A/N: Thanks for the reviews, folks -

Chapter 18

The door was unlocked, and Charlie pushed it open slowly, then stepped inside and dropped the jacket with one quick move, pointing his pistol at the figure seated at the table, his arm outstretched, and trembling just slightly. He'd been soaked by the time he made the few steps to the door; water ran in rivulets from his hair down his face; his clothes were plastered to his skin. Too late, he realized he'd forgotten to turn on his cell phone.

Dillon Moran smiled and rose from the table, picking up his own pistol from the table. He pointed it toward Charlie, but held it casually, lower down, close to his body. "Now, Professor, is this any way to start a dialogue?"

Charlie shot a quick nervous glance around him, and edged away from the door, slightly closer to Dillon and the table. The table stood several yards from the door in an open space, surrounded by pallets with stacks of boxes. That open space was illuminated by the only light in the room, suspended from the ceiling. The periphery of the warehouse was dark, as were the shadows cast by the stacks of boxes. He had no way of knowing who was back there, how many men. He fixed his eyes on Dillon, and took another step forward, still holding the gun in his outstretched arm. "Where's Don?"

Dillon jerked his head sideways, to an area between two of the pallets. Charlie couldn't see it from where he stood; one of the stacks of pallets was blocking it, and he edged forward, shooting quick glances at Dillon. As his brother came into view, he sucked in a shocked breath. Don was lying on his side facing him, his hands and feet bound. His face was swollen and bloody; one eye completely shut, and for a moment Charlie couldn't breathe – it looked as though Don had been beaten to death.

Don lifted his head slightly, taking in the sight of his brother, not with relief, but with dread. Charlie's clothes stuck to his thin body, and he was moving stiffly, his body radiating tension, one arm stuck out in front of him, pointing the pistol, rigidly, awkwardly, like a human version of a wind-vane. "Charlie, you need to get out of here," he rasped, his voice grating like sandpaper.

At his voice, he saw relief flood Charlie's face, followed by nervous determination. Charlie ignored him, and turned to Moran. "Untie him, and let me get him out of here. Then I'll sit down and talk."

Moran's smile deepened, and the light cast shadows on his face, turning the handsome features into a diabolical caricature. "No deal. Put your gun down, we'll talk, and then you can go."

Charlie shook his head. "No." He lowered the pistol slightly and cocked it, and then lifted it again. It would shoot without cocking, but cocking softened the kick – and he hoped the gesture would show Moran he knew how to use the gun; that he was serious.

Moran's eyes narrowed; and he lifted his own pistol suddenly and swung it sideways, pointing at Don. "I said, put your gun down, Professor."

A flood of panic rushed through Charlie as Dillon's arm swung toward Don, and almost without realizing he was doing so, he squeezed the trigger. The gun cracked, and although the bullet whizzed harmlessly overhead, Dillon jumped, nearly dropping his pistol, with a curse and a look of shock on his face. Charlie gaped for a second, just as shocked, then commanded sharply, "Put the gun down!"

A voice to his left made his head whirl, and his heart drop. Jason Walsh had stepped from behind a pallet of boxes next to Don, and was pointing his own pistol at Don's head. "Drop it Eppes!" he snarled.

He was much closer to Don, the pistol was just inches away from Don's temple, and Charlie froze. Dillon used the opportunity to advance around the table, as Don croaked, "Charlie, don't! Keep the gun – just back away and get out!"

Jason smiled, and pushed the barrel of his pistol against Don's head. "Your choice, Dr. Eppes. Drop the gun, or I pull the trigger."

Charlie wavered, his arm shaking from fear, adrenaline, and the strain of holding it up straight in front of him unsupported. He could feel panic rising inside. Relinquishing the gun meant giving up any tenuous advantage, but the thought of Don being shot, the sight of the gun against his defenseless brother's temple, had robbed him of any sense of power. 'I can't do it,' he thought with despair, berating himself for his weakness, as he lowered the gun. He saw Don's good eye close, the look of defeat on his brother's face, and he knew he'd failed - even as he bent, and laid the pistol on the tile floor. He'd been stupid to think he could do this – he wasn't an agent – he wasn't Don – Don would have handled this – Don wouldn't have caved – Don would have been a hero, and unless the other agents got here quickly, now he was going to die, because Charlie didn't and Charlie wasn't…

"Step over here," directed Walsh, waving Charlie toward him, and Charlie complied, a disjointed litany of self-recrimination still tumbling through his brain.

Don watched as Charlie came toward him, shuffling; defeat apparent in his eyes, and a wave of despair washed through him – not for himself – but for Charlie. If only his brother had stayed away, if only he hadn't embarked on this brave but hopeless attempt at rescue, at least he could have been spared. Now they were both facing what was certainly a death sentence. He was aware of Walsh stepping back slightly to keep himself out of range of Charlie, should he suddenly decide to try for the gun.

Charlie, however, only had eyes for Don, as he drew closer. He knelt on one knee, and laid a gentle hand on Don's upper arm, his face filled with concern and regret. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He looked near tears, and Don felt his heart twist.

Moran was beginning to walk toward them, still pointing his pistol. "Talk, Eppes," he snarled. "Who is the other consultant?"

A voice came from behind the pallet of boxes on the other side of Don, and Charlie's head jerked up as Sean Moran came from behind them, into view. Rationally, he knew Walsh and Dillon were more dangerous, but Sean provoked a gut reaction of terror that he couldn't squelch. The younger Moran's face was alight with malice and anticipation.

"Let me at him," he cajoled. "I'll make him talk." He grinned and licked his lips. "His brother can watch."

Charlie rose to his feet, defensively, and in that instant, the situation changed. The door burst open and figures poured through it crouching, weapons leveled. "Drop it, Moran!" commanded Megan sharply, as Colby, David, and Decker fanned out behind her, all of them advancing. From her vantage point, she could see Dillon and Charlie and part of Don's upper body lying between the stacks of boxes, and she glanced quickly from side to side, looking for the others.

Those others reacted immediately; Walsh and Sean melted back around the stacks of boxes nearest them, one on either side of Don and Charlie, getting out of sight before the agents could advance far enough to see them. Dillon turned and fired as he tried to retreat, instinct taking over, and that unthinking reaction proved his undoing. Colby had a clear shot and he fired back, instantly, and Dillon staggered backwards past the boxes and fell hard on his back, gasping tortured last breaths as blood from an exploded aorta poured from his chest and mouth, the gun dropping from his limp hand. He landed only feet from Sean, who was hiding on the other side of the boxes, and Sean stared horrified, as Dillon gurgled one last time, weakly, and closed his eyes. The look lasted only a moment; horror turned to hate, and Sean crept around the side of the boxes with a murderous look, pulling out a switchblade that he'd gotten from Ramon.

Charlie had whirled to catch the scene behind him, but gun reports erupted in front of him now, and he spun back around, stunned by the rapid turn of events. Walsh was firing at the agents from behind the boxes, and Charlie, in panic, bent, trying to grab Don, and pull him away.

"Charlie!" gasped Don, his face suddenly filled with fear as he looked over Charlie's shoulder, and at the same time Megan yelled, "Charlie, watch out!"

Sean Moran had leapt from behind the boxes, his thin, lanky frame and hate-twisted expression making him look like a murderous animated gargoyle. Don's heart stopped as he saw the flash of the knife in Sean's hand. It disappeared from view as Sean landed behind Charlie, but Don didn't need to see it to know what happened next.

Charlie had jerked upright at their cry of alarm, but he was facing away from Sean, and clearly looking at Walsh. As if in slow motion, Don saw the muscles in Sean's bent arm contract, and then his forearm was moving forward, toward Charlie's back. Although Don couldn't actually see Sean's hand behind his brother, he knew the instant the knife made contact – the sudden stop of Sean's arm, the jerk, and then stiffening of Charlie's body. Charlie made no sound, but his eyes widened and his lips parted, frozen in shock.

Sean grabbed Charlie's shoulder and yanked his arm backward, pulling the knife out of his back for another attempt, but David and Decker were on him, and they dragged him away struggling and screeching like a banshee, as they forced him to drop the knife. More shots were being exchanged between Colby, Walsh and Megan, but Don didn't hear any of them – his eyes were glued to Charlie, who staggered and dropped next to him, slumping sideways facing him, the vacant look still on his face. Don stared at him, horrified. "Charlie," he whispered.

He felt odd, his ears were roaring, his head light, and he shook it a little, as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Charlie had been stabbed – 'how bad?' Don wondered desperately. The shots had stopped and sirens were sounding; and now Megan and Colby were bending over them, and still Charlie lay there, with staring eyes made blank by shock. He blinked suddenly, then reached out a shaky hand toward Don, and just a bit of the blankness on his face was replaced by regret. He was too weak to lean forward, and his hand stopped short of touching Don, and lay lifelessly, halfway between them on the tile.

"I'm sorry," Charlie whispered. "Ssscrewed up…"

Don could feel David's hands behind him, cutting through the ties that held his wrists, and he dragged a free arm in front of him, biting back a groan, fighting the surge of dizziness, the roaring sound, the vertigo that was threatening to take him under. He fought it desperately - somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that if he let go, if Charlie let go, they'd never see each other again. He managed to put his hand over Charlie's, and squeezed lightly, forcing the words out with the last of his strength. "No, Buddy, you did good."

A flicker of surprise, then a grateful half smile, crossed Charlie's face, but the expressions were still muted, brief flashes in the glazed eyes, which were beginning to dull, to fade. His brother's face, staring, empty, but softened by a slight smile, was the last thing that Don saw, before darkness descended.

Megan waved the medics toward them urgently. She'd called in their backup and the ambulances right before they'd entered the warehouse, and the room was now swarming with local officers, who were escorting a pasty-faced Jason Walsh and a sobbing, gibbering Sean Moran out to waiting squad cars. The medics surged forward with their gurneys, three of them kneeling next to Charlie and Don, and a fourth darting over to Dillon Moran.

Their hands flew, taking pulses, blood pressures, as the agents watched anxiously.

"What do ya got?" asked one of them. Their conversation was muted, meant only for themselves, but the agents listened anxiously, unabashedly eavesdropping.

The other medic listened intently to Don's chest with a stethoscope. "This one's unconscious, pulse a little rapid, 85, BP 90 over 60, but stable. We might have a collapsed lung on the right side."

The other medic bent forward, looking into Charlie's half closed eyes. "Sir, can you hear me?" He looked at Megan. "What's his name?"

"Charlie."

"This one's gone," called the fourth medic, bending over Dillon, and he straightened and trotted back toward the others.

"Charlie, can you hear me?" asked the tech attending Charlie, and he shook his head at the lack of response. "This one's still conscious, but I don't like his vitals – they're dropping fast, and he's not responsive. Let's move him first."

David was positioned facing Charlie; he couldn't see the blood pooling behind him, and as they lifted the slight form, he took in his breath at the sheer volume of blood. They placed him on his side on the gurney, and David could see knife wound in the middle right side of his back. Charlie's T-shirt was still wet, soaked with rain and blood, and his eyes were now closed, the pale bruised face peaceful, dark damp ringlets tumbling over his cheek. Don too, looked as if he was in repose, his face, livid with bruises, a contrast to Charlie's paleness. Their lack of response was unsettling, and the agents exchanged worried glances.

The medics worked quickly, covering Charlie with a blanket and strapping him in, and one of the techs applied pressure to the wound as the other began to move the gurney. The other two medics were working on Don, lifting him onto the other gurney, as the first crew wheeled Charlie to the door. The ambulance had backed right up to it with its rear doors open, to minimize how far they would need to transport the gurney through the rain. In seconds, Charlie was in and on his way, and the second ambulance was backing up to the door, as they pushed Don's gurney toward it.

"Where are you taking them?" Megan asked. She could feel herself start to shake a little as the adrenaline began to wear off and shock and anxiety set in, and she steeled herself, fighting for control.

"East Valley Hospital," came the response, and she nodded, as the doors slammed shut behind Don's gurney. It pulled away with a blare of sirens, following the already distant wail of the first ambulance into the night.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan stepped wearily through the front door and set down his luggage. It had been a long week, and he was thoroughly glad to be home. The house was quiet, but Charlie's car was outside and the lights in the dining room and kitchen were on. "Charlie?" he called. Silence answered him.

He sighed and lifted the suitcase, and walked it over to the foot of the stairs and set it down, before turning for the kitchen. Charlie was probably out in the garage, he mused, as he pushed open the door, and stopped in dismay. His eyes roved over the scattered kitchen furniture as he stepped slowly into the room, stopping suddenly as he saw the jagged splinter of chair leg and drops of blood. Lifting his head, he took in the traces of what looked like vomit in the sink, and his heart began to beat rapidly, as he turned, and headed for the phone.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 18