskin in the last few minutes of what passed as peace, listening to the even breaths of the sleeping women and children. She drew a deep breath letting it out slowly, her eyes following a cloud of vapor. Damn it's cold. She gazed at her mother-in-law who slept soundly beside her, remembering the hours she had tossed and turned, clearly worried for her husband. She yawned, glaring at her leg. Tony had done a good job with the splint, it was held tightly and the bone had begun to set. If only she could hurry the process along somehow, aware that Tony would never risk an escape until she was mobile. She reflected on the irony of the situation, now that her leg was improving her entire left hand throbbed. It's your fault, Michelle. Let's face it, you're hopeless. How could you be so careless with such a sharp knife…She sat up, a frown on her forehead. That knife WAS real sharp! It might even prove useful. Pulling her tangled mess of curls into a pony tail with a rubber band she decided to stash it away in the kitchen and see whether it would be missed. Whatever happened, she would conceal it inside her clothes once it was given up as lost and somehow hand it to Tony. He had spent eight years with the Marines and if all else failed might manage to push it into someone, whilst she doubted whether she could.

She sighed aloud, pulling the greasy skin tighter about her to seek extra warmth. The separation from Tony was eating at her nerves. She resolved to catch a glimpse of him that day and remind him to keep away from Ali, and ask after Marco's health.

Loud banging reached her ears. Putting an eye to the crack she saw the terrorists open the men's sleeping quarters, seeing them file out a minute later. Breathless, she waited for Tony, watching him emerge at the back of the group, his father's arm round his shoulder. She frowned, noting how slowly Marco shuffled along. Turning, she shook Rita awake, pushing her over to the crack. 'They're up. Marco doesn't look too good.'

They watched the courtyard with sinking spirits.

'Take care, Tony! I don't want you to be the first person in this family beheaded!' Marco warned, as he saw his son rise to his feet after tucking him back in the sheepskin.

Tony threw him a nervous grin. 'I kinda agree with you there, Papa! I'll be careful, I just gotta see them,' he explained, hurrying back to the kitchen with a bucket of water. Glancing round rapidly he saw the terrorists congregated in a corner, eyes turned from the kitchen. Saying a quick prayer he pushed the door open a crack, noting his mother stirring a large cast iron pot.

'Mom,' he whispered as she reached for a cloth. She stopped immediately, staring at the door. 'Listen to me carefully. Papa was real sick last night, his kidney is bleeding but it's a little better this morning. He's gonna rest today and I'll do his jobs. How are you and Michelle holding up?'

'We're fine, sweetheart,' she whispered back, longing to hug him. 'Michelle cut her hand real badly yesterday. She's going to rest in the yard today. There's nothing she can do until it heals.'

Tony shut his eyes, wondering how he guessed it. 'Mom, you've gotta keep an eye on her,' he begged. 'She's not that good in a kitchen!'

His mother promised she would, explaining that with the broken leg and slashed hand there was little she could do anyway apart from stir a few pots. 'Ok,' he sighed. 'Just remember to watch her every second she's in here! She'll need it!'