A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all -

Chapter 16

The jet touched down with just a light jolt on the runway, and Charlie clutched his laptop. He'd already packed up; trying not to look too anxious, too eager to move, although he knew he probably was failing at that. Fortunately, the fact that he knew about his brother's kidnapping made that anxiety seem normal. Decker could hardly blame him for looking tense, fearful.

The prolonged period of sitting had made him even stiffer, and he descended the steps of the jet awkwardly, biting his lip as his ribs complained. As he reached the ground and looked toward the terminal, he could see two familiar figures approaching, and his heart fell. He not only had to get away from Decker, he had to give Colby and David the slip, too, somehow. How in the hell was he going to do this? A man waited at the bottom of the steps with his suitcase, which he handed to Decker, as Colby and David stepped up to them and introduced themselves to the Philadelphia agent.

"Hey, Charlie." Their greetings were subdued, and he could see the concern in their expressions.

"Any word?" Charlie asked, although he could already see in their faces that there wasn't.

David shook his head, regretfully. "Not yet. They've pulled out all the stops, though. Our office, LAPD, they're all on it." He glanced at Charlie as they walked toward the terminal, trying to look reassuring. "We'll find him. First, we're going to get you to a safe place."

Charlie nodded, not meeting his eyes. They stepped in through the door of the terminal, were waved through by an airport employee, and began moving down the concourse. Burbank was a small airport, and they would be through it in moments, Charlie knew. Once he was in a car with the agents, his chances of getting away undetected would drop precipitously. They were approaching a restroom, he noted, and he stalled for time. "I need to use the restroom," he murmured, and the agents nodded.

"Go ahead," said Colby. "We'll catch up with Agent Decker, here."

"Hold up," said David, and he headed into the restroom for a quick check. No one was in it, except a geriatric wisp of a man with white hair, and he stepped back out. "Okay."

Charlie set his computer bag down at Colby's feet. "I might be a minute," he said quietly. "I'm not feeling too well."

Colby looked at him sympathetically, taking in the pale face, the ugly bruises, the pinched look of fatigue and worry. "Take your time," he said gently.

Charlie pushed through the door and nodded at the older man who was shuffling out past him, who fixed an age-clouded eye on Charlie's bruised face, and sidled away a little. The restroom walls jutted out into the concourse, and as the man opened the door, Charlie looked back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the three agents clustered a few yards away. If he could slip out of the door without them seeing him, he could duck around the corner just a few feet from the door, and make it the better part of the way down the concourse. He could probably get enough of a start to get outside.

The problem was; he had no idea how to make sure they weren't looking when he came out. David had checked out the restroom, but even though he knew the old man was in there, he looked as the door had opened and the man came out. Any movement around that door would catch their attention. Charlie stepped further into the room. There was a metal door against the wall, which he found to be locked when he tried it – it was most likely a supply closet with no access to the outside. There was a window, but it was high up, and was merely a thick pane of frosted glass set into the wall, with no way to open it. There was no way out, except for the door that led back out into the concourse.

He thought a moment, and stepped back toward the door, cracking it just enough to see back down the concourse the way they had come. They'd come in at Gate 8, he noted, and in front of it, he could see man in a red jacket with a bag, pacing back and forth. He shut the door again, pulled out his cell phone and dialed information. "I'd like the number for the Burbank Airport, please."

The voice on the other end delivered, and offered to put him through to the number. "Burbank Airport," said a pleasant female voice on the other end, as the connection was made. "Are you calling to check flight arrivals or departures?"

"No," said Charlie. He took a deep breath. "There's a man in a red jacket near Gate 8. He looks very suspicious – I think he might have something in his bag." He snapped the phone shut, and opened the door again, just a crack. Down the corridor, he saw a security guard put a radio to his ear, and then make his way toward the man, who responded angrily, and clutched his bag as the guard tried to pull it from him. The man started to yell, and the three agents' heads turned at the sound of the ensuing pandemonium. Charlie seized his chance, opening the restroom door, and slipped out and around the corner, heading at a trot down the corridor, which turned sharply toward the exit. Fortunately, it was not too far away; Charlie knew that the scene might arouse the agents' suspicion. Their first move would be to check the restroom, and to try to get him out of the airport. He had only seconds, and he moved quickly, ignoring his aching ribs.

Word of the man with the suspicious bag must have been communicated to the rest of the staff, guards were stopping passengers coming in through the security checkpoint, and waving through any exiting passengers, hurriedly, trying to clear the facility; and Charlie joined the throng, pushing out into the airport entrance. He shot a glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Colby, David and Brad Decker coming around the corner of the restroom down the corridor at a run, just as he pushed through the glass door to the outside, and dashed for a cab, heedless of the pain in his side. He was fairly certain they hadn't seen him in the crowd, but he wasn't about to wait to find out. He reached for the taxi door handle just in front of a large, beefy-looking man, who yelled indignantly as Charlie jumped in and slammed the door shut with an involuntary grunt of pain. He gave the cab driver his home address, along with a breathless admonition to hurry, and the cab bulled its way from the curb, cutting off a car coming up behind it.

Colby, David and Decker paused in the entrance, scanning the crowd streaming through the doors, shooting a quick glance further down to the ticket counters, which were already nearly empty.

"I don't see him," said Decker. "I'm going to go back in and check the concourse." He flipped his badge at a nervous-looking checkpoint operator, and pushed through, jogging back against the now dwindling stream of passengers.

"Are you sure he wasn't in there?" asked David, as he and Colby pushed out through the exit, scanning the milling, anxious crowd on the sidewalk, which was already dispersing, people running, walking, trying to distance themselves from the terminal.

"No," replied Colby, a little impatiently. "I looked in every stall, even tried the closet door. He wasn't there."

David looked around them, and his shoulders sagged in frustration. "Well, he isn't here, either." They looked at each other, and back at the crowd.

"Where in the hell could he have gone?" muttered Colby. He had a sick feeling in his gut; he couldn't quite understand what had just happened, but he knew it wasn't good.

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Charlie calculated the tip, and thrust some bills at the driver, well over what was required, and jumped from the cab with a wince. As he moved toward the Craftsman, he noted that Don's SUV was still in the driveway, and was blocking his Prius. He trotted toward it, noting with disappointment that the keys weren't in it; he hoped fervently that they were in the house.

As he moved toward the front door, he pulled out his cell phone and called the last number on it. It connected as he put his key in the lock. "It's Charles Eppes. I'm back in L.A., and I'm away from the agents assigned to me." He pushed the front door open, and stepped inside, closing it quickly, and flicking on a light.

This time, it was Dillon Moran's voice that floated out of the earpiece. "Write down this address."

"Just a minute," Charlie said, hurrying toward the dining room table. He snatched a page of a test on probability theorems and flipped it over, grabbing a pencil. "Okay." He jotted down the address as Dillon spoke, and then straightened, grimacing at the movement.

"Here's the drill," said Moran. "You are to show up at this address, and we will meet you with your brother." He had, in fact, given the professor the address of the warehouse, but it would be better if Dr. Eppes thought that they weren't there yet. The more off-guard he was when they met, the better. "You give us what we want, the name and location of the other consultant, and you walk, along with your brother. Of course, if either of you talk to the authorities afterward, you'll be facing charges that you aided us by giving us the information. In addition, if we find that you did that, we will not rest until we get to you both, and anyone you care about. Do you understand?"

Charlie swallowed. "Yes."

"Where are you now?"

"Pasadena."

"It will take you between thirty and forty minutes to get there. We'll be waiting. Don't think of bringing anyone with you – we'll be watching the route in."

"Wait!" exclaimed Charlie, "you said I could talk to…" He broke off, as the line disconnected, and stood for a moment, his heart pounding, trying to gather his thoughts. He had no delusions that they would keep their word – he didn't trust them. He had no real plan either, other than giving them a bogus name and location for the other consultant, and hoping they would buy it long enough for him to get Don out of there. One thing was certain, he would show up armed.

He stuck the paper in his pocket and turned, heading for the basement. Pushing through the door of the kitchen and flicking on the light, he stopped in shock at the sight of the scattered kitchen furniture, the broken chair, the trash bag half-open, disgorging trash. He wondered for a moment what had happened, but when he caught sight of the splintered chair leg and the drops of blood on the floor, his stomach lurched as the realization struck him. Don had been kidnapped right here, right at the house.

A sudden overwhelming wave of panic hit him, and he lunged for the sink, vomiting into it, a choked cry of pain escaping as his cracked ribs protested. His brother was helpless, captive, beaten – and waiting for him. He was it, Don's only hope of rescue, and he had never felt more pitiful and inadequate in his life. He turned the water on and spit, then splashed his face and gave the sink a cursory rinse. Shutting off the tap, he forced himself to move unsteadily to the basement door, and down the steps. He barely noticed that the basement had been tidied up, the boxes stacked back against the wall, as he knelt, trembling, in front of the safe, and paused, his heart dropping. He couldn't remember the damn combination.

He could feel the panic rising again, along with frustration, and he took a deep breath, and desperately willed himself to calm down. He'd memorized that combination years ago; he had no trouble recalling it just days before. It took three deep breaths before it came back to him, and he fumbled his way through it, opening the door and removing his pistol and the extra clip, making sure both were loaded. He'd skirted the law at the airport with his recommendation that security check out the man in the red jacket, but now he was actually about to break one; carrying a concealed weapon without a permit.

Upstairs again, he looked at the counter. Dimly, as he staggered away from it on his way to the basement, he remembered seeing keys, and they were there – someone, either Don himself or perhaps an investigator, must have brought in Don's keys from the SUV. He snatched them from the counter and went out through the back door, climbing stiffly into Don's vehicle. The sun had set, and it was dark now, and starting to rain again.

He'd originally just intended to back out the SUV, park it near the curb and take the Prius, but as he reached the street, he paused. Don's vehicle had a lot more engine, more speed than his car. It was a better choice, and so he put it into drive and took one last look at the Craftsman, before he pulled away, into the night.

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Wright's eyes bored into the miserable faces of the three agents facing him across the table of the conference room. A check of the phone number belonging to the caller who had started the pandemonium at the airport had turned up Charlie's cell phone, sealing the agents' suspicion that Charlie had indeed escaped on his own.

"I can't believe you three let a math professor give you the slip." Wright shook his head in disgust and rose, and moving around the table, headed for the door. "Reeves, you're in charge – I need to report this out to Maxwell. Let me know when you get a trace on his phone."

Megan nodded, glancing up only briefly from her bent position over the technician's shoulder. She looked back as the technician pointed and exclaimed, "There, I've got it – there's the first blip, east of Pasadena. We'll get another one in a few minutes."

Colby, David and Decker rose to their feet and clustered around the tech and the monitor; as Megan flipped open her cell phone. "Come on, Charlie, pick up," she said softly, though clenched teeth.

The call went through to voice mail, and she raised her voice to speaking level. "Charlie, this is Megan. You need to call me back. Whatever you're doing, we can help you. Call me back." She waited for a moment to see if Charlie would pick up; then flipped her phone shut with a sigh. "We'll wait for the next blip to check his direction," she said; "then we'll head out."

"I think he was talking to someone in the restroom on the plane," said Decker. "He got a quick phone call right before he went in, said it was a wrong number. I'll bet it was Moran and Walsh."

They sat silently for a moment. "I still can't believe Charlie wouldn't call us in on this," said Colby quietly. "He's gotta know better."

Megan's mouth twisted, wryly. "Frankly, he's not acting any differently than his brother. There was no doubt in my mind that if Don had known where Charlie was being held when he was kidnapped, he would have ditched us too. It must be genetic." Her words were light, but her tone wasn't – it resonated with tension.

Another marker appeared on the screen, and the technician pointed. "Still moving due east, headed northeast of LA."

"All right, we'll call in for updates," said Megan, slinging on her shoulder holster as she moved toward the door. "Let's go." She paused a moment, looking at Decker. "Are you in on this, agent?"

"Yeah, you bet I'm in," replied Decker firmly. He returned her gaze steadily as she gave him an assessing stare.

"Okay, Decker," she said, turning from the door, following Colby and David. "You can ride with me."

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End Chapter 16