A/N: The site seems to be back for the moment yay, so let's have a new chapter.
Warning: This chapter has a mention of suicide of an OC character. You can skip the first scene if you want to skip that.

It was the stress and the pain. Bill would definitely blame the pain for the slip, and maybe the fact Davis' presence was irritating the hell out of him.

He didn't mean to say it out loud. Hell... he had never ever spoken about his mother and now he just blurted it out like some drunken idiot looking for sympathy...

He could see Davis regarding him with curiosity and yes... sympathy. Of course. The dumb kid had a bleeding heart and Bill just gave him something to ponder.

It angered him, but he couldn't take the words back and in some way, they felt good. As if a little bit of weight was lifted off his shoulders. A long festering wound opened...

Bill cursed.

"If you say one word Davis... I'll deck you," he growled as he determinedly turned his eyes away from the damn room.

He knew Davis wanted to say something. Either to apologize or keep asking questions, but Bill couldn't deal with that. Not now... not ever.

He was so adamant about getting the hell out of this place that he forgot about his broken leg. He let it touch the ground with more force than necessary. Next thing he knew he was leaning heavily against the wall, the stupid torch rolling on the floor, blinking. Davis was next to him, looking oddly panicked.

"Bill? You back with me?"

Bill groaned and realized he was gasping for breath too. Did he scream? Did he black out?

The pain was excruciating, even now that his leg was no longer touching the floor. He was glad for the darkness as he was sure there were tears streaming down his face.

"Y-yeah. Just... stumbled," Bill let out once he got his voice back under control.

Davis didn't call him out on his lie and Bill was thankful for that at least.

He kind of wished he would have grabbed the offer of the bloody wheelchair, weird spots and pride be damned. They weren't so far away yet, maybe he could send Davis back to retrieve it...

He pushed back the thought as soon as it appeared, cursing himself a weak fool. He could hear his father's voice, screaming at him from the living room to shut up and stop crying like a sissy, or he will end up like one. And Bill knew what happened to sissies. The same thing that happened to hysterical women who dared attacking their husbands for cheating.

They ended up sent into mental hospitals. Locked up, drugged... tortured.

Then, if they were lucky enough, they would be sent home, broken but... fixed. If they were less lucky... they ended up as a victim of some hot-headed doctor, who thought jabbing long needles into eye sockets would cure all.

Bill shut his eyes tight, hands clenched into fists.

His mother survived the therapy, the electroshocks. She was smart enough to realize that if she ever wanted to see her son or leave the insane asylum, she had to play a role.

It took her two years.

Two years, during which Bill was left to the tender mercies of his drunken ass of a father at the age of nine. When she finally returned home, she was the most considerate wife. Making dinner. Cleaning the house. Never uttering a word against her husband.

Never again smiling again.

Bill couldn't stand that. What came back was a husk, not his loving mother. No... what came back was a ghost.

His father couldn't stand it either. He drank more. He screamed more and there were moments Bill wished his mother would be back in the asylum, because in his 11 year old mind, she must've been safer there than at home.

He realized that wasn't true during one fateful dinner. They were sitting around the table, silent, his mother moving robotically, putting plates with food down. One slipped out of her hands, breaking on the floor with a loud crack, the mashed potatoes splashing on his father's trousers.

Screaming ensued and Bill just looked down at his own plate, trying to tune it all out. He wanted to get down to his knees and help his mother clean up the mess, he wanted to shout at his father to shut the fuck up, he wanted to stab the fork into the man's throat just to make him silent.

He didn't do any of that. At twelve, Bill knew any of those actions would have dreadful consequences for him. Helping his mother would label him a weak sissy, for doing a woman's job and threatened to be sent to the same place his mother escaped. Any step against his father would end up in getting the belt.

He wished he would have done something though.

When his mother ignored all the curses and jeering, his father lost his temper. He didn't hit her. Didn't have to.

"Perhaps I should just send you back there. I heard they are still looking for some subjects to lobotomize," he said with a sick laugh.

Bill couldn't help it, he looked at his mother. He didn't understand what the word meant and she always knew everything, explained everything.

The deep fear in her eyes shook him.

His father's laughter deepened and twisted in Bill's memory, overcoming the sound of his mother's voice, begging him to let her stay.

Bill didn't remember much of what happened afterwards. The following days and weeks were a blur.

He wasn't sure if it was the next morning or if it was months later when his mother simply hadn't woken up. What he remembered was finding her still in the bed, relaxed. The smallest smile touching her unnaturally blue lips, while there was an empty pill bottle clutched in her cold hand.

She looked... at peace.

Bill hasn't seen her like that for several years now.

Still, he didn't understand. Couldn't. She decided to die and leave him behind. Why?

"Because she was weak, son," his father told him when he asked, sobbing, watching as the casket was lowered into the ground. For once his father tolerated the tears, but Bill knew this was the last time, the only time. "You better remember, Bill. This is what happens to weak people."

And he did. Bill hated the man that called himself his father, but he never forgot that weakness equalled death. Being weak meant anything from letting kids bully him, or even just letting a sheepish, studious schoolmate pass him by on the street without knocking into him so hard he stumbled. Anything that made his father snort or laugh, even though the sound sent sparks of hate through Bill, meant that he wasn't thought of as weak. It meant he was 'worthy' enough of his father's name to be given a roof over his head, food and clothes. Strong enough not to be sent to a place he knew scared his mother more than anything.

It took five more years for his father to pass away. He drank himself to death. This time, as Bill stood at the cemetery watching the casket go down, he didn't shed a tear. He had to be strong after all.

Bill took in a deep breath.

It was the past.

He was older now. Smarter. Still, his father's lessons ran deep. Too deep at times, but Bill couldn't change that now. The years spent at the police academy then walking the beat just reinforced the fact that weak people ended up dead. And there was no one in his life to prove him wrong.

"Can you walk? Or should I bring the chair?" a voice asked, as if from the distance. Bill blinked.

He was back in the musty corridor, leaning against the wall precariously. Davis had already picked up the torch that was thankfully still working.

"Only if you want to sit in it," Bill grunted at the offer of the chair. Without another word he grabbed Charlie's shoulder, pushing himself off the wall. Davis hissed as his arm curled around his ribs, but didn't comment. Bill almost felt bad for causing the man discomfort, but didn't apologize. Served him right, he thought. Asking stupid questions. Still... as they started moving again, Bill's eyes turned towards the cursed room one last time. The torch was pointing ahead so he couldn't really see anything, but he remembered the gurney and the restraints. He remembered the pained and scared look on his mother's face. With some reluctance, he moved his arm up, so it was resting on Davis' shoulder instead of his side. He pretended that he didn't hear the relieved sigh.

"So what do we do now?" Cunningham asked as they were all huddled by Blake's parked car. They were in a good enough spot to watch the front entrance of the station and admittedly, keep a partial eye on the van.

Blake was pretty sure the van was empty, at least when he had approached it a few minutes earlier, he didn't catch any movement from the driver's seat. Though truth was he didn't dare to get too close. As soon as he was sure the plates were missing... he beat a hasty retreat.

"We need to call Melbourne and request assistance," Lewis said as if it was the most logical thing.

Blake cringed.

He wasn't a fan of the tone but more than that... he wasn't sure it was the best idea.

"While I'm all for requesting assistance, I doubt my boss from Melbourne would be of much help right now," Danny said with a tight look on his face and Blake knew there was something he wasn't saying.

"Why the hell not?" Lewis opposed, clearly set on trying to act as the one with the highest rank. Blake forced back a sigh. Last thing they needed right now was a pissing contest. He was about to jump in between the two, but it was Cunningham who stepped in.

"Maybe because they are hella far? And I doubt we have enough time anyway. Based on what I heard... the guys inside are antsy and pissed."

Danny nodded.

"Yeah. They were definitely losing patience. Not to mention, if Lawson and Davis are missing, these guys must've arrived around the time they were supposed to leave. That means they are inside for well over an hour now. How long do you think they will hang around?"

Lewis frowned.

"Well, what are you proposing? We need to inform the upper heads and await orders. We can't just... barge in."

Blake and Danny exchanged a glance.

Blake knew one thing. He wasn't much of a fan of waiting for orders. He might've spent quite some time in the army, but even there he struggled with the chain of command. He was pretty sure the only thing saving him from several court martials were his skills and the fact there was a war going on.

"We need to do something," he said, barely registering the fact he spoke out loud. His mind was already working on a plan. It was a bit daring and plenty risky, but... it was doable.

"I'm not doing anything without calling it in first," Lewis argued, sounding like a broken record. Danny rolled his eyes.

"Great. Then why don't you call Bendigo? They might actually be able to send in few cars before it all goes to hell!"

Lewis looked like he actually liked the idea but Blake could see Cunningham and Jamieson exchanging a glance with Danny. Neither of them wanted to wait around. Not to mention... they all knew how precarious Lawson's position was. Blake worried that involving anyone from the outside might just be the nail in Matthew's coffin. Of course, if it was a question of saving someone's life... Blake sighed.

"Calling Bendigo sounds good," he said finally. "But I don't think we have time to wait for them," he added tonelessly. His whole body tensed and he raised his hands in a gesture that clearly said 'step back'.

Lewis looked like he was offended by the gesture, until he followed Blake's gaze, along with the others.

Blake had been standing facing the station, so he was indeed the first one to notice the door opening.

The others caught on quickly, falling silent and hiding in the shadows, watching.

A solitary figure stepped out, looking around carefully.

It was clear it wasn't a cop. Just as clear that the man had a cig in one hand and a gun in the other.

Blake watched as the man quickly walked up to the van, opening the back of it. Blake and Danny shared a look, wondering if they should perhaps use this moment and act. Blake shook his head.

They were too far away and their approach would have been noticed well in advance. Not to mention, there were still several hostages at the station that could've been hurt.

No, the only thing right now was to observe and hope that they had a bit more time to act.

The man was pulling something out of the van and Blake had to squint to try and figure out what it was. When he realised though, his eyes went wide.

Petrol cans.

Two large ones. The man had thrown away the cigarette, put the gun behind his waist then took both cans and headed back towards the station. Blake waited until the door slammed shut, then turned to the others.

"Petrol cans!" he let out through clenched teeth, shaking with anger.

"What... do they want to set the station on fire?" Lewis asked, bewildered.

"I don't know... but we are not waiting around to find out," Danny uttered and moved as if to run towards the door. Blake grabbed him by the arm, stopping him.

"No. We need to plan this, or someone will get killed," he said and it was clear Danny wanted to protest at first. Blake raised a brow, not letting go of Danny's arm. Danny blinked, but then gave a nod.

"What's on your mind, Doc?" he asked and Blake let a smile touch his lips.

"Split up. Two of us go from the back, three from the front entrance. We need to make sure all exits are covered."

Cunningham, Jamieson and Danny nodded. Lewis looked as if he was sucking on a lemon, ready to jump in with a protest. So far though he kept silent. Blake could appreciate that at least.

"We will need a distraction... but I can provide that. First though... I think we should take care of their escape car."

Danny's eyebrows rose, but it was Cunningham who was the first to react. He pulled out a knife and with a grin said: "Leave that to me."

Before anyone could say a thing, Cunningham moved through the shadows, towards the van. Blake tried to keep an eye on both the man and the front door, hoping the attackers wouldn't chose that moment to come out. They all waited with bated breath, watching as Cunningham slashed both tires from the passenger side. He didn't dare to do the same for the driver's side as that would've been visible right away upon the exit from the building. If anything, letting the bad guys hop into the van and drive off several meters before noticing they had a problem seemed like a good idea.

Done with the job, they saw Cunningham peek inside the van the best he could, before returning to them.

"Did you see anything?" Danny asked before Cunningham even put the knife back into its sheath.

"Some spare clothes and a few more cans in the back, but not much else," Cunningham said with a shrug. "No plates on the front either."

They were eyeing the front door nervously.

"Alright, we need to decide right now. All in agreement with my plan?" Blake asked. Everyone nodded, except of course Lewis. He was frowning.

"Wait just a second. If I'm correct, Parks, you have no jurisdiction here and Blake, no offense, but you aren't a cop. I can't in good conscience let you go against some armed bunch of attackers!"

"Of course not," Blake agreed calmly, taking some of the wind out of Lewis' sail. "I asked if everyone agreed. Under these circumstances, you have the highest rank, Sergeant Lewis. So... what is your course of action?"

Four pairs of eyes locked on Lewis, who suddenly seemed too nervous.

"I... uh... we need to call reinforcement and then-"

Danny rolled his eyes.

"Bloody hell, Lewis. If you want to call someone, then go and do it! But make sure they will also bring some body bags, because by the time anyone arrives, there will be most likely bodies lying around."

"Come on, you can't just-"

"It's your call, Lewis. You are the senior officer. Are we going in or not?" This time it was Cunningham who was obviously losing patience.

Lewis hesitated.

Blake counted to ten. Then twenty.

He knew he was being impatient. Perhaps they needed to think this through. Rushing in without a backup was truly stupid. But... his friends were missing, most likely in some kind of danger. They knew that Peter was in trouble and they saw the petrol cans. Blake had seen his fair share of fires and burn victims during the war. He sure as hell wasn't about to wait around to see the station go up in flames if he could help it.

He looked at Lewis, who was biting at his lip. At Cunningham and Jamieson, both of them gritting their teeth, stepping from one leg to the other, hands subconsciously clutching at their knives and weapons. At Danny who was strung tight as a coil, ready and thrumming with excitement.

Blake counted ten more seconds, then shook his head.

"You know the plan," he said and reached for his pistol, checking the chamber. Satisfied, he straightened his coat and simply headed out towards the front entrance.

"Doc!" Danny called out after him in a hiss, which was followed by another hiss of 'Blake!' coming from Lewis.

Blake paused, turning around for a moment.

"What? I'm a civilian. It's perfectly in my right to go visit a police station."

Without another argument, he resumed his walk, hoping that Danny and the others will follow suit.

Eddie was becoming more and more nervous. It was one thing to break him out of a police holding cell. It was something else to try and set the police station on fire. He tried to argue with Tee at first, but quickly realized it was a waste of time. A short exchange in the hallway let him know that this time it was Joe holding the reins. Damn, but Dave did indeed send his harshest guys to pull him out.

Either the man was worried that Eddie might talk, or...

"We're making a statement. After this place goes up in blaze, everyone will think twice about crossing the family. And Mike here..." Joe looked at the man writhing and moaning on the floor. He grimaced. "Well... Mike or someone else can take over that much easier."

Eddie understood where Joe was coming from or rather the argument from Dave's standpoint. For Dave, showing the local coppers and businessmen that they weren't afraid of taking drastic measures was the right way to go. It would scare them into submission.

Perhaps it might've been a sound plan somewhere else. A smaller town... way smaller. Where the coppers weren't so stubborn and strong headed. Hell, Eddie had the pleasure of meeting several of them during his arrest and interrogation. And while the cop who arrested him, Davis was his name, had a surprising amount of information and kept just the right pressure for Eddie to consider turning, it was the superintendent that made his skin crawl. The man hadn't touched him, hell, he barely spoke. But the look in his eyes...

Eddie knew such men. His dead father used to have the same look of determination in his eyes. The same look of 'this place is mine! You mess with it, you pay the price!'

Ballarat wasn't up for takes. It was under the protection of several headstrong men. And Eddie knew without an ounce of doubt that if they burn down the station, they better kill each and every one of those men working there. Because otherwise they will be hunted down like rabid dogs.

Of course, Dave didn't know that. And if Eddie told him, used the phone and asked him to rethink the plan, he would have been called a sissy and ignored. Perhaps rightly so, Eddie wasn't sure. The fact he had been caught so easily rattled his confidence.

"Come on, Joe. If you do this... they'll come after us. I swear the cops here are like rabid dogs," Eddie tried, for sake of trying.

Joe snorted, raising the gun in his hand.

"You know what we do with rabid dogs, right?" he asked with a smug smirk.

Eddie sighed.

There wasn't much else he could do. The front door opened and in came the guy whose name he didn't know. Though he had seen him a few times, driving Dave's car.

The man was now holding two large cans filled with petrol. He put them down in front of Tee.

"Ready to skip this joint?" he asked, looking more bored than anything.

Joe nodded.

"Tee, grab one and make sure our friends in the cells get nice and toasty," he said with a smirk and Eddie forced back a shudder as Joe turned to him.

"Eddie, you and Greg take Mike and wait for us in the van. Get the engine running... we will need to move quickly."

Greg the driver gave a nod, but he didn't seem inclined to give Eddie or Mike a helping hand. Eddie grunted and with a few choice words pulled Mike back on his feet. The man let out a yelp and suddenly Eddie had his hands full with an unconscious body.

"Bloody hell! Some help?" he snapped towards Greg, who shot him a rather disgruntled look.

"I'm paid to drive, not nursemaid."

"I'm sure you'll need some passengers to drive off with," Eddie bit back, glaring.

"Get your ass in gear and help him," Joe said, annoyed. "Last thing I want is to listen to your whining."

Greg grumbled something under his nose, but Eddie let out a sigh of relief as he felt some of Mike's weight being taken off of his shoulders. Tee had already headed down to the cells and Joe took the other can of petrol and was taking it into the main office.

Best to leave the place, before someone dropped a lit match, Eddie thought distractedly.

With Greg's help, they were able to move Mike quite easily. They were already by the front door, when there was a knock.

Eddie froze.

He shot a look towards Greg, his eyes silently asking if there was anyone else with them.

Greg shook his head and the grimace on his face was clear indication that this wasn't part of the plan.

Eddie wasn't sure what to do. Did he perhaps imagine it?

The knocking returned. Three sharp raps on the wood.

Greg let go of Mike and pulled out his gun, pointing it at the door. Eddie sagged a bit under the extra weight and moved to the side, back flush with the wall. He felt quite useless, being held down by dead weight. He would've let Mike drop to the floor without a care, but he worried the man would moan or wake up, making a sound.

Greg took a step to the side as well. He cocked the gun, finger lying on the trigger, ready to squeeze.

Somewhere at the other end of the hallway, there was a loud crash of a broken window.

Eddie's head turned on instinct and he saw Greg turn as well.

There was a sound of splintering wood as someone kicked down a door.

Eddie let Mike drop to the floor. The thud of the body hitting the concrete was drowned out by another sound.

A sharp kick and the front door flying inwards, barely missing Eddie's frame as it crashed against the wall.

Eddie let out a startled yelp... and looked into the nozzle of a pistol. That was the moment he realized how utterly screwed he was.