Darkness.

I think my eyes are open. Either way, it makes no difference.

Something is choking me. I reach up and find the leather strap of the camera pulled tight around my neck. I tug it loose, and use my hands against the floor to push myself up to my knees. My body aches. I take a few deep breathes but don't dare shout in case the man we followed is still there in the darkness, waiting.

There was a gunshot. Mac.

I stand, awkwardly, hand braced against the wall. I unhook the camera from where it's still slung across my torso, and wrap the strap several times around my wrist. It rattles slightly when I move it and I very much doubt that it'll ever be able to take pictures again, but at least it's heavy enough to function as some sort of weapon.

I follow the line of the wall. The concrete is cold and damp beneath my hand. I place my feet softly, feeling for the first step up. When I find it I pause and strain my eyes to try and see something, anything, but I can't even see my hand when I hold it in front of my face. I climb silently on the balls of my feet, muscles protesting. I want to sit down, rest, but if Mac's injured I've got to get to him. He'll be alright, I try to tell myself. Anything else is unthinkable.

This seems to be the longest flight of steps I've ever had to climb. In the absolute blackness of jet, trying to make no noise, straining my ears for any sounds. Leaning heavily against the wall. Each step is an effort, and each footfall sounds unbearably loud. I reach the top and step forward, feeling immediately disorientated by the loss of my guiding wall.

I take a step forwards. And another. I try to find the place where I last saw Mac, knowing perfectly well that he's probably moved since then. I'm walking bent forwards, arm reached out and partially bent back, feeling the need to shield myself.

There's someone there. I don't know exactly how I know this, but I'm suddenly sure that there's someone right in front of me. I freeze. I feel my muscles tense. I hold my breath.

In that moment there's a sudden gust of movement which hits me a second before the man who attacks me. He grabs me, forces me around to face away from him, one of his hands holding my wrists together in a vice grip. His other arm is pressed against my trachea and I struggle to breathe. I try to swing the camera around, fighting back, but my arm is twisted painfully upwards and I can't move it enough to gain the momentum. I kick backwards, twisting our legs together so that we both go down to the floor and I use the moment when we hit the concrete to try and jerk free. I pull my left arm out of his grip, the arm without the camera, and jab with my elbow into where I think my attacker's stomach might be. He throws himself over my back, pinning me to the floor. He presses my head downwards with the palm of one hand, presumably to prevent me moving while he secures my arms again, but the follow-up never happens. He freezes.

"Stella?"

I gasp for breath.

"Mac? Mac, is that you?"

He rolls off me. "I thought – I thought you were –"

"I know. I know. I thought that too."

"Are you hurt?" he asks urgently.

"No, I'm fine. Are you?"

"I'm not hurt. I thought he shot you. I heard a shot."

"It wasn't you shooting then?"

"No, I couldn't. I didn't know where you were. I might have hit you." Our voices are fast, jerky, near panic.

"I didn't have a chance. He knocked my piece right out of my hand." I pause. "Flack's going to kill us."

"He'll be right to. Stell, I shouldn't have got you into this. I'm so sorry."

"It was my choice, Mac. Don't beat yourself up."

A silence of disagreement. "We need to get out of here," he says.

"All well and good," I say. "Which way?"

Since I brought us crashing to the floor I have no idea which way I'm facing. Mac probably doesn't either.

"We need to find a wall," he says. "We'd better hold hands, or we'll lose each other."

"Where are you?"

"Here. Stay still."

I can hear him moving, and after a few seconds his fingertips brush against my face. I catch his hand. I feel the change in his height as he stands up, and I follow his lead. I'm careful to hold my breath as I struggle to my feet again. I don't want him knowing that I'm hurt. "Which way?" I ask.

"I've no idea. Have you got anything to throw?"

"Good idea. Hang on a second." The piece of plastic I throw straight ahead of me is in the air for a long time, before we hear it hit the floor. "I guess that's the way out. Probably."

"What did you throw?"

"Part of the camera. It was loose."

He tightens his grip on me. "Stella, what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Those cameras don't break easily. What happened to you?"

"I fell on it. We'll talk about it when we get out of here, ok? I'm fine."

"Ok," he says, in a tone leaving me in no doubt I haven't heard the last of this. He doesn't believe me. With a flash of guilt I realise that I'm doing exactly what he was yesterday, but I push the feeling down. At the moment there's no time for one of us to be hurt.

We slowly walk forwards together, at arms' length from each other's clasped hand. My free hand is also outstretched, hoping to find a wall to guide us. We place each foot carefully, conscious of the steps downwards if we turn in circles without noticing, and also of the rough floor.

Although I don't mention it to Mac, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that the man is still nearby in the dark, standing silent. Listening. Waiting. I want to find a wall and curl into a ball, not walk around and betray our positions. That isn't really an option though. If he's here, he'll know perfectly well where we are. He's got all the time in the world to make his move.

"What happened to your torch?" I think to ask.

"The same as happened to your piece."

"Oh."

I wonder if the walls are still in the same place. They seem to be moving away from us. I've no idea how long we've been down here for.

Mac suddenly trips and falls. Unprepared, I'm pulled down with him. He grunts as part of my weight lands on his leg. "Are you ok?" I ask, after a second to catch my own breath at the renewed jolt of pain.

"Yeah. Stood on something that moved." I hear him scrabbling on the floor. "Here." He feels for my hands and presses my Glock into them.

I manage a shaky laugh. "Thanks. Very useful."

Whatever Mac was about to say is cut off, because we hear footsteps, fast steps, seemingly making no attempt to disguise themselves. "Stella. Get behind me," he whispers.

"No."

I can hear him get into a crouched position, partly between me and whoever is coming down the stairs. I think they're nearly here. Just the corner to turn and the last steps down. There's a dim glow. I'm guessing someone's hand is covering a torch. Funny how rationally my mind is working.

A beam of intense light strikes me full in the face and I instinctively cover my eyes. I feel Mac stand upright, hand on my shoulder to push him up and keep me on the ground. I know that his gun is already drawn. "Don't move!" he shouts, despite the fact that I know he'll be as blinded as me. I feel like a rabbit in front of a car, frozen.

"NYPD! Don't shoot!" yells a familiar voice.

"Don, drop the light!" Mac yells back.

The torch beam leaves my face and I hear Flack's feet as he races down the stairs. Two other people reveal their presence as they switch on their torches, shine them around the large empty space. "Jesus," Flack says as he reaches us. "Jesus. What the hell were you two thinking?"

There isn't any kind of good answer to that, so neither of us know what to reply. I'm still held bent low by Mac's hand on my shoulder, a smaller target, but now he removes his hand and uses it to pull me to my feet. Flack keeps his torch beam away from me, and I know why, and I'm silently grateful. "C'mon," he says. "Let's get you both out of here. Can't do anything before we get the lights on." The tone of his voice leaves me in no doubt that we're not going to hear the last of this for a very long time indeed.

A/N: Wow! I'm truly amazed at the volume and wonderfullness of the reviews I've been getting, so thank you all!