Even Heroes Have the Right to Bleed

Chapter Four

Being the FBI was a sickening circle of waiting then running, of shielding then shooting. For every moment they spent gearing up for a raid, donning their Kevlar and kicking open doors, there were at least ten of just sitting in the office waiting for results, sifting through the database, watching Charlie stare at one of his boards, or just waiting for inspiration to strike.

Now was one such moment of waiting. They had finished searching the apartment, sent everything pertinent to the lab with priority, and then they moved to the war room to sit and wait. Megan was researching ricin, looking for anything that might narrow down where they should be looking. Don hunched over the files they had both on previous ricin poisonings and each of the victims, head supported by one hand as he stared persistently at the same page.

"The problem," he said, finally. "Is that the symptoms are vague enough that it's hard to pinpoint, and poisonings are rare enough that no one keeps the cure on hand." He flipped a page. "I mean, abdominal pain, vomiting? Who goes to the doctor for that stuff as soon as it starts?"

"Anybody who isn't you," Megan retorted. Don glared at her.

"I mean, you'd at least wait a day, right? But by then, you're having hallucinations, maybe even seizures, your liver and kidneys are shutting down, your blood pressure is nothing, and you're dead." Don closed the file and put his face in his hands. "Those people probably didn't even think they were sick enough to go to the doctor until it was too late."

"Bigger problem," Megan said. "From what I'm seeing here, there's nothing special needed to isolate the toxin. It's easier to make than most food items. You wouldn't need anything special to do it."

"Wonderful," Don groaned. "Can we get a list of people who have bought the right supplies?"

"The only really noteworthy thing is castor beans, which are available at any decently sized garden supply store."

Don sighed heavily. "Maybe once we narrow down locations we can get a list from local stores and cross-check."

"We come bearing food," Colby announced as he and David walked in, sliding a box of doughnuts onto the table. "Figured you guys might be as hungry as I am by now."

Don glanced up at him. "Good thinking." He turned his chair away from the table, the sight and smell of the doughnuts making him even more nauseated. The room spun for a full second after his chair had stopped and he almost threw up right there, but with a tremendous effort, he restrained himself. He didn't begrudge his team some food after all the work they'd done all night, but he would be lying if he said he was happy to be smelling those doughnuts. He cleared his throat, which turned out to be a colossal mistake. Immediately, he felt the muscles of his throat begin to clench in the familiar motion of the loud, hacking cough that had plagued him all day. Every rough exhale felt like knives in his lungs and throat, and by the time he was able to pause in his cough to gasp for breath, he was lightheaded and his chest ached – and unfortunately the sharp intake of breath further aggravated his lungs and brought on another long battle with the cough. By the time he calmed his body enough to take a few slow, shallow breaths and force down the catch in his throat, his team was staring at him open-mouthed, and Megan had the phone halfway to her ear and Don suspected she was probably either calling his dad or an ambulance. "How'd the interview go?" he ground out, deciding to proceed as though nothing unusual had happened.

"We didn't get a lot out of her," David answered. "Nothing we didn't learn from her apartment, anyway. Pretty normal day. She got up, went to work – she's a teller at a bank. Then she went home, then to the grocery store, the dry cleaner, went back home and cooked some dinner. " Don wished, slightly bitterly, that that was what a normal day looked like for him. Not that he didn't love his job, but once in a while, a "normal day" that did not involve dealing with the scum of the earth sounded like a decent alternative.

"They're testing the dishes she used to cook breakfast and dinner, and the food in her fridge used to make her lunch. The only other thing was a drink she bought at the grocery store, and the bottle to that is being analyzed as well," Colby added, taking a bite of his doughnut. "So here's the thing I don't get."

"Please, enlighten us," Don muttered, turning away from the sight of the doughnut once more. He clenched his teeth and continued to tell himself that he would vomit in the office over his own dead body, and that wasn't physically possible. Colby went on undeterred. "If this is an act of terrorism, what is this guy's motive? It's such a small scale attack; it seems like a test run."

"Probably is a test run," David said.

"But what is he testing? It seems that all but one received a roughly similar dose, and for that matter, a lethal dose of ricin is so miniscule you could give a person three times what was necessary without them even noticing. "

"Locations, maybe?" Megan suggested.

"But wouldn't we have some victims coming from the same location then? If he's testing which location will hit the most people, he either made some very bad guesses or…"

"Or that isn't what he's doing," Don filled in. "So what else could it be? Medium, perhaps? Which items can be most easily poisoned but will also sell quickly?"

"But again, why not multiple of the same things?" David asked.

"Unless it wasn't a test run," Don said, realization dawning. "It was a threat."

"Test results are in," Colby announced, sitting down at the computer and pulling up onto the big screen a map of Los Angeles. "Points of origin here….here…here…here…here." Five coloured dots appeared on the screen.

"Five separate locations," Megan observed.

"You see what I see?" Don asked, the connections appearing before him. "Remember Charlie's lesson on randomness? These aren't random – they're evenly spaced."

"Maybe Charlie can take a look at these and narrow down where we should be looking," David said. Don held up his phone, Charlie's number already dialed.

"You're right, it definitely isn't random," Charlie said, peering at the map. "But there isn't a lot of data here to work with."

"Anything you can give us would be great," Megan said sincerely.

"It should be easy enough to input this into my previous algorithm and see what we can come up with. I'll have it to you as soon as I can," he promised.

"Great, Charlie," Megan said, smiling. "Listen, I've got to run, but let us know as soon as you get anything."

Charlie turned back to the map, then pulled a marker from his pocket, beginning to scribble on the board. Minutes and several lines of complex equation later, he turned to pick up his laptop, only to get distracted by the appearance of his older brother.

Don looked terrible, to put it kindly. He was pale and sweaty, dark circles under his eyes, his gait slow and almost painful.

"Don…" Charlie breathed.

"Hey, buddy, how ya doing?" Don greeted, managing a small smile before doubling over in a fit of coughing Charlie could easily describe as the worst he had ever heard. It sounded like his brother was quite literally about to lose a lung, and Charlie rushed to his side to steady him as Don wavered slightly.

"A lot better than you," he said, once Don had caught his breath. "Geez, Don, what are you even doing here? If Dad saw you right now he'd –"

"Dad isn't here," Don said. "And you can't tell him anything, okay? Last thing I need is Dad showing up in the middle of this." Don sank into a chair, scrubbing one hand across his face.

"Did you at least take anything? Because I could get you some aspirin, or some flu medicine, or something," Charlie rambled.

"Can't hold anything down," Don said hoarsely. "Look, don't worry. As soon as we solve this, I promise I'll go home and rest up. So the sooner you solve that equation there, the sooner I can get out of here." Don smiled jokingly at Charlie, who frowned worriedly back.

"It's not really a matter of solving it, per se, as narrowing it down to a range of values that support the data set," he said, typing a couple of numbers into the laptop, before peering at Don over the screen again. Don glanced at Charlie from behind his own computer.

"Seriously, Chuck, it's fine. There's a terrorist out there right now intent on killing God knows how many people. I'm not going to let the flu keep me from catching the son of a bitch."

"Don't call me 'Chuck,'" Charlie muttered, ducking back behind his computer to hide a smile.