A/N: Hm…Chapter 5 probably has the best physical description of Don's situation, simanis, but if it's still not clear, let me know, and I'll be happy to expound. Two of your questions won't be answered until later, but they will be answered. The problem with writing in personal POV is that the reader won't know anything that the character doesn't know, and Don doesn't have the answers yet. There are alternate POVs in later chapters (Megan/David/Alan/Charlie) which will provide extra information.

Thanks to all for your kind support - I'll try to do my clean up a little faster.

Chapter 8

"I told you." Twilliger sounded aggravated, as though the tedium of dealing with those of slower intellect wore at him. "You pile up your weapons. You pull back the cars. You let me leave. It couldn't be easier."

"All right," Megan's voice crackled over the line. "We're laying down our weapons right now."

"Not you," Twilliger's tone grew impatient. "There must be a dozen police or FBI or whatever from here to wherever you are. No - I want to go this way - where I know just how many I'm dealing with. The rest of you just stay where you are until I'm gone."

Don blew out a breath. Had to hand it to him - he had that one right. He hooked a thumb around the trigger guard and tried to ease the gun forward, asphalt grinding into his torn knuckles. From Megan's frustrated pause, he knew Twilliger had trumped her thin hope.

"David?" she queried.

"On it." David sounded angry, but Don could hear the clatter of weaponry and imagine what was happening.

"I suppose you'll want one of our vehicles? They're faster."

Twilliger gave a snort of disgust. "With the Lo-Jacks? I'll take my chances on mine."

Nice try, Megan. Don squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and tried to get a look at Twilliger's face. It remained a blurry blob floating over another stocky, blurry blob. He tried again, and things cleared a little and he could track Twilliger's gaze to the grassy shoulder of the road. Don guessed that he was counting weapons…counting. Numbers. What was it anyway, always with the numbers…?

He took advantage of Twilliger's diverted interest to try to keep a slow, steady drag on the gun. The effort sent a fresh thrust of molten ice arrowing through his gut, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out, tasted blood. He'd give about anything to be able to curl into a ball and ignore the rest of the world for a while, but even if his position had allowed him to curl, the world was insistently demanding his attention. He bit his lip now instead, trying to ignore the distraction of the pain and maintain a steady pressure on the gun...Larry would have a name for this…balanced force…or was it unbalanced force? Or maybe it was inertia…friction…something…never mind, my physics still obviously stinks…waiting for the wave of anguish to pass. It didn't, not really: wave after wave swept through him. He closed his eyes, desperate not to be sick again, and almost missed the abrupt sensation of the gun popping free, like toothpaste from a suddenly flattened tube. His fingers scrabbled over it, felt the snub barrel, groped until he recognized the reassuring texture of the handgrip under his palm. Painstakingly, he pushed it under his ribcage; more accessible, but hopefully out of sight. Okay. Step one. Good. He looked up just in time to see that he had Twilliger's attention again. His blood chilled.

Twilliger had a speculative look, as if Don was a shady tax deduction he was trying to decide about risking. He reached into his jacket and produced a pack of cigarettes and a day planner, shrugged apologetically. "I need a distraction," he explained.

Yeah, right. Don watched him shake out a cigarette and neatly tear a page from the day planner, then trade the lighter for a book of matches. Don took advantage of his inattention to feel for the safety on the gun, but the angle was awkward and his fingers trembled uncontrollably, hot and dry. Huh. Not sweating any more. That can't be good.

He scraped at it with his nails, pressed, thought he felt it click free. Step two. Okay. He tried a deep breath. Just don't shoot yourself in the back, pal…his eyes closed again as the world wheeled woozily around him…that would be just plain pathetic.

He forced his eyes back open to try and place Twilliger, though he was pretty sure he knew what he was doing. It was an old arsonist's trick - delayed timer…have we ever run Twilliger's record against any arson cases? Arson would be a logical precursor to the burned bodies…we need to do that…I'll have to search for priors and…and…okay. Okay, Don, you're drifting again…c'mon, c'mon, focus, focus, focus!

Twilliger's outline had blurred again, but he could imagine the moves…fasten the matches halfway down the cigarette, light the cigarette, wrap it loosely in paper. Eventually, the cigarette would burn down and ignite the matches, which would in turn ignite the paper. Leave it near something flammable and you could get a heck of a boom - long after you'd had time to find a safe place to watch.

Well, screw you, Twilliger, because I'm not going to be this morning's entertainment - not if I can help it. He tightened his grip around the reassuring weight of the gun butt.

Twilliger approached, his contraption balanced delicately in his hands. "I just need to keep them busy," he explained, lowering it until it rested a short distance from the puddle of gasoline.

Yeah, swell, damn thing could go up on fumes alone, and then we'll both go together. All right, diminished options here - one move and one move only - with a little luck it won't kick up any sparks…

"I want you all to move back and away - other side of the road, away from the guns!" Twilliger actually sounded like he was enjoying himself, giving orders. Bastard.

Cigarette smoke curled in the air, mixing with the smell of gasoline and hot tar. Don coughed, then groaned at the answering stab that ricocheted through his abdomen.

"That's good. Now, if anyone tries anything…" Twilliger held the lighter high. "My thumb could slip." He turned his back, started a leisurely strut to his parked car.

Don watched his progress for only a moment, then closed his eyes tight and fought to concentrate. He had to assume that Megan was already on the wire somewhere, setting up road blocks or calling choppers…something. And maybe that would be good enough, but Twilliger had slipped them somehow so many times before. Still, maybe the smart thing to do would be to sit tight and wait. On the other hand, if he was going out anyway, he'd kind of like to make it count for something.

"David, stay back." His voice came out as a raw croak.

"Don?"

There were a hundred questions in David's voice, but he didn't have time or energy for any of them. He was trying to regulate his breathing, trying to visualize the movement in his head, just the way he did when he swung at a ball. It was something he and Charlie never seemed to agree on.

Don believed in a combination of focus, instinct, muscle memory, and that magical moment of finding the sweet spot. Charlie insisted that he could quantify what felt good. Don hadn't said anything at the time, but he had been a little shocked, deep down inside. Did Charlie actually quantify everything? Even…well…you know…EVERYTHING? Surely there were some things where the numbers didn't apply and you just went with your heart? Don needed to believe it, anyway. Kim had once accused him of being a closet romantic, and though he had protested vehemently at the time, it wasn't impossible that she was right. He liked the opportunity for surprise, wonder. Magic. To Charlie, the absence of surprise was what was magical - following the numbers. Just something they'd never see eye to eye on, he guessed. Maybe he'd get up the nerve to ask him about it, if…well… and now you're wandering again, Don, but he felt strangely more relaxed. His mouth gave a sardonic twist. Or maybe he was just sinking into semi-consciousness…

...Later. Time for all that later. C'mon. Lift. Aim. Fire. Lift. Aim. Fire. He pictured the shot in his head, pictured hundreds of hours on the shooting range, almost as many hours in real life situations.

Lift. He cracked his eyes to get a glimpse of the murky outline of Twillger's retreating back, drew in a breath, felt the gun rise shakily in his clasped hands. Bad angle for this, but…

Aim. A grey blur in his own vision, he saw the gun come round, pointed it uncertainly at the moving, darker grey blur.

Fire. He breathed out on fire, automatically gave the trigger a gentle squeeze. He didn't hear the report, but the gun jerked in his hands, the recoil kicking it free from his grasp. It tumbled and landed on his breastbone with a soft thud. Had he…?

But the greyness was everywhere now. It deepened into a smothering fog, wrapped around him, and finally, dragged him under.

TBC