By Meercat
AN #1: The villain in this story loves to spout out literary quotes. A listing of quotes and their sources will be posted at the end of their relevant chapters.
AN #2: I forgot to mention the pairing: DL, naturally.
Chapter 2
"Thou wilt lament hereafter, when the evil shall be done and shall admit no cure."
This crazy-assed bastard talkin' nonsense! "What?"
The hand left Danny's hair but the gun remained pressed against the back of his head.
"I regret having to do this," the gunman said, his accent generic, almost cultivated. "I truly do. My reasons are just and my resolve undiminished, even though my methods may seem harsh and unyielding."
Think, Messer. Think how to handle this. You need to get to Lindsay. She needs help. Hawkes. She needs a doctor.
"Let me help my friends. Please."
It about killed Danny to be polite, especially when all he wanted was to tear the bastard's throat out with his bare hands. If it got him what he wanted, he'd beg from the devil himself on bended knee.
"On your stomach, Detective. Just for a moment."
Extra pressure from the gun barrel against Messer's head turned an otherwise civil request into a threatening order.
Shaking with anger and panic, Danny reluctantly settled onto his belly, arms out at his sides. Was this bastard planning to plant a bullet into his head the instant he was helpless on the floor?
Messer's attention swung like a pendulum, from Lindsay to the gunman and back again. He watched, helpless, as the man gathered up first Sheldon's gun then Lindsay's.
This guy's old. 60, maybe 65. Hell, he could even be a well-preserved 70. Armed with a .38 revolver--looks like a snub-nose Colt. Armani suit, neatly pressed. A bloody tear on the left forearm--looks like either Hawkes or Montana clipped him one.
Lindsay. Baby. Move. Please. So much blood. Oh, God.
Snow white hair--what little there is. Short boxed beard. All of it neat and trimmed. Old fart's not hurtin' for money, and he don't feel like a hardened criminal type. So what the hell is his problem? What possible beef could he have with the PD, with us?
Montana, sweetheart. Move. Make a sound. Anythin'. Please let me know you're alive.
Once all three detectives were relieved of their weapons, the man turned back to Danny and nodded.
Given that tacit permission, Messer pushed off the floor, lunged over to Sheldon Hawkes, and helped the stunned doctor to sit up. Danny raised up enough to examine the cut over Sheldon's eye. A bloody crease, slightly more than an inch long, bisected the doctor's right eyebrow.
"Shel? Doc, c'mon, snap out of it. Lindsay's hurt. I need your help."
"Lindsay?" Sheldon focused on Messer. "Hurt?"
"Shot in the back."
Awareness flooded the ex-ME's eyes. Staring around, he spotted Lindsay Monroe near the kitchen cabinet. He and Danny hurried to her side. Hawkes swayed, overwhelmed by a rush of dizziness. Ignoring the nauseous swim inside his head, he laid trembling fingertips against her neck.
Messer settled on her other side. His hands hovered over her still body, desperate to help but unwilling to do anything that might hurt.
Hawkes' voice shook with relief as he said, "She's alive. Help me roll her, just enough to see if there's an exit wound."
Danny did the rolling while Sheldon lay flat to the floor and looked beneath her.
"No exit wound. Lay her back down."
By the time Danny had settled her to the chilly linoleum, Hawkes had ripped the back of Lindsay's shirt to reveal the injury. A jagged hole marred her skin beneath the right shoulder blade, less than an inch from the line of her spinal column. Blood seeped from the hole in time with her heart.
Seeing the vicious wound, Messer glared daggers at the man with the gun. "You shot her in the back, you sorry-assed son-of-a-bitch!"
"Danny, calm down," Sheldon begged. His hands never stopped moving, further tearing Lindsay's shirt and using a handkerchief to wipe the skin around it, exposing the entry point. "I need your help here."
Messer threw the gunman from his mind and focused everything on helping Lindsay. "Tell me what ya want me t' do."
Sheldon turned to the gunman and said, "There's a first aid kit mounted on the wall. Can we get it?"
Rather than answer, their captor went to the large white box, with its big red cross and the words "Emergency First Aid" across the metal lid. He took it off the wall, laid it on the nearest break room table, and raised the lid. He searched its contents, transferred the scissors to his pocket then closed the lid and stepped away.
"Take it."
Danny snatched the box. For the next ten minutes, Messer opened bandages, cracked open antiseptic ampoules, brought water bottles from the refrigerator, tore tape with his teeth, whatever Sheldon needed as he worked to save Lindsay Monroe. Throughout the trauma, Montana lay still, not even a weak moan to protest the astringent application of infection-fighting liquids.
When he wasn't helping Hawkes, Danny knelt down to talk directly into Lindsay's ear. He stroked her hair and whispered nonsense words, begging, threatening, cajoling, anything he could think that might penetrate.
"Montana? Sweetheart, I'm here. You're gonna be okay, y'hear me? Hawkes'll patch you up good as new. You'll see. Lindsay, can you open your eyes for me? C'mon, Montana, love, open those beautiful eyes, just for a second. Okay?"
"I will take your badges, if you please."
Danny didn't even look up. "Go to hell, you sick bastard."
The man aimed his .38 at Lindsay Monroe's head and pulled back the hammer. "I could kill her right now, if you'd rather."
Danny pulled his badge off his belt and threw it at the man. Sheldon did the same with his own and Lindsay's badges.
The gunman gathered them up even as the break room telephone rang.
QUOTE:
Thou wilt lament hereafter, when the evil shall be done and shall admit no cure. -- Homer ("Smyrns of Chios), The Iliad, (bk. IX, l. 308), (Bryant's translation)