A/N: tdei, the thought of Charlie talking Soames to death was nearly irresistible, but since it's not where I was headed, I figured I'd better stay the course. Have no fear - Charlie isn't totally oblivious to his shortcomings in this case, but sadly, intellect is rarely all that helpful in emotionally charged situations. Experience is much more handy.

Thallbadhat, I didn't even think about the phone. That would have been cruel. And my cruelty does have some bounds. Really.

Chapter 18

Megan did a final check on her ammo, driving the clip home and making sure it engaged. "Who's got the file?"

"Me." David tightened the straps on his vest, then reached across for the manila folder. "Where is Charlie? What did he say?"

"Yeah - " Colby shoved his pistol into its holster. "That sounded like more than a mathematical breakthrough."

"Does Soames smoke? Does the file say?"

David raised his brows slightly at her avoidance of both questions, but skimmed the files as they walked. "Uh…distinguishing characteristics…yeah. Chain smoker. Lucky Strikes. Sheesh. We get him, we won't have to worry about the death penalty - he's killing himself."

Megan had her phone out. "Charlie's at Don's. He says something's wrong - that he smelled cigarette smoke and that there was blood in the hallway."

Colby and David looked at each other, then at her.

"Where's Don?" David asked at last. "Did he say?"

"I didn't get the impression that he'd seen him - " Megan found the button she was looking for on the phone and pressed. "I didn't want to push for too much information - he seemed pretty rattled. I just wanted to get him out of there and then get moving. I'm going to try and contact the agent Don had them put on Charlie - see if they've got any better information. Somebody want to try Don's cell, just in case? Could be a false alarm."

Colby opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked like he wanted to say something, but decided against it. Instead, he waited, eyes watching David's face as he stood with the phone tucked against his ear. After a minute, David lowered the phone and shook his head.

"What!? Whose decision was that?" Megan's raised voice made them both look at her instead. She listened a moment longer, brow tightly furrowed. "All right, all right - I know. Then I need a backup team to Agent Eppes' home address - now. Show our team in transit for there as well." She pushed the 'end' button with more force than was really necessary and gestured toward the car.

"What?" Colby clambered into the back seat, slamming the door behind him.

Megan made a face, barely giving David time to close the passenger side door before hitting the accelerator. "They released the agent on Charlie when he reached Don's - figured since he'd be with an agent, coverage was redundant."

"Great," grunted David. "Budget just rules, doesn't it?"

Megan made a disgusted sound in her throat. "I'm assuming no answer on Don's cell?" David shook his head. "Check back with Charlie. See if the black and white is there - tell him we're on our way."

000

Charles Edward Eppes, for an intelligent man…

That was usually his father's line. He never actually finished it, but they both knew how it ended and, right now, he had to admit it had some merit. …for an intelligent man, you do some really dumb things.

Like this.

Having made the decision to take some sort of action, he was embarrassingly aware that he had no idea what that action should be. He had some vague hypotheses…that the blood was Don's…that Don was hurt and in danger…but absolutely no real data. He knew there was another person, but he had no idea who, male or female, what size, how dangerous, armed or unarmed…

Okay. If they'd taken down Don, he could probably safely postulate 'pretty dangerous'. He'd only had glimpses of Don in action once or twice, but the speed and decisiveness with which he'd reacted had left Charlie breathless. To get the drop on him couldn't be any mean feat, even factoring in Don's state the previous night.

Male or female…he closed his eyes and tried to hear the voice he'd made out through the door in his head. Male, probably. It had seemed like a low voice. Or else those cigarettes had made some woman's voice really husky…

What size? He glanced at the blood-spattered wall, but his mind went blank. Maybe a criminalist could figure something from looking at that, but whenever he saw it, all he could think about was…. his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Maybe it was better if he didn't look there at all.

Who…no clue. Don had been in law enforcement for a little over ten years. Even some loose mental calculations on people who might desire to do his brother harm - arrested felons with a grudge, relatives of arrested felons, other law enforcement officials gone bad - made him dizzy, the numbers multiplying and compounding rapidly in his head to a horrifyingly large figure. Better to stay away from that, too. Which left him with - no real useful data. He hated being without data.

How about armed or unarmed… He glanced to the corner that held the sawed-off shotgun, felt his stomach shrivel.

Gone.

Wait a minute - it had been - he glanced toward the bedroom door again, his heart beating fast. Maybe whoever had been here left while he was phoning Megan? He took another step toward the bedroom door, stopped, not quite ready to step around the black-red pool of blood, drying and crinkling at the edges.

No. He'd heard the voice since. Whoever it was, was still here and armed…

Without his conscious volition, his brain ran hypothetical specs on the size of the ammo in such a gun, barrel width, pounds of pressure, velocity…size of the prospective hole said ammo would leave exiting a body…

His head reeled, and he leaned his forehead into the door lintel again and tried not to get sick. Don's body…Because why else would somebody reach for a gun unless they expected to use it…?

He glanced desperately at his watch again, calculating against Megan's ETA. He winced. Sixteen minutes to go. How long did it take to blow a big hole in somebody? Not even a minute. How long did it take somebody to die from a gunshot wound…? He didn't want to find out.

He closed his eyes, trying to think, ironic because, as his father was wont to say, thinking was something of a perpetual state with him. He heard the rustle of voices and his spine tightened. Except this was Don's area of expertise, not his. This time, he needed to think like Don. What would Don do? More importantly, what would Don do that he could also do?

Don had once told him that, when in doubt, he did what he had always done in school - faked it. Charlie had frankly thought he was crazy. But it had worked - and now it sounded like as good an idea as any. What he needed, he decided, was time - to slow things down - stall until help could get here. He needed a distraction.

He glanced around. He could slam the door - that would get somebody's attention - for about a second anyway. Not for anything like sixteen minutes, though. The bathroom was across from the bedroom - he could sneak in there and create some kind of noise - but then he would be cornered, and he wasn't at all sure he could hold somebody off for sixteen minutes - he glanced at his watch. Fifteen now.

The stranger-voice picked up again, louder, and he froze. He still couldn't quite make out the words, just a cold, sneering quality that did funny things to his stomach. This time he heard Don answer, his voice strained and breathless and angry. There was a half second pause, then a moist and yielding thud and a sharp, explosive whoosh of pain. And another. And another. Charlie clapped his hands over his ears, trying to block the sounds out, then set his teeth and forced himself to peel his hands away. That wouldn't help, he scolded himself. Painful as it was to listen to, he needed to pay attention. The sounds came again and he gripped the door lintel, knuckles white. Fourteen minutes! Who could survive this for fourteen minutes…? There was another sound, the snip and click of a shotgun being readied, and he dropped his hands, eyes wide.

No. He needed to do something - he needed to do something NOW! He looked around wildly. His eyes fell on the table by the door. Don's belt was bunched up there, his telephone and his handcuffs missing from their usual places but…Charlie sucked in a breath. His gun was there.

He stared at it. He had only held and fired a gun once before - a rifle, safe on a range and aimed at a paper target, the gun propped and ready and Don standing next to him, patiently offering instruction. He had never touched a hand gun. He had seen Don shoot one, of course - seen Megan, and David and Colby…tentatively, he touched the gun butt, slid it half out of its holster. The texture felt heavy and foreign under his palm.

Not that he would have to shoot it. All he had to do was…point it. Point it and keep pointing it for…thirteen and a half minutes. Maybe less. Just - stop things. Until help could get here.

He picked it up, testing the weight. It was heavy and awkward, his fingers curling clumsily around it. He tried lifting it at an arm's length and it wavered wildly. Two hands. Don used two hands. He tried bracing it with his left hand and that felt better, though the barrel shook up and down alarmingly. How did anybody keep one of these things steady…? He closed his eyes tight. It doesn't matter, Charlie - you aren't going to shoot anybody, you're just going to surprise them. Stop things. Stall them. Keep Don alive until help comes. Eyes still closed and arms extended, he took a careful step down the hall, then another. The voices were clearer here. He took another step. There was another sharp thud and a snapping sound, followed by Don's harsh cry of pain. His eyes flew open, his heart drumming with anger and fear.

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

For the first time he could remember, his brain somehow skipped right over thinking and flew straight to instinct. He tightened his sopping palms around the wobbling gun grip and took a deep breath.

Point. All you have to do is point. And…what would Don do? Oh, yeah.

Awkwardly, he took one more step - and kicked the door in.

000

He hadn't meant to fuzz out, but somewhere along the line he had lost his grip and things had gone grey. He became slowly reacquainted with the cold pressure of the floor under his ear and shifted his head cautiously, trying to see, to place Soames. How long had he been…? He heard the echo of booted feet on the floor near his head and Soames obligingly crouched down next to him.

"You back with us?" he grinned. "Hate for you to miss out on anything, Eppes."

Yeah. God forbid. He experimented with stretching his limbs, stopped abruptly as a shift in his ribcage brought the blackness rushing back in at the edges. He suspended his breath, letting things settle. Slow. Move nice and slow. He swallowed, trying to moisten his arid mouth. "Miss…me?"

"Just want to make sure you know what's going on."

There was a solid thud against the floor and he blinked, trying to focus on the new image that appeared in front of his eyes. It took him a few minutes, but he did manage to gradually identify the familiar shape of a shotgun stock.

Okay - this is not good news. Kind of tough to outsmart one of those. Not that you've actually been showing much on the winning side of the scoreboard so far.

"…s'different." Slow. Give yourself a chance to regain a little focus, a little strength. Damn cold on this floor, though.

"Nothing but the best for you. Eppes."

What a guy. "Why not…" Slow. Take your time. Find your breath. "…just smash my…skull…like the others?" Full sentence. Not bad. Just give yourself a little time. Be nice if Soames could have a humanitarian moment and toss down a blanket or something. Freezing down here. He half smiled, felt the movement pull on his swollen cheekbone. Yeah. That's likely.

"The others?" Soames snickered. "The others were just money, Eppes - you're a whole special project. I wanted it to last - just like it lasted those months you dogged me across the country, snapping at my heels. How do you like it so far?"

Rhetorical question, no doubt. That's okay - talking is okay. Burns time. "Money?" Phew. Easy, easy…slow. "Who…?"

This time Soames guffawed outright. "Who? What, you think you're gonna get a chance to arrest them? I don't even know - it was just an arrangement. Profitable, though. Helped pay for my research."

Uh-huh. Big escalation from Murder 2, but what the heck - if you're going to kill a couple of federal agents, taking a few extra people out was all in a day's work. He frowned, a sudden pain pinching his chest. "J.D. Why…?"

"Man, you just can't stop asking those questions to the end, can you?" But Soames still sounded amused, cocky - and hopefully, careless. "J.D. Now which - ? Oh - the kid at the gym?" Don didn't answer, just watched the wooden shotgun stock in front of his eyes, the blurrier image of the akimbo legs behind it. "Naw - that was a free-bee. Kind of my calling card to let you know I was coming for ya. Bugged you, huh? I knew that one would get to you."

Get to me. You SOB.

A surge of rage shot from Don's head though his core to the soles of his feet, burning in his face, warming him, giving him a spark of momentum. He used it to drop from his side to his stomach, his shoulder nudging the gun stock, shifting it, knocking the balance out from under Soames' crouch. Soames slewed and landed in a splatter of arms and legs, bumping up against him. Don groped with his legs, the one reliable body part remaining to him, found Soames calves and wrapped around them and squeezed, working his way up to more vulnerable territory; then, magically, Soames rolled and was on top, shotgun butt raised.

For a second Don thought he was going to get his skull crushed after all, but the stock flew by his ear and drove into his upper arm instead, with a raw snapping noise that might have been the force of the wooden butt hitting the floor, or might have been…him. A black blossom of pain darkened his senses and he only distantly heard his own yell.

"God, Eppes," Soames dragged Don half-upright by the tattered remnants of his tee shirt, puffing a laugh. "You sure as hell don't quit. Dumber than dirt, but you ain't a quitter. Too bad - if you'd quit on me all those years ago, this might have ended different."

Yeah. Dumb. Probably. But damn it, he had to try, and to hear poor J.D. talked about like that…like his life wasn't worth anything…and to know for sure…he closed his eyes, struggling to blot out a pain far more lethal than any Soames had inflicted so far…to know for sure that he really had only died because…

"You bastard…" he breathed.

"Sticks and stones, Eppes." He heard some vaguely familiar movements, grasped to identify them through the fog that shrouded him. "Too bad. I'm almost tempted to leave you to die here, nice and slow, but a stubborn SOB like you might just find a way to hang on." Now he cataloged the sounds - readying the shotgun, bullet in the chamber. "It's been nice doin' business with you."

He sucked in a breath. Out of chances, then. Well, he'd always known this was as likely a way as any for things to end…the most likely, maybe…he opened his eyes again, stared at Soames and waited.

The sharp slam of something against wood, followed by the crunch of metal on plaster, made them both jump. Soames craned over his shoulder, gaping at the bedroom doorway, for a moment startled into immobility. Don followed his gaze, blinking to bring things into focus.

For a second he wasn't sure he hadn't already passed over to the other side; it seemed such an odd and unexpected combination of so many familiar things, then he thought he might be hallucinating, or having a crazy dream.

Or another nightmare.

He squinted a frown and tilted his head, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The room tilted with him, adding a surreal touch. Surely that wasn't…not really…

His eyes traveled upward, stopped on the pale face. Something in the expression shook home the truth and he stared blankly, disbelieving.

No, not one of his nightmares: he had never imagined, even in their most terrifying moments, anything remotely like this. He feared his nightmares, was haunted by them, but this…

He wanted to close his eyes, to blot it out, but he didn't dare look away.

This…oh, God. This was worse.

Much, much worse.

TBC