A/N: Wow, nothing like a new episode with a heart-warming Steve and Charlie moment to get the motivation going! I'm getting married on Saturday, so after that updates should come sooner. Thank you all for being patient with me.

Danny and the rest of the team didn't make it in this chapter, but he'll return next time! Also, for those concerned about the amount of violence Grace and Charlie are exposed to, feel free to PM me and I will (without any major spoilers) explain what I have in store for the kids. Keep in mind the fic is rated T, and I don't plan on having the violence or content being any worse than the TV show. Still, I understand that the kids being kidnapped and threatened makes some of you uneasy, so like I said, feel free to drop a message. Thanks again everyone! If you reviewed last chapter and didn't receive a reply, it's because my email is flooded with wedding stuff and I may have deleted it on accident. Be assured that your reviews and feedback are a huge motivator to write and are much appreciated!

Chapter 6

For one terrifying minute, Steve was paralyzed.

He'd blacked out for a few seconds, and the transition back to consciousness was slow and nauseating due to the blood that had rushed to his head. Grimacing, he cracked open an eye, only to be attacked by a sharp sting. His brain commanded his arm to move, for his hand to swipe away the blood and sweat that trickled into his eyes, but his muscles were numb and uncooperative.

So, just for a minute, Steve remained where he was, blindly assessing his position.

He realized then that he had yet to take a breath. Either the crash had punched the air from his lungs, or his air supply was cut and he was simply waiting to suffocate. He concentrated hard, forcing his body to comply to his demands of oxygen. Finally, he gasped, sucking in acrid fumes of smoke and gas and blood.

The tang of copper hung on his tongue and coated the back of his throat. He couldn't swallow. As his body began breathing without reminder, a glorious, automatic cough burst from his mouth, expelling a wad of blood and saliva down the front of his shirt.

Steve groaned, his other senses finally creeping in. As he regained his bearings, he realized his body hung at an awkward angle. The seat belt was a protective arm across his chest, preventing him from collapsing onto the driver. His head lulled to one side, causing an enormous kink to assault his neck. He tested the use of his fingers by wiggling them slightly, then his wrists, then his entire arm. He managed to wipe away the blood that hindered his vision, and finally opened his eyes.

Then, everything hit him at once.

The car had careened into the ditch, impacting on the driver's side, and now laid on its side with Steve dangling over Quentin's body. Various aches and pains began to make themselves known. Nothing felt broken, so Steve once again attempted to lift his head. Despite the stiffness in his neck and the previous blow to his temple throbbing more than ever, he felt okay to move.

He had to move.

Steve gritted his teeth together and struggled to reach for the door handle. It was too far. With the seat belt restraining him and the angle of the vehicle keeping him stuck leaning left, he was trapped.

He managed to look towards Quentin, doing a visual scan for signs of life. The driver's head had cracked against the window, undoubtedly shattering his skull. Bloody spiderweb cracks etched the glass like a morbid mosaic. His eyes were open, just barely, and Steve recognized the lifelessness there, as he had seen it so many times before.

He couldn't turn to peer into the backseat. It was devoid of movement and noise, meaning everyone was either dead or incapacitated in some way. Honestly, Steve didn't care either way.

He had to get out. He'd taken a huge risk, one that could have left him dead. But what other choice did he have? He would have been executed the moment he got back to the house, along with the kids... if they weren't dead already.

Steve gripped the seat belt with both hands and swung up his legs. He twisted himself sideways, a fiery pain ripping through every nerve ending, until the soles of his shoes were flat against the door. He panted hard, exhausted and sweating already. His shoulder blades brushed Quentin's body, fueling his urgency.

Steve sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and focused all his strength into his legs. He bent his knees and kicked, feeling the glass of the window give slightly beneath his feet. He reeled back again, this time letting out a cry of anguish as he broke through. He used his heels to clear protruding shards that would slice his hands when he climbed out. As the last pieces were knocked away, the proliferating pressure in his head stole his sight and sounded a ringing chorus in his ears.

He was fading fast. He needed to get upright now.

Steve unbuckled his seat belt and crashed onto Quentin's corpse. A disgusted shudder racked his frame when he heard the sound of crunching glass beneath him, knowing he'd just driven broken shards deeper into the dead man's brain.

Steve gagged, or maybe sobbed, as he reached out to brace himself. As he sat up, something hard dug into his thigh.

Quentin's gun.

Steve snatched it into his grip and checked the mag. Six bullets.

Holding the pistol, feeling the weight in his hand, made him feel the first glimmer of hope since the whole ordeal began. Unfortunately, Steve didn't have time to savor the sensation.

He flipped on the safety and tucked the gun into his waistband. Gripping the back of the seat, Steve hoisted himself up into a standing position, doing his best to avoid crushing Quentin further. With his head and shoulders now free of the vehicle, he lifted his arms and pulled himself out.

Finally, he stood on the crumpled skeleton of the car, knees wobbling and head reeling so fast he nearly toppled over. White smoke billowed from the hood and rolled into his face, irritating his eyes and causing them to water. Ducking his head, Steve swung himself over the edge of the overturned SUV and grabbed fistfuls of grass to secure himself to the side of the ditch. He climbed on all fours, feeling especially sore in his shoulders and neck, and rolled onto the gravel when he reached the road.

The rocks dug into his back, but he didn't care. He stared up at the sky, hearing the pops and creaks of settling metal, and took a moment to compose himself. Small cuts dotted his arms, and he couldn't see the damage to his face, but Steve had walked away from the crash virtually unscathed. The soldier in him wanted to go back and check on the passengers, but his paternal instinct to find the kids crushed any confliction.

Steve rose unsteadily to his feet. He reached to his waist, making sure the gun was still there. He braced himself for a long, painful walk, put one foot in front of the other, and trekked down the gravel road to the house.

He began with a limp, his left leg especially weak and bruised, but managed to walk off most of the discomfort. He swayed to the side and nearly lost his footing several times, dizzy from the pounding in his head. Occasionally his vision split in two, disorienting him so badly he was forced to stop and kneel to the grass to ensure he didn't fall.

The farmhouse finally became close enough where he feared Kimo would spot him approaching from the window. Steve switched off the safety and held the gun high as he crossed the lawn, bracing himself for the man to burst from the house at any minute.

His focus was unwavering. He had a mission to accomplish, and nothing would stop him. Not a concussion, not a car crash, not a bullet. Steve neared the front porch and ducked low. He peered into the living room window, searching for signs of movement.

He didn't see anyone inside. Treading quietly, Steve turned the doorknob and crept inside. He checked around the door and strained his ears for any sign of Kimo. The living area was quiet.

Steve kept the gun raised, his other hand gripping his wrist for support. He took another step forward, leaving the door open. As he pressed on, a draft from inside the house pulled the door shut with a heavy slam.

He heard the footsteps immediately, coming from the second floor.

Steve kept his finger on the trigger.

Kimo descended the steps, drawn toward the noise. The moment he came into view, Steve fired off a shot.

The bullet clipped the wall, sending Kimo ducking back into the stairway, cursing.

Steve dove for cover behind a tatty armchair. "Throw your gun to me and I won't shoot you," he called.

"What—?" Kimo sputtered. He poked his head around the corner, eyes blown wide with apprehension, and Steve fired again.

Another miss.

"Jack's dead," Steve shouted. "All your friends are dead, and you're next unless you surrender yourself." He sat up straight, resting his gun over the arm of the chair as a makeshift bulwark. "Don't be stupid, Kimo. You're not going to win this."

The silence that followed was excruciating. A single bead of sweat trickled down Steve's temple. He didn't move, he didn't blink, he didn't even breathe in fear of missing his next shot. For a moment, he anticipated Kimo would kick out his gun and walk out from the stairwell, hands on his head in surrender.

Steve didn't expect what happened next

Kimo burst from the stairs, eyes ablaze, and began to open fire. A bullet whizzed past Steve's ear and he gasped, dropping lower to the ground. Shots bounced wildly through the room, shattering windows, exploding door frames, chipping away drywall.

Knowing he needed to act before Kimo finished crossing the room, Steve laid on his side and pushed the wall with his feet. He slid out of his hiding place and tapped two bullets into the man's torso without a second thought.

The gun fell from Kimo's hand as he stumbled back. Two red spots blossomed across his shirt. He grabbed at his chest in disbelief, then locked eyes with Steve as he sank to the ground.

Steve stood slowly, finally tucking his gun away. He approached Kimo cautiously, as if the man would suddenly spring back to life and attack. He didn't allow himself to feel remorse for the life he'd taken, or stop to think how things could have ended differently. Nothing was over until he had the kids.

Steve patted the dead man's pockets until he found a cell phone. He dug it out and dialed Danny's number, hands trembling with anticipation.

Nothing happened.

Cursing, Steve realized the call had dropped. He checked the home screen for a signal.

No reception.

"Damn it!"

He whipped the phone across the room and pinched the bridge of his nose. They were miles into the Hawaiian forest, of course there wouldn't be reception. Jack had been bluffing when he said he'd call Kimo to harm the kids if Steve screwed anything up.

Steve could practically feel his blood pressure rising. If he couldn't call for help, he'd have to walk. Could he make it more than five miles to town? And could he do it with the kids? What if the kids were hurt, and unable to walk on their own?

No, no. He couldn't think about that. He had to find them first, plan later.

A ring of keys glinted off Kimo's belt loop. They had to be the keys for the basement door.

"Grace!" Steve cried, bolting for the kitchen. He stuck the first key his fingers touched into the padlock and twisted. It fell open, and he yanked on the door so hard it nearly flew off its hinges. "Grace, I'm here. Grace?"

Steve barreled down the steps. At the bottom, he froze.

Grace was gone.

He stared incredulously at the spot where she'd sat for so long, the spot where he'd seen her just hours ago. Why would Kimo move her? Why would he take her from the room unless...

"Grace!" Steve screamed. He flew back up the stairs, frantic. He leaped over Kimo's body to search a hall closet, but it was empty. He hadn't acted fast enough. He'd wasted too much time weighing his options, and now Grace was missing like Charlie.

Panic flooded through him as he raced upstairs. Steve rounded the corner into a bedroom. A few pieces of odd furniture cluttered one corner, but was otherwise empty. Panting, Steve skidded into the hall and tried the next room. An old bed stood under a broken window, gray with dust. Steve dropped to his hands and knees and peered underneath.

Nothing.

He leaned his back against the side of the mattress, feeling faint from lack of breath. He bowed his head between his knees, defeated. He'd killed the kids. Oh, god, he'd killed the kids. They were gone. He'd left them, and Kimo had taken them out to the jungle and...

Steve slammed his hands against the floor, crying out in frustration.

How could he leave now? He'd never be able to face Danny again. He'd never be able to look his partner in the eye and explain that he was responsible—

Thud.

Steve jolted to attention. His eyes traveled around the room for the source of the noise. It was then he noticed the padlock on the closet door.

Kimo's keys were still in his grip. Steve scrambled to his feet, emotion making his whole body shake. He thrust the key into the lock, and when it popped open, threw it to the floor and ripped the door open.

A little boy was huddled in the corner of the small closet, whimpering and shielding his face with his hands. From where he stood, Steve could see the tremble of the boy's small body.

Relief brought Steve to his knees.

"Charlie," he said, his voice barely a squeak. His eyes burned hot with unexpected tears. "Charlie, buddy, it's okay. It's me. It's Uncle Steve."

Slowly, Charlie lowered his hands from his face, squinting from the light. Steve scrutinized him for any signs of injury or trauma. He noticed Charlie's hands were free from binds, and aside from a few floorburns on his elbows and knees, he appeared to be unharmed.

"Uncle Steve?"

Finally understanding, Charlie burst into tears and held out his arms, wanting to be held. Steve scooped him up, swallowing down his own emotion, and hugged him fiercely. Charlie wrapped his arms around Steve's neck and his legs around Steve's waist, clinging to him tightly.

"Oh, Charlie, thank god," Steve murmured, pressing kisses into the boy's hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, afraid tears would spill out if he kept them open. Rocking Charlie in his arms, he was weak with relief, bones like jelly. Had he really been here the whole time, stuffed away in this closet?

"Did they hurt you?" Steve sniffled. He peeled the boy away, forcing their eyes to meet. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

Charlie nodded distractedly. He reached up and gingerly touched the cut on Steve's forehead.

"This?" Steve couldn't help but laugh. He took Charlie's hand and kissed his fingers. "This is nothing, buddy, I'm fine. Come here." And then he was hugging the boy again, because a dark park of him believed this would never happen, that he'd never be here, embracing the little boy he swore he'd protect with his life.

Charlie wiggled from his grip, and Steve was forced to pull away.

"Where's Grace?"

The question made Steve's heart plummet to his stomach. He'd finally gotten one kid back, only to lose another, and how the hell was that fair?

"I'm not sure," said Steve, because there was no way he was going to lie to this kid, not now. "But we're going to find her, and then we're going to go home. Sound good?"

Charlie nodded. "Is Danno here yet?"

"Not yet."

"Is he coming?"

"Yeah, buddy, he's coming." Steve used his thumb to wipe away a tear that rolled down Charlie's cheek. "Danno's coming, he's just having a hard time finding us. So what we're going to do is get Grace, and then get to a phone so we can call Danno to come pick us up. Does that sound like a good plan?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure you're okay? You're not hurt anywhere?"

"I'm okay."

Steve smiled and ruffled Charlie's hair before hoisting him up into his arms. His muscles protested the movements, and Steve realized the crash had injured him more than he'd initially thought. The strain on his shoulders was nearly debilitating. Now that his body had relaxed, it refused to revert to the adrenaline-fueled numbness that allowed him to walk from the wreckage to the house. Moving his neck too far to one side sent a bolt of pain shooting all the way down his spine, undoubtedly caused by whip-lash he'd sustained as the car plummeted into the ditch.

His left knee gave out as he rose to his feet, Charlie clinging to his front. Steve reached out for the door frame to keep his balance, making Charlie whimper.

Damn it. Making it back to town wasn't going to be easy.

The only thing that kept him upright was the thought of Grace, now missing like her brother, and getting both kids back to safety. Back to their father.

Feel free to show up any time now, Danny.

"Okay, Charlie, I need you to listen to me very carefully," said Steve, once he was certain he could carry the child without stumbling. "I need you to close your eyes, okay? Keep 'em shut, no peeking. I'll tell you when it's okay to open them, but you have to promise you won't look. Understand?"

Charlie whined fearfully and pressed his face into the crook of Steve's neck.

"Okay," Steve murmured, talking to himself more than Charlie. "Okay. Everything's fine. Everything's okay."

Slowly he walked, hugging Charlie close, feeling the boy's rapid pulse against his own chest. He placed one hand on the back of Charlie's head, keeping it nestled against his shoulder. Steve shuffled into the hall, barely lifting his feet in fear of his knees or ankles betraying him. At the stairwell he paused, reminding Charlie to again keep his eyes closed. One step at a time, Steve descended the stairs, every footfall a harrowing test of endurance. Chunks of drywall speckled the bottom steps, crunching loudly beneath his shoes.

Kimo's body was just feet away, motionless and pale. The two holes in his chest no longer bled. Steve cautiously stepped over the body on his way to the door. The barn and shed outside caught his attention. Grace had to be there. If Charlie was alive, there was a good chance Grace was, too. Where else could she be hidden?

But then Steve froze.

He blinked hard, trying to work out what his eyes were seeing through the window. Surely it was a delusion, some strange image conjured by his injured brain. Surely, from all the panic, all the fear pulsing through his blood, his eyes were playing tricks on him.

But the longer he stared, the longer he realized what he was looking at was real.

There, limping up the unpaved driveway, like a cockroach that just wouldn't die, was Jack Warner.

And Steve had to move.

He tore away from the window and carried Charlie into the kitchen, where he bent to the floor and placed the boy on his feet.

"It's okay, buddy, you can open your eyes now," said Steve. "Everything's okay."

Charlie did, reluctantly. His gaze settled once again on Steve's bleeding temple.

Steve stepped back, poking his head out from the wall separating the kitchen from the living area. Jack was still visible from the window, about a hundred yards away, struggling slowly to the house. He appeared to be in better condition than Steve, though the left side of his face shone with blood.

Steve pulled Quentin's gun from his waistband and slipped out the mag.

Two bullets.

He cursed under his breath. He'd wasted four shots taking out Kimo. Had he known Jack was alive, he would have used his ammo more sparingly. With his aching head and the fact that every view blinks made his vision double, it would be impossible to get off a shot from so far away. If Steve had any hope of putting Jack down for good, he needed to be close.

He knelt next to Charlie and placed his hands gently on the boy's shoulders.

"Where's Grace?" asked Charlie, chewing nervously on a finger.

Steve chose his words carefully, hoping the boy wouldn't detect the urgency in his voice. "Listen, Charlie. It's not safe to be in this house right now, understand? In order to be safe, we need to get away from here. But I can't do that without your sister. I can't leave her here by herself."

Steve pulled away from Charlie and checked the window again.

"Uncle Steve, what are you looking at?"

He should have emptied the clip into Warner and Ricci while he was in the car. Why hadn't he checked the men for a pulse? At the very least, he could have found a way to restrain them and keep them from leaving the vehicle. Now his mistake was going to cost him.

"Uncle Steve?"

Steve tore himself from Warner and dropped down beside Charlie once more, knees popping from the strain.

"Charlie, you need to listen to me very carefully," he instructed, throat tight. "I'm going to find your sister, I promise I'll find her, but I can't take you with me. And it's too dangerous to stay here, understand?"

Charlie shook his head back and forth, knitting his brow.

"It's too dangerous to stay here," Steve repeated. "But you can still help. You can help your sister. What I need you to do is go out the back door—that door right over there—and run into the jungle."

"No," Charlie murmured. He continued shaking his head, and held his arms out to Steve.

Steve gripped the boy's shoulders, holding him at bay. "Yes, Charlie, you need to do this. You run into the jungle as fast as you can—"

"No..."

"And as soon as you see a house, or a person—"

"No, no, no..."

"You tell them that you've been kidnapped and need to call nine-one-one—"

"Nononono—"

"And then call Danno, and tell him you're alright—"

"I want to go with you!"

And then Charlie was crying, and Steve swallowed down his own emotion, because he'd just got this kid back, god damn it, and now he was telling Charlie to run into the jungle alone but what other choice did he have?

"I know," soothed Steve. "I know. I want to go with you, too, buddy. But you have to do this, Charlie. You have to be brave for Grace. She needs you."

While Charlie thought it over, Steve checked on Warner. He'd made it about forty more yards since Steve last looked, and was now nearing the shed outside. They were running out of time.

Steve took Charlie into his arms for one last hug. "Can you do what I'm asking you, buddy? Can you help your sister and go get help?'

Charlie pulled away, rubbing at his nose. He wiped the tears off his face with the back of his hand and puffed out his chest. "I think I can do it," he said.

Steve beamed with pride. "I know you can do it," he said, tugging at the hem of Charlie's superhero shirt, "because you're brave like Superman."

"I'm brave like Danno," Charlie corrected.

Steve's eyes misted so severely he couldn't see. He scrubbed a hand over his face and blinked hard, attempting to compose himself. When the tears were forced back, he looked into the eyes of the five-year-old before him. Danny's eyes.

What would his partner say to him? What would Danny do if Charlie ended up getting lost in the Hawaiian jungle? The island was small, and Steve was sure if choppers were in the air and dogs searched on land, Charlie would be found in no time. But the terrain was treacherous for a child. Dips on the uneven forest floor, as well as thick vines and underbrush that liked to claw at the feet of passers-by could easily pose a problem. Charlie could fall; twist an ankle, break a leg, hit his head.

Oh, man. Was this a good idea? What this the best course of action for the situation at hand? From a tactical standpoint, was this the best way to ensure Charlie's safety?

If he was in the field working a case, or deployed with his SEAL team somewhere overseas, Steve would have made an instant decision. Hesitation could get someone killed. He knew himself well enough to know to trust his gut, and his intuition was begging him to let Charlie go.

So why was this so hard?

"Come here," Steve murmured. He planted a kiss to Charlie's crown, and for several precious seconds the two remained with their foreheads pressed together. "I love you."

Charlie gripped a fistful of Steve's shirt and twisted it around his fingers. "I love you too, Uncle Steve."

He didn't have to check the window to know Warner was likely only steps away from the front porch. Steve took a deep breath and pulled away. With Charlie following, he opened the screen door leading outside. "Now go," he instructed. "Try to run in a straight line, and don't turn around, understand? As soon as you find a house or a person, make them call the police, okay? Or your daddy. Just get help."

Charlie nodded, a look of determination on his face. He balled his tiny hands into fists at his sides, and readied himself as if he was about to start a race.

From the other room, the unmistakable creak of the front door opening was as jarring as a clap of thunder. Steve opened the door wider. "Go, go!" he whispered urgently, gesturing for Charlie to run. "Don't stop running!"

The little boy bolted like a track star, taking off through the overgrown lawn. Only a moment later he stumbled into the tree line, parting the brush and disappearing into the dense jungle.

Shoving aside his worry for now, Steve crept outside as well. He closed the door gently behind him. From inside the house, he heard Jack cry out in frustration.

"What the hell? Kimo!"

Jack had found his accomplice's body. Steve could only imagine the discovery would fuel Warner's rage, making him all the more dangerous.

He kept close to the side of the house, drawing his gun—only two bullets—and working his brain to devise a plan with a favorable outcome. Jack Warner was a scumbag, but he should at least be given a chance to surrender. Steve wasn't a murderer. Besides, it was much more satisfying knowing the man would spend the rest of his life in prison rather than getting the easy way out.

Steve poked his head around the wall, glimpsing the front porch. He crouched to the ground, weapon ready, keeping his aim at the door. He remained calm, channeling all his focus into his one task, finally regaining the soldier mentality that had slipped away so many times over the past day. Despite his concentration, his body betrayed him once again with double vision, so distracting that he wavered on his feet. Steve shook his head, and the world fell back into place.

He only needed to wait a minute before Warner stomped out of the house, a teeth-baring sneer on his bruised and bloodied face. He paused on the front step, chest visibly rising and falling with each breath.

"Don't move, Jack."

Warner's head whipped to the side, expression not changing.

Steve moved cautiously, itching to pull the trigger but knowing he'd regret it if he did. "Put your hands behind your head and lock your fingers." When Warner didn't move, Steve shouted. "Do it now!"

Warner kept his hands at his sides. "You think you're going to shoot me?" He laughed humorously. "I have to say, McGarrett, I'm a little impressed. That was some quick thinking, taking the car off the road like that. Although I'm guessing most of your plan involved dumb luck."

Steve tightened his grip on the gun. "I'm not going to ask again, Jack. Put your hands up."

"And you even managed to get the jump on Kimo," said Warner, ignoring Steve and shaking his head. "I'm guessing he went out in a blaze of glory—can't really imagine him surrendering to anyone."

"You're right," said Steve. His head began to pound again. "I gave him a chance, like I'm giving you. He didn't take it, so I didn't have a choice."

"If you shoot me, you'll never find the boy."

Steve smirked. "I wouldn't count on that."

Then, before Steve's injured brain could process, Jack dropped to his knees, a wooden rail along the porch offering cover. Steve fired off one shot, which missed completely and tore off in the direction of the woods. The deafening sound caused one ear to pop, and fuzzy blackness to crawl into his vision. Steve staggered backwards, retreating to the side of the house for safety.

He caught sight of Warner's head popping up from behind the post, and a second later, a pistol was staring back at him.

Steve attempted to sidestep behind the house, but he wasn't quick enough. A tremendous force knocked him to the ground, gun flying from his grip. He opened his mouth, gasping for breath that had flew from his lungs. He lifted his head, searching for the source of exploding pain in his abdomen.

A bright circle of blood grew around his side, soaking his shirt. He hadn't even fully comprehended he'd been shot until he looked up to see Jack Warner looming down at him, gun pointed between Steve's eyes.

"You'd better hope you can still walk, McGarrett," he said. "We've still got work to do."