Sorry for the wait! This chapter seemed a lot longer than it turned out to be. I think some of the next ones will be longer. Thanks for all the follows, faves, and reviews. I really appreciate everyone's support!

Chapter 2

The first thing Danny noticed as he pulled into the driveway was that the house was black.

Great. Steve had probably coaxed the kids to start the movie without him and had turned off the lights for a theater effect. Even worse, he could have convinced them to watch some bloody war movie that would undoubtedly give Charlie nightmares for the next three weeks.

Heaving a sigh, Danny grabbed the plastic grocery bag off the passenger seat. He'd gotten an entire box of microwave popcorn and a couple of two-liter bottles of soda for the night. The kids deserved a fun movie experience, one they would remember fondly for the next few years. Grace was fourteen now, and Danny found it increasingly difficult to dissuade her from spending time with her friends on the weekends she was supposed to be with Danny. He wanted Grace to have a healthy relationship with her friends, sure, but how long would it be before she was 'too cool' to spend a Friday evening with her dad and little brother?

Danny didn't worry about Charlie. Not yet, anyway. He was at the stage where everything different was fun. Five years old meant Charlie was old enough to follow basic story lines and differentiate between several characters, but young enough to have trouble sitting still for two hours. Danny had a suitcase of Matchbox cars stashed in the trunk in case Charlie became too squirmy.

Grocery bag in hand, Danny cut the engine of the Camaro and stepped into the night. Moisture thickened the air, the humidity making it hard to breathe. It was a good thing he hadn't planned a backyard camp-out, like he'd considered earlier in the week. It would have been miserable.

He started up the sidewalk, shoving his keys in his pockets. He expected to see the glow from the TV reflecting in the front window, but didn't see a thing aside from the curtains fluttering softly in the light breeze.

Wait. The curtains. Why were the curtains moving?

The bag dropped from his hand.

The plastic bottles of soda rolled down the sidewalk, coming to a stop at the grassy boulevard. Danny drew his gun slowly, eyes never breaking from the front of the house. Steve's living room window was gone, aside from stray pieces of jagged glass that protruded from the windowsill like teeth.

No, Danny thought, a tight knot of terror twisting in his stomach. No, no, no, no...

Beads of hot, nervous sweat broke out across his skin. Treading lightly, Danny crept up to the lanai, keeping his head low and gun high. He first tried the door, which he found locked. No time to run around back—Steve could be in trouble. His kids could be in trouble.

Danny moved to the window. He squinted his eyes in the dark, paranoia causing him to misread every shadow as an ominous figure waiting to strike. He swiped a hand across his brow, quickly clearing the sweat from dripping into his eyes.

Danny sucked in a deep breath and holstered his gun. With his weapon at his side he felt completely vulnerable. Perhaps someone was inside, just waiting for Danny to be caught off guard. Either way, it didn't matter. He was going in, he had to go in, and he couldn't climb through the window, gun in hand, without fear of his weapon accidentally discharging.

Finding an area clear of glass, Danny braced himself against the windowsill. With a small jump, he swung a leg over the threshold and touched the wood floor of the living room. Immediately, his gun was back in his grip. Regaining his balance from the climb, he whipped left and right, scanning frantically for any sign of movement. He didn't dare call out a name until he was certain the house was clear.

His mind reeled. Danny pressed his back against the wall and fumbled for the light switch next to the door. He flipped it once. Twice. Nothing.

Nausea clawed at his insides, threatening to bring bile to the back of his throat. He pointed his gun to the stairs leading to the bedroom loft, examining the darkness for intruders. Deeming it safe, Danny inched into the living room, shoes crunching softly on a sea of broken glass. Risking a glance down, he saw the first thing that truly made his knees weak.

Blood.

Even in the dim moonlight, Danny could see the dark splotches. The entire floor was dotted with round drops, and the wall near the kitchen... Oh, god, the wall near the kitchen had a red line splattered across the white paint, right over a string of gaping bullet holes that were clearly not fired from Steve's gun, embedded deep into the drywall like eye sockets, glaring at him, daring him to step closer into the monster of the house, daring him to see whatever body the bullets had hit—

Danny's lungs screamed. There was no oxygen, none at all in this damned humid air. His breathing became erratic, the same way it did when he was in a tunnel or an air duct or whatever the hell McGarrett made him crawl into while on a case. His arms trembled, and he was afraid he'd fumble his gun if he didn't lower it.

He didn't care about alerting any potential attackers. He needed to find his kids. He needed eyes on his partner. He needed confirmation that they weren't the source of the blood on the floor.

"Steve?" Danny called, breathless. "Steve? Grace?"

No answer.

Screw this.

Danny rushed into the kitchen. A pan of half-melted cheese sat on the stove top. A chair was pulled away from the table. A large chip bowl waited in the counter.

A knife gleamed on the floor.

Danny swore and turned on his heel, running down the hall. "Charlie? Grace?" he cried, frantically pulling open closet doors. Steve would have hid them. If someone came into the house and Steve had enough time, he would have hid them. "Grace! Where are you, baby? Talk to me! Charlie?"

The office was empty. No Charlie curled up under the desk, no Grace frozen behind the door. He checked the bathroom—tore away the shower curtain, opened every cupboard, desperate for some sign of his children.

Danny sprinted back into the entry way and took the stairs to the bedroom two at a time. He dropped to his hands and knees, peering under the bed. There were a hundred issues of Guns and Ammo stashed underneath, but nothing else. He found the closet, nearly ripping the door off its hinges, and pushed aside Steve's clothes, knocking several garments off their hangers. "Charlie? Grace? It's Danno, Danno's here."

Nothing. No one.

He stepped back, placing both hands on the top of his head. Breathe. Breathe. Oh, god, just breathe. You can't do this, Williams. Don't do this. Think think think. Where would they hide? If Steve hid them, where would he...?

Danny remembered the nachos, the pan on the stove. With a gasp, he barreled down the stairs and back into the kitchen, where he jerked open the pantry door.

There, on the floor, was his daughter's cell phone.

Danny snatched it up, feeling frightened tears prick his eyes. "Please, please, please," he chanted, swiping his thumb across the lock screen. He saw several texts that had failed to send, but no recent calls. Why hadn't she called him? Why hadn't she called nine-one-one?

He stumbled backwards, clutching the phone in his sweaty palm. He managed to make it to the living room before his legs gave out and he fell to his knees, blood from the floor immediately soaking through his pant leg. Fingers barely functioning, he dug his own phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Chin Ho's number.

Danny listened to the ring on the other end, reminding himself to keep it together, reminding himself that the three people he cared about most in the world needed him to stay strong and focus. He forced in a deep, steady breath and held it for a good three seconds before blowing out, compelling his pulse to slow to a normal rhythm.

"Danny?"

He hadn't even realized Chin had answered. "Chin," he breathed, then cleared his throat. His tongue was heavy, hard to move into words.

"Danny, is everything okay? Aren't you with the kids this weekend?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing back the sting of tears. Focus. Get it together, damn it.

"Chin," he finally managed. "Chin, listen. Call up the team, get them down to Steve's house now. Get CSU, get HPD, get everyone down here as fast as you can."

"What? What happened?"

Danny swallowed, running his thumb across the glittery jewels covering Grace's phone, then gripped it tight in his other hand. "Steve and the kids are gone."

When Steve woke, he was blind.

For a moment he couldn't determine if his eyes were even open. He blinked hard, slowly fading back into reality. His mind felt foggy, head heavy and full. His throbbing forehead was synchronized with his heartbeat, thudthudthuding like a sickening drum. A low moan couldn't be stopped from escaping his lips.

Struggling to sit up, Steve was painfully reminded of the restraints around his wrists, giving him limited mobility of his hands. The top of his head clunked against something hard, impossible to see in the pitch black.

Wait. He was moving.

The notion jolted him to attention. The loud rumble of tires on gravel greeted his muffled ears. The SUV. He had to have been in the trunk.

Steve gritted his teeth together. Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett, Navy SEAL, had been bested by four guys in thrift store ski masks. The men seemed professional at first, but the more Steve remembered, he realized he'd held back. He could have taken out those guys blindfolded, yet he'd been too cautious, too worried about a stray bullet penetrating the pantry door, too worried about making a sound that would cause the kids to scream—

Damn it. The kids.

There had been two vehicles parked on the curb, and he'd watched Charlie and Grace board one of them. He was almost certainly in the other, heading towards the same place—which could be anywhere on the island. He hadn't any clue how long he'd been unconscious.

At least Danny would have noticed them gone by now. If he wasn't dead from a heart attack, he'd probably called the team and started a search. The gunshots and shattering glass likely alerted the neighbors, which meant witnesses, which meant a possible license plate was grabbed, which meant no problem. Steve just had to ride this out, stall for time and keep the kids safe for a few hours, and he'd be back home by breakfast. Whoever those guys were, they definitely wanted Steve for something, or else they would have left his body on the living room floor.

He couldn't hold back anymore. His priority was finding Charlie and Grace and keeping them safe, but in doing so, he couldn't pass up an opportunity to get the upper hand. He was still kicking his own ass for letting his caution overpower him at the house.

The vehicle slowed to a stop. Steve took several long, deep breaths to keep himself focused.

The kids were fine. They had to be.

The trunk of the vehicle popped open. Steve caught a glimpse of the starry night sky before rough hands seized his arms, demanding he stand. He complied, every muscle aching from being curled up in the cramped quarters. Blood rushed to his head, making the headache worse than ever. For a moment he swayed on his feet, but his captors kept him steady.

Steve did a quick intake of his surroundings, burning every detail into his mind. The two men who secured him at both sides were still clad in black, blending in with the night, but were unmasked. Neither were the blond man who'd initially revealed himself to Steve. The guy on his right was tall, Hispanic, and smelled of cigarettes. On his left was a white guy with a three inch scar cutting across one cheek. Wrapped around his shoulder was an old t-shirt, which Steve could see was stained with blood. He smirked, glad his bullet hit at least one of the bastards.

"Walk," barked one of the guys, nudging Steve in the back. He stiffened, but did as he was told, taking small, slow steps. He'd never been more thankful for moonlight. Two SUVs, including the one he'd been inside, sat in a gravel driveway before an old farmhouse. Relief shot through him at the sight of the second vehicle. The kids had to be close.

Also on the property was a barn and a shed, both neglected and crumbling. They sat back in the shadows, bordered by a thick line of trees and brush. It didn't seem like the type of place a tourist or hiker would simply stumble upon.

Steve was led up the gravel path to the house. He guessed it had been coated with white paint at one point in time, but wind and rain had weathered it away to reveal bare wood.

He averted his eyes to his captor's waists, hoping to get his eye on a weapon. Each man carried a pistol at his side, out of Steve's reach.

So, assault rifles and pistols. Awesome. He could be walking into an armory, for all he knew.

Grabbing for a gun would have been a futile effort, anyway. The bound wrists weren't an issue—what stopped him was his nauseating headache. If he moved too quickly, he feared he'd faint. The concussion made him slow and sluggish, and if the men knew how to fight, he would be in serious trouble.

Steve struggled up two rickety front steps and into the house, which reeked of mildew and stale dust. Clearly, no one had lived there in years. Crumpled beer cans and other trash littered the floor, which glistened with moisture from the humid interior.

There were no signs of the other two men. Steve narrowed his eyes, squinting the best he could in the dark. No one bothered to flip a light.

He was guided to a door, which looked rotten and weak itself, but had two shiny padlocks securing it shut. One of the men fished out a ring of keys from his pocket and clicked the locks open.

The guy with the scar turned to Steve as he pulled open the door. "Get in."

Steve met the man's eyes, never blinking.

Sensing the challenge, the man gave Steve a hard shove on the chest. Although he'd braced for it, Steve lost his balance and tumbled backwards. The hard, wooden step slammed against his spine, causing him to cry out. Down he slid, each step a hammer against his back. He managed to tuck his legs into a roll, and landed on the cement floor like a sack of flour.

The room spun. His head hurt so bad he feared he'd cracked his skull. On his stomach now, with no use of his bound hands, Steve shifted all his weight on his forearms in an attempt to sit up. He blinked dizzily, the yellow light from a single bulb on the ceiling cutting through his blackening vision.

"Uncle Steve!"

Steve lifted his heavy head, relief shooting through him at the beautiful sound of Grace's voice. He squinted in the dim light and saw the two kids, both zip-tied the same way Steve was, sitting in the far corner of the room. Charlie leaned against his sister, his head against her shoulder, quivering.

"Oh, Gracie, thank god," Steve breathed, finding new strength to fight through his injuries. He pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet, muscles screaming with every movement. In three long strides he was in front of the kids, lifting his arms and bringing their bodies into the space between.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Did they hurt you?"

Grace collapsed into Steve's embrace. "We're okay," she confirmed, voice muffled by his shirt. "We didn't know what happened to you. We were scared we would never see you again."

The messed-up part of his brain told him this was nothing but an illusion, a cruel joke played by his subconscious. The relief he felt was so immeasurable, he had to have been in a dream. He kissed the crown of Grace's head, then Charlie's. No, they had to be real. They were warm and trembling and real and he couldn't leave them, not again.

Steve held them for another minute, his heartbeat finally slowing to a normal pace. He raised his arms and pulled away from the kids, giving them a quick once-over for signs of injuries. Grace wore a brave face, concern knotting her brow. Her brother's cheeks were flushed from previous tears, but seemed to be physically unharmed.

"Are you okay?" Grace asked, her voice uneven. "Your head..."

Steve reached up and felt along his forehead with his thumb. A large lump protruded from his right temple, tender and painful to the touch.

"Are you kidding me? Of course I'm okay." Steve rolled his eyes dramatically. "I survived a plane crash and a liver transplant, do you really think a bump on the head is gonna slow me down?"

Grace managed a small smile.

"We're together now," said Steve. "Everything's going to be okay, I promise you."

"Who are those guys?" asked Grace. "What do they want from us?"

Steve glanced up to the basement door. "I'm not sure yet, but I think they want me. When they found you two, they had no choice but to take you so there weren't any witnesses."

"Are they going to kill us?"

The question flipped his stomach. His captors would have no use for the kids. They wouldn't want to keep track of two extra bodies, and they certainly wouldn't release them now that the kids had seen their faces. Damn it, if Danny didn't hurry the hell up...

"Listen to me," Steve said, keeping his voice low and firm. "Nothing is going to happen to either of you. We're going to be fine. They're not going to kill us. If they wanted us dead, we wouldn't be here right now." He looked to each of their sullen faces, letting the message sink in. "When they come down here, don't say a word. Let me do all the talking. Try not to bring any attention to yourselves, understand?"

Charlie's bottom lip trembled. "I want Daddy."

Grace slid closer to him. She looped her arms around his tiny frame and held him close.

"Don't you worry about that, buddy," said Steve. "Danno could be on his way right now for all we know. He probably got back from the store as soon as we were taken. We're going to have every police officer on Oahu searching for us."

"Yeah, Charlie, Danno's the best detective in the world," Grace soothed. "He's gonna come get us."

Charlie nodded and fell quiet, resting against his sister.

There was movement upstairs, and Steve once again gazed nervously at the basement door. Although he didn't have use of his hands, he could still use his arms, elbows, and legs, which was more than enough to take out the men upstairs. They'd been foolish to bound his wrists at his front, instead of the back. Still, a weapon would be useful if it came down to fight. Steve knew from experience that no matter where he was, there was always something.

He took inventory of everything that could possibly be used as a weapon. The floor was cold, smooth concrete, so that was out. The walls were just wooden beams and crumbling drywall. One of the boards could be pulled out, if need be, as well as a nail, if he could twist one loose. There was his belt and his shoelaces, which could be used to wrap around his captor's neck. Grace's hair tie, the bracelets on her wrist, and even her sweater could have a purpose.

Steve thought of Danny. He imagined his partner there with him, scoffing as he tugged on his zip-ties. "Okay, MacGuyver. Could you explain to me how I'm supposed to run away from the bad guys if you use my shoelaces as an instrument of torture?"

The noise from upstairs ceased, leaving Steve and the kids in silence. He sighed and leaned against the wall, where Charlie abandoned his sister to instead lean against his uncle. Steve opened his arms as wide as he could, once again encompassing both kids. He could feel Charlie's rapid pulse and Grace's shiver, and made a silence promise that he would die rather than let them get hurt. They were brave and strong, and he was certain the team would find them soon. He just prayed it would be soon enough.