Okay, before I go further, I'd like to address a review left by EDuse2, who pointed out that Don's FBI SUV would likely have a tracking device. I did not think of this when I wrote this story. I can't really go in and change this now without having to change a lot of what's there, so I'm going to pretend that Don's SUV does not have a tracking device, but thank you again EDuse2 for setting me straight. If I ever write another story where such a situation arises, I'll be sure to keep this in mind!
So here's the next part. It's the first chapter with any real action in it that I've really ever written, so I hope it makes sense! Without further ado, here it is, and please review!
Chapter 4
6:20 p.m.
At long last, Don's captor finally had him pull off the freeway, right near Ontario. He'd navigated the wet surface streets for two or three minutes before the man had him pull down an alleyway surrounded by some old warehouses. Finally, his captor had him stop the car. Noting the old blue sedan parked off to the side, Don figured they were at last making the inevitable vehicle switch.
Don found himself on the edge of his seat, hoping for an opportunity to outman his captor, but also wary. The man had two guns and Don had nothing.
The other man warned him to stay put as he slid out the driver's side of the backseat. Don turned his head sharply to the left, wanting the keep his eyes focused on his assailant. He watched as the gun was once more pointed in the general direction of his head as the other man carefully shut the rear door. Don remained still, his hands clasped on the steering wheel.
"All right, Agent Eppes," said his captor spoke, loud enough to be heard through the closed doors of the car. "Step outside now, very slowly. I'll open the door—you just keep your hands where I can see them, and don't try anything." He fixed Don with an intense warning stare.
Slowly, the driver door opened. Don didn't even think; he simply reacted. Since the perp had to pull the door open, the door ended up being partially in between him and Don. With the gun pointed at Don, it was extremely risky, but he didn't see any other options. It was now or never. He had his hands held up high, matching his captor's gaze, and with a well-placed hard kick to the door, was off and running.
As soon as Don turned to run, he knew what he'd done was tactically not the best decision ever. He would only make it so far before his assailant would collect himself and start shooting the gun in his direction. And in a small alley with not much cover, he'd be a pretty easy target. If only he could make it to the alleyway's entrance and out of sight of the kidnapper, maybe—just maybe—he could find some place to hide. What he'd do after that, he wasn't entirely sure yet. He had not had time to develop his plan that much yet.
Like he predicted, he hadn't made it very far before the first gunshots sounded. Damn. He was such an idiot. Where did he think he was going to go? Yes, there was a street past the alley, but there was no guarantee he'd find an adequate spot to hide in the short amount of time before the other man also rounded the corner. And he was also running the risk of putting innocent people in danger—if there were any people out and about in this weather.
Before he could think about it any farther, a rogue gunshot made its way into a trashcan in front of him a ways. It toppled over, falling directly into Don's path. There was no possible way he could react fast enough to avoid the trashcan, he realized with dismay.
Don had learned long ago that time becoming slow motion during dramatic moments was not just some ridiculous cliché. It was actually pretty accurate, and this particular instance was a good example. Time stretched out as Don watched his foot make contact with the trash can. His body was like a falling tree, gradually losing altitude before hitting the ground with a thud. Timber!
He lay there, breathing hard. He was laying mostly in a puddle, soaking through his tuxedo and instantly chilling him to the bone. Instinct told him to stay put. There was no way he'd be able to scramble to his feet in time to outrun his captor. Sure enough, less than two seconds passed before the other man came into his field of vision, gun pointed at his face.
"Agent Eppes," the other man spat viciously. "That was an incredibly stupid move on your part. It is lucky for you that I had hoped to make this a slow process, or else I would simply end this right now. But my brother deserves better than that. He deserves real vindication. He deserves to have you suffer because of what you did to him!"
A revenge thing, absolutely for sure. This wasn't good, Don knew. He cautioned a glance up towards his captor.
"Who is your brother?" Don asked quietly.
The gunman gave him a strange look, almost as if he were amused that Don would be asking such a question. "Okay. I guess maybe now is as good a time as any to lay my cards on the table. My brother was a man who fell down the wrong path. It's a shame, he was brilliant. He thought about going to law school, but instead he got involved with some—well, some very odd people. We weren't rich; my brother couldn't pay his way through school. He made a lot of money dealing drugs, he really did. I'm not proud of where life led my brother, but he didn't deserve to be killed."
Don held back a flinch as the gun was jabbed closer to his face.
"He didn't deserve to be hunted down by a bunch of bloodthirsty Feds and killed by your gun, Agent Eppes. Do you even remember my brother? His name was Patrick Shore."
Patrick Shore. Yes, Don remembered Patrick Shore, but he was hardly as innocent as this brother made him out to be. Patrick Shore was pretty dirty—one of those types who'd proverbially shoot first and ask questions later. He wasn't the top dog, he'd been a thug for a pretty low-level drug dealer named Enrico Javero. The case was nearly ten years ago, in Albuquerque. Shore had murdered an undercover agent, bringing down the wrath of Don's entire office. A couple weeks of investigation later, they'd planned a raid on a warehouse known to be one of Javero's operating locations. To make a long story short, Patrick Shore had fired off a few shots in the direction of the FBI team and gotten a chest full of Don's bullets for his trouble.
He remembered Patrick having a younger brother—what was his name though? He was pretty sure it started with an "R". Randy? Rick? Ron? Either way, this was strange, because Patrick Shore's brother didn't have a record of any kind—at least he didn't ten years ago.
"I remember him," Don confirmed. "If your brother was so intelligent, what was he doing thugging for a bottom-of-the-barrel drug dealer?"
That comment earned him a glare. "Like I said, not one of Patrick's better decisions. But he didn't deserve to die, and yet you killed him anyway."
"Look, I'm really sorry about what happened with your brother," said Don sincerely.
"Oh, now you're sorry," Shore spat. "Well, isn't that a surprise. There's a gun in your face and now you're sorry. Shocker. Get up." He indicated upwards with the gun.
Don slowly crawled to his feet, suddenly aware of the scrapes on his hands and the nice hole in the elbow of his tuxedo jacket. And boy, was he wet. He stood, hands raised. He faced Shore, fixing the other man with a challenging gaze.
"Let's go back to where the cars are parked," Shore said almost casually. "We really need to get moving."
Well, if nothing else, Don's failed escape attempt had accomplished one thing. He knew who had abducted him and why. Unfortunately, it wasn't him who needed to know this information, it was the FBI agents who were hopefully looking for him by now.
Shore led Don back past his SUV to where the old blue sedan was parked. Once they were standing behind the small car, Shore grabbed his arm and stopped him.
"Well, of course, I can't let that stupid little stunt of yours go completely unpunished." Shore smirked. "Say goodnight, Agent Eppes."
Before Don knew it, the gun was being raised above Shore's head. Don reached his hands up reflexively in attempt to block the impending blow, but unfortunately, Shore had just the right angle to get around him. First, Don was fighting, and then he knew nothing.
6:42 p.m.
On the first floor of the CalSci student union, Alan sat with Charlie and Amita at a table. There weren't many other people around—a few students here and there socializing at other tables, some people working in the coffee shop across the way, and Robin's parents a few tables away. No one at the Eppes' table or the Brooks' table said a word.
They'd sent the wedding guests away about forty-five minutes ago. Only the immediate families plus Nikki and Liz remained. Soon after, some important but inconclusive information had surfaced.
David had called, his voice urgent, and told them that a neighbor had confirmed Don's intent to be at the wedding. He'd been wearing his tuxedo, talking excitedly to the neighbor about the wedding, so there was little to no doubt that—unless Don suddenly had some kind of quick mental breakdown—he had been on his way to the wedding.
Nikki, after a few phone calls, had verified for them that Don was not at a hospital anywhere. Which led Alan to wonder, if Don didn't ditch the wedding, and wasn't at a hospital, and there hadn't been any wrecks between here and his apartment—then where the hell was he? It was as if his oldest son had magically vanished off the face of the earth, and he was understandably wracked with worry.
Looking at the sullenly silent couple across the table from him, Alan knew he wasn't the only one whose gut was churning, thinking of all the possible situations his oldest son could be in. Charlie and Amita both wore similar expressions, each of them staring at nothing somewhere towards the floor.
Don had to be fine. He just had to be. What kind of terrible, cruel twist of fate would this be otherwise? Who the hell went missing on their own wedding day? And why, of all people, did something like this have to happen to Don, and to this family? Sometimes, Alan felt like things never went right.
Bottom line, though, was that he couldn't lose his son. He simply couldn't. All he could do was sit here and pray to any god that might be listening for his son to come back.
He watched as his son's almost-wife slowly descended a nearby set of stairs. Her movements were lethargic; each step took seemed to take a few seconds. Alan's heart broke at the forlorn look on Robin's face. A garment bag was slung over her right arm. She'd been in the bathroom upstairs next to the ballroom, changing out of her wedding dress and back into the simple button down shirt and jeans she'd worn earlier in the day. Her hair, still curled, had fallen limp and her makeup was smudged in places.
Alan's heart broke again for the poor woman. She'd been with his son for what felt like forever, and even though they hadn't gotten married yet, she was definitely a part of their family.
The question now was, would Robin ever share the Eppes name?
Robin's sister had appeared at the top of the stairs and had started coming down, her movements much more brisk and urgent than Robin's. The sound of Rachel's heels clacking on the steps attracted the attention of Charlie, Amita, and Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. The five of them stood up simultaneously as the Brooks sisters reached the ground floor.
Alan rushed to Robin, hoping to reach her before her parents closed ranks around her like he assumed they would. He pulled her into a quick hug. "I'm so sorry again, Robin. I can't really believe this is happening. I feel terrible."
"Oh Alan," Robin sniffed. "You shouldn't feel bad. This isn't your fault."
Alan pulled back, leaving his hands on her shoulders, and looked her square in the eye. "Robin, I just want you to know, that no matter what happens with Donnie, I'll always consider you to be a part of this family."
Robin's eyes welled with tears, and she nodded. "Thanks, Alan."
They stepped apart, and Robin's mother stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Alan, wanting to offer the Brooks family some privacy, steered Charlie and Amita off towards the side.
"I just don't understand what could've happened," Charlie whispered. "It's like he just—vanished. There's no evidence of him anywhere. I mean, if there'd been an accident, certainly we'd know by now. Especially with David and Colby out there searching."
"I don't know, Charlie," Alan answered, defeated. "I don't get it either."
"I'm such an idiot," Charlie continued. "I should have just gone and picked him up like we'd planned. Screw the storm, if I'd have just taken the time to drive over to his apartment, none of this would have happened."
"Charlie, you can't go there," Amita spoke up. "You can't say nothing would have happened. We don't know what happened to him yet, so we don't know that you picking him up would have stopped it. If you'd gone to pick him up, who knows? Maybe you'd be missing, too."
It was just so frustrating, Alan thought with despair. If only they knew even one thing about what had happened to his son. People didn't just vanish into thin air, Don had to be somewhere.
He could see Nikki and Liz making their way towards them from the opposite end of the building, and Alan sighed. He could feel the now-familiar wave of panic rising up within him, but he shoved it down. His son had an exceptional team of FBI agents looking for him. They'd find him.
They had to, because Alan was not losing his son today.
Alan, Charlie, Amita, plus Robin and her family all turned towards the two female agents as they approached. Alan searched their faces; there was nothing there to give him any hints to his son's whereabouts.
Liz took a deep breath before speaking. "Okay. We don't know anything yet. David and Colby just know that Don is definitely nowhere between here and his apartment. We put a BOLO out on his SUV about a half hour ago. His cell phone is turned off, so we can't use the GPS chip inside to track it. Since we just—we don't know anything right now, there's not a whole lot else we can do at this moment. But we'll find him. We will. We won't stop looking."
Everyone nodded grimly, and Alan whispered a quick thanks.
Liz hesitated before continuing. "Um, Charlie, Amita . . . maybe you guys want to come to the FBI office with me and Nikki. Maybe there's something you guys could do."
"I don't see what." The look on Charlie's face was pitiful. If the situation hadn't been so dire, Alan might have found Charlie's puppy dog face amusing. "You just said it yourself. You don't know anything. There's nothing. What am I supposed to do with nothing?"
Nikki looked hard at Charlie. "Maybe nothing, Charlie. But you two should really come with us, because maybe there's something."
Alan studied Nikki's face for a moment. She was clearly trying to tell Charlie something without saying it explicitly. But Alan was pretty sure he read her loud and clear. She and Liz were probably thinking that someone was behind this, that someone was responsible for Don's disappearance. That was something. That was something Charlie might be able to mathematically analyze.
He understood why they didn't want to explain that out loud. Robin's family wouldn't be very familiar with some of the horrors of Don's job. They wouldn't be as familiar with the possible explanations of why an FBI agent could suddenly and mysteriously vanish into thin air. Although surely the Brooks weren't stupid—they'd likely consider that possibility on their own. It would just be all the more upsetting to hear it aloud before it was necessary. That Alan knew from experience. Personally, he didn't want to hear that possibility spoken aloud just yet.
Alan gave Nikki and Liz a knowing look, and poked his youngest son forward. "Come on, Charlie. You need to do anything you can to help right now, okay? We all need to everything we can if there's even the smallest possibility it could help find your brother, okay? Please, go with them." He looked to Amita for help.
Thankfully, his daughter-in-law took the hint. "Come on, Charlie, your dad's right. You never know. We could think of something."
Alan smiled gratefully at her, before turning to Robin and her family. "And you are all welcome to come back to the house with me and wait until we hear something, if you'd like."
"Oh Mr. Eppes, we don't want to put you out," said Robin's mother, whose name Alan couldn't quite recall.
"Please, it's Alan," he insisted. "And really, you won't be putting me out. You'll be keeping me company. Please."
"Sure Alan," Robin responded on behalf of her family. "We'd love to come. You shouldn't be alone." She offered him a small smile, which he returned as warmly as he could.
Right then, Alan was pretty thankful for his daughters-in-law, if nothing else. One had taken over the job of keeping his youngest son's head clear, and had done so with relative ease. Amita could read Charlie better than he could—maybe even better than his late wife could. His other daughter-in-law—well, in all but name, anyways—was fighting through her own debilitating worry and fear to reach out and try to ease his. And he was grateful, because he really did not want to be alone while Charlie and Amita went off to the FBI offices. Alan really couldn't be prouder of his sons for picking out such terrific women. It had been worth the long wait.
Alan's throat constricted as he silently begged whoever was listening to please let his oldest son come home safe and sound, and please let him enjoy a long and wonderful life with Robin Brooks.
TBC