Chapter Seventeen: Self Made Man

He stumbled around like a drunkard, banging into walls and scraping his knuckles along the rough bricks. He stumbled a few times, falling once into a cold puddle of water that flashed the rainbow effect of oil. He picked himself back up and continued. It was dark out and he was disoriented, the pain in his head almost too much to bear. It felt like someone had let loose an entire herd of elephants, letting them stomp around in his skull. What he wouldn't have given for a couple of aspirin to chase away the pain. What he wouldn't have given for a beer or something stronger; anything to take away the pain. And his head wasn't the only thing that hurt. There was a throbbing in his right wrist and his legs felt like jello, one of his ankles swelling. He couldn't remember if he'd received a blow there; he figured that it really didn't matter one way or the other. The one thing that really bothered him was the rattle in his chest that he could hear with every breath that he took. Was he sick? Had something been broken? He couldn't remember much of the last few hours.

He did remember the dark.

But nothing else.

No voices. No sound of any kind. Everything was a blur. And now he had no idea where he was or what was wrong with him. He did know that he was in the city. He also knew that he needed help. When he'd awakened he found himself at the end of a filthy alley, a busted cardboard box resting atop bags of garbage his resting spot. It had taken him a good fifteen to twenty minutes before he managed to get moving. That's when the pain had been the worse. It had lessened some with each step but he knew that before long he would be in even more pain as the fog incasing his brain slipped away. Before that increase of pain hit him he wanted to get as far away as possible. He had to keep moving.

And that determination is what brought him to the street. It wasn't a busy street, not as busy as some New York streets at night. The sidewalks were mostly empty, as were the streets. But by some sheer stroke of luck a cab happened to be heading in his direction. He held out his arm to hail it, praying that the driver would stop to give him a lift. Wheels traveled a lot farther than feet in a shorter amount of time. The driver pulled along the curb. Feeling like something had finally gone his way he pulled open the door and settled on the seat with relief. His muscles were sore from the walk down the alley. He could feel every fiber of his body, could feel the pain growing.

"Hey buddy, you don't look too good," the driver said. His words were clipped with an accent, something European.

"Take me to the Federal Building," he managed to get out, his voice sounding foreign even to him.

The driver looked over his shoulder. "Are you sure? Maybe you should go to the hospital."

"No, the Federal Building," he said more firmly.

"As long as you have money…"

He patted his pockets. Interestingly he found a wad of cash in the pocket of his shirt. Where had it come from? He showed it to the driver.

"Federal Building it is then."

--

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, his glasses sitting on the table to his side. He heard Sam trying to cover the yawn that had snuck up on her. Vivian had disappeared a few minutes before hand to call her husband in private. Elena had followed her out of the immediate area, heading to get them all freshly brewed coffee from the break room. They should have gone home hours ago, having been in the office since the wee hours of the morning. They spent all day trying to find Martin, following every lead that they could and Jack had been forced to guarantee Victor Fitzgerald that he would find his son. He could feel the pressure building.

What was he going to do?

They had no leads to go on; nobody had seen the guy approach Rafi at the bar. One of the patrons told him that everybody who stopped in the place kept to themselves, got into the habit of not noticing what was going on around them. He could understand that; getting caught listening in to the wrong person's conversation could have dire consequences. He'd seen proof of that. Something had to show up soon, even if it was so seemingly insignificant, he would be glad to have it. He heard the click of heels on the floor and opened his eyes. Elena had returned with the coffee. He hoped the warm liquid would be enough to keep him going for a while longer. He was preparing to send Sam and Elena away to catch a few hours sleep. When they returned he and Vivian would catch some shut eye. They needed to stay alert. They needed…

Vivian came into the room looking more alert than the rest of them. The expression on her face was enough to push away some of the sleep that tugged at him like a drug.

"What is it?"

"The front desk just called," she said. "They said someone is downstairs asking for you."

"They say who?"

She shook her head. "Guy wouldn't give out his name. Just seems to be pretty adamant that he talk with you."

Grumbling under his breath, mentioning something about it being too late at night for shit like this, he headed toward the elevator. Only when he stepped inside did he realize that Vivian had followed him. He raised an eyebrow at her but understood that she was concerned. For all they knew the guy downstairs could be a maniac with a gun. Though he would have had to go through the metal detector to even get into the building. The ride seemed to last longer than usual in the silence that had settled between them. It was like the calm before the storm. Finally the ride came to an end, the doors opening a second after the chime announcing the floor number. Almost instantly they could hear the sound of a confrontation. Someone kept repeating themselves, rather vehemently, that they wanted to speak with Jack Malone.

He rounded the corner with Vivian close behind.

And was shocked at what he saw.

A man with blood, dried and fresh, on his face was standing in the lobby. His tattered clothes and messed up hair made him look like one of the many homeless living in the city. Despite all the dirt Jack was able to make out the features of the panicked man. Before he could say anything he was spotted. The man, who was obviously injured, pushed his way past the two security guards who had been holding him. One of them made an attempt to grab his wrist.

"It's okay," Jack said, "let him be."

"Jack Malone?"

"Yes," he replied. "And you're Danny Taylor."

"How do you…"

"We've been looking for you."

Jack saw something in his eyes, something in his body language changed. He stepped forward just in the nick of time, reaching out as Danny's body gave into the pain and he blacked out.