Chapter 15

WAR ROOM, FBI OFFICE

Nobody spoke. Not because of shock, or anger, but out of sheer fatigue and realization of what David had said out loud for the first time.

Seeing Charlie's devastated expression, Colby had to smile. "Charlie, you didn't hurt her. If shoving someone against a board is what you do in a fit of rage, I think we're okay."

"Do you think she'll forgive me?" asked Charlie, not overly reassured. "Will – will you guys?"

Colby nodded, the look of affection on his face only deepening. "Look, we don't get the luxury of grudges. If you can't bounce back from conflict, you don't make it here, period." He grinned and gave the professor a gentle box on the arm. "Oh, and we beat the crap out of each other in training."

Charlie winced through his own tentative smile. "Now that I remember. Two days of FBI training and I could hardly walk."

"Fun, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Charlie admitted, grinning. "Yes – it was."

"On your feet, kiddo," said Colby, standing and pulling Charlie up with him. "We got a case to run."

US DOJ METROPOLITAN DETENTION CENTER

Don took several steps forward before overtightened leg irons forced him to stop, hunched over in a reflexive reaction to pain too severe to simply power through. He drew a deep breath and decided that he was far too effectively crippled by the restraints to make it back to the cell; whatever was going to happen he might as well just face it here.

"Watch your head."

Don didn't catch the meaning behind the amused drawl until the officer's leg swept up, hooking the chain between his ankles and jerking his legs out from under him. A palm struck the back of his skull, slamming his head against the metal door on the way down.

He landed with a spinning head and the nerves in his wrists and ankles screaming at being smashed between metal and bone. It was only a split second before instinct and anger took over, and he rolled to the side to dodge any kick that might be coming, preparing a furious retort.

"Watch your head."

Slam.

It felt good, planting the mercurial bastard's face in the metal frame of the SUV. Wrong, but so deeply satisfying. They and half the emergency workers in the LA area spent more than 36 hours trying to rescue people from the wreckage of a train, and this guy's only regret seemed to be that he'd gotten caught. Never mind the deaths, never mind the innocent people forced to endure an eternity of pain and fear inside a crushed metal box.

The guilt came later, as he tried to fall asleep. Satisfaction of a job well done hampered by the image of himself, slamming a handcuffed prisoner against a truck. Hearing over and over again the cry of pain, or maybe just shock. Yeah, that was clever, Eppes.

"Watch your head." Because cruelty is always more fun when you can make a bad joke about it. Because there is just something so morally right about hurting a helpless person who's in your custody.

Don lay quietly on the floor, avoiding the detention officer's eyes. He wasn't going to provoke the man, but there would be no indignant outcries. As foreign as it was to him to not defend himself, there was something calm within telling him to simply endure this.

An alarm rang out, and he heard the electronic locks click shut along the hall. The control room must have been actually watching the cameras. He closed his eyes in relief even as a foot connected with his ribs. This wasn't a hit, and they were sending someone to stop this.

Right now, that was enough. He could make it through whatever beating this bully was intent on handing out, as long as it wasn't going to end with him in the middle of a gang of prisoners intent on revenge.

He gagged and forced air into his lungs, trying not to whimper or scream. Something told him playing possum was the only way to avoid provoking this guy, so he focused on trying to make his lungs work and resisting the urge to throw up.

Think about the tactical situation, not the pain. It was easier thought than done, especially when he tasted blood and felt his head start to spin into shock, instantly transported back to the night when a knife had almost ended his life.

He yelled at himself, gritting his teeth. You aren't dying, Don, it just feels like it. This is almost over. Stay alive for the next minute, Eppes, you got it made.

WAR ROOM, FBI OFFICE

"Okay, let's run down what we got," said David.

"I ran into another dead end in my analysis," said Charlie, pacing. "Using the information Liz gave me about the federal prisons Don might be sent to and the data about Don's cases that was already in my system, I ran models of everyone he's responsible for putting away, their family members, even close-knit social networks. Nothing matches up in any statistically significant way, when I consider what facilities he's likely to be confined in if he's convicted and the conditions under which he'll be held at each."

"Any word back from your buddies at the NSA?" asked David.

Charlie shook his head. "I spoke to them the other day, and their expert has been tied up with work of – um – higher national priority. They promised to get to it soon."

"Colby, any word on Lobell's condition?"

"Only that he's acquired a fire-breathing activist for a lawyer, and she'd like nothing more than to turn this into a major issue."

"I talked to Nychev," said Liz. "Nothing's coming back from handwriting analysis, so it's looking likely that the author of our note isn't in their system."

David rubbed his face, his fatigue and frustration plain. "Well, I do see all of this adding up to at least a lack of evidence against Don's theory. If we aren't dealing with known criminals, prisoners, or anything else that makes sense, we might as well look at it."

"I'm just not seeing motive," said Colby. "I get how a studio makes sense from the technical angle, making that recording, but that still doesn't tell us what they'd stand to gain."

"Does Don even have any cases involving movie studios right now?" asked Amita. "I know you guys have had a couple of cases in the past, but –"

"Nothing," said David. "And we already included the past cases in the data dump we gave Charlie. I poked my head into OC earlier today, and they said the only studio they're investigating currently is Starscape. If we go on the theory that a major studio with high-end equipment hired Lobell –" he shook his head. "The movie industry just doesn't screw with law enforcement."

"Well, they do make some really bad movies about us." Colby grinned.

"They also make some really bad movies about cheerleaders," said Liz, returning the wisecrack.

"Well, no offence, but Don's going to be watching a lot of bad movies about cheerleaders if we can't figure this out," said Charlie. "A little focus, maybe? Please?"

David looked irritated. "We're all doing our best, Charlie. We're not going to help this investigation any if we force ourselves to be as miserable as you at every minute. What you're seeing is focus, I'm sorry."

"That's it!" Charlie froze, staring at David. "This is about me, not Don."

"Wait a minute," said David. "I thought we already decided this was an unlikely way to hurt you."

"Hurting me isn't the point!" Charlie ran to the board and started scribbling furiously. "This isn't about revenge against me or Don, this is about distracting me." He spun back to face them.

"Think about it. If you want to commit a crime I'm likely to solve, you need a way to get me to stop working on it and devote all my time to something else."

"Like exonerating your brother," said Amita, beginning to sit upright and study what Charlie had written on the board.

"Right. If they kidnap an FBI agent, they bring down all the wrath and resources of the FBI on them, and they get caught. If they snatch me, they get Don in avenging angel mode, plus all the resources of the FBI."

"Plus, they get caught by Don and most likely end up looking like they lost an argument with a truck," commented Colby.

"But if they disgrace Don, they have to know the agency won't spend too much time digging into something they'd rather ignore, and I'll be spending every minute trying to clear his name. They wouldn't necessarily have a way to know how far you guys would go personally to save him."

Colby and David looked at each other. "It makes sense," said Colby.

Charlie grabbed his messenger bag and laptop with one hand and Amita with another. "I need to go back to my office. I'm going to review everything anyone has submitted to me for review or assistance recently."

"Really, Charlie, I'll come willingly," teased Amita, sticking her tongue out at Charlie when he realized he was half pulling her towards the door.

US DOJ METROPOLITAN DETENTION CENTER

It took less. Don recognized Anderson with a feeling of intense relief. The supervisor kicked cruel, stupid, and careless out with four well-chosen words and entered the rec room along with another officer Don recognized, leaving a third outside and locking the door behind them.

Anderson studied Don without speaking, his eyes doing a sober survey. Don didn't speak either. With his life out of danger, he concentrated on holding himself as still as humanly possible. The nerves in his arms and legs were trembling thanks to being crushed against the hard metal restraints. It was a source of agony, but freezing in place was the only way to find any relief at all. Even the slight movement of breathing hurt, so he tried to focus elsewhere and ignore his ghosts.

After a complete but mercifully brief inspection, Kevin Anderson waved his PDA to the officer outside the room as he knelt beside Don. "Stream me CCTV footage from the incident, right away."

Anderson unlocked the handcuffs and eased them off with great care, and Don didn't bother to stop a small cry of pain from escaping his throat. It hurt like hell, but this guy wasn't going to exploit that, and crying out helped distract from the worst few seconds. The officer touched his arm gently in understanding, giving him a moment to recover and brace himself before undoing the leg shackles.

Another brief scream, and Don went limp on the floor, closing his eyes. The relief was instant, all of the other throbbing inputs from his body willing to take a temporary back seat. It was over. He was alive and in caring hands, without serious injury, and he gave himself the time to steady his heart rate and appreciate those facts.

Anderson seemed content to back off and simply sit while he came down from the incident, for which Don was profoundly grateful. What he really wanted was a friend, the couch at the house, and a cold beer - but Anderson's willingness to give him space and the understanding that reflected made him the best company that could be hoped for under the circumstances.

"Mind if I sit?" Don asked after a minute. Anderson didn't reply, but simply reached for his hand and helped him up. He clearly wasn't going to ask what had happened. The camera footage would tell the story without embellishment.

Don rubbed his aching wrists and wondered just how to react, closing his eyes briefly to catch his breath. He probed the ribs on his right side with caution. Bruises, but nothing cracked, he decided.

He could feel itchy warmth of blood on the side of his head, but it seemed superficial and he left well enough alone. Wiping it away would just give these guys a potential biohazard to deal with. Circulation was returning, but the backs of his hands remained numb. Nerve damage from the misused handcuffs, one indignity he knew he'd never inflicted on a suspect.

"Woah, woah. Get off him!"

"You can't do that here, man."

He'd thrown his own body between dangerous suspects and a pissed-off Gary Walker. Taken down violent, combative thugs and murderers. He understood why people felt the urge to rough up suspects, but it wasn't him. The desire to hurt anyone who didn't make him do so simply wasn't there.

You're not that guy, okay?

You've never done to anyone what he just did to you, you've never even wanted to. Stop thinking like you deserve it.

He raised his head, and recognized with sharp discomfort the tense, conflicted expression on Anderson's face as he watched the video feed on the PDA. He'd worn it himself. Looking at a nineteen-year-old killer crumpled over on a table in the interrogation room after Don gave the scariest agent he knew free rein.

Yeah, you deserve it.

Oh, God. Don felt his skin grow cold, and he actually shivered. This is victim thinking.

"Eppes?" Anderson's gaze was intensely perceptive, and Don didn't try to hide from it.

It took me mere seconds to make this something I deserved. That's – that's scarier to me than looking a serial killer in the eyes with no gun.

That was something you said to your therapist, not something the head of the LA violent crimes squad revealed to a prison supervisor. "Guess I just don't like realizing I'm human."

Anderson raised an eyebrow, well aware that wasn't Don's first choice of answers. "You want scary, try realizing you're not sure you are. You know the difference between you and every other prisoner up there?" asked Anderson.

"Maybe not."

"When you look at us, you don't see an enemy or an authority figure. You see a colleague." He studied Don. "That'd do a number on anyone."

"Yeah." Don traced the ugly red line around his wrist with one finger. He's right. You're being held prisoner by your peers, that's gonna complicate matters. If someone at the FBI did this to you, you'd be one confused puppy. "Who was that guy?" he asked finally.

"Contractor from one of the private prisons. We've had a bunch of guys call in sick with this flu bug that's going around, so the DOJ sent in some temps." Anderson's voice hardened. "I'm not a fan."

Don nodded. "You gonna file a beef with us?" asked Anderson. It wasn't a hostile question, and Don met his eyes.

"You need me to? In order to discipline jackass out there?"

"No. Jackass out there won't be finishing his shift. Ever."

"Nah," said Don. "It's all good."

Anderson touched him on the hand. "Thank you." He studied Don closely. "You're bleeding. Do you have a concussion?"

"I doubt it." Don grinned at him. "Just a sore head. I've been told it's pretty hard though."

Anderson chuckled. "Well, let's get you back to your cell, and I'll have a nurse patch you up and get you on some pain meds, okay?"

Don faked a thoughtful frown. "I dunno, is she pretty?"

Anderson grinned. "She's a he."

"Damn."

Anderson helped him to his feet, giving him a questioning glance before moving in with handcuffs. Can you handle this?

Don nodded.

FBI PARKING GARAGE

"Charlie." Nikki was leaning back against the concrete support post where she had been waiting.

Charlie flinched, instinctively backing towards his car. "Must we discuss this?" he asked.

"No. Something else." She uncrossed her arms. "You want to have your trust in people shattered, try having a cop you hero-worship turn out to be dirty. No frame-up, these guys confessed to things that – I would have staked my life on the fact they weren't capable of."

She looked down at the ground. "I didn't even like Don when I started here, but now he's the first guy I've let myself come even close to putting back up on that pedestal. So, yeah, I'm trying to brace myself for the chance he's guilty. It's not the kind of pain I can go through again."

Charlie approached her, carefully as one might an injured animal. "I – didn't understand, I'm so, so sorry."

She couldn't look at Charlie. "I adore Don, and I'll do whatever it takes to prove him innocent. But – I would have done that for them too."

EPPES RESIDENCE

"Why won't you look at me, Charlie?" asked Amita.

"Did I scare you? Going after Nikki like that?"

She took Charlie by surprise by laughing out loud. "Charlie, you shoved an FBI agent and got your ass handed to you on a platter. How exactly is that supposed to scare me?"

She pushed him back, pinning his shoulders with her palms in an act of playful aggression. There was still worry behind the mischievous smile that invoked, and she kissed his forehead. "Charlie, why are you so convinced that Don is innocent?"

"Because I know him. Why?"

"Because that's the same reason I don't fear your carefully hidden violent streak. You know, the one where you fly into a rage over perceived slights and beat up FBI agents."

That got a laugh, and he looked up at her with pure adoration. "You are wonderful, you know that?"

She kissed the lines on his forehead again. "And you're unbearably cute when you're worried, did you know that?"

SEGREGATION UNIT, US DOJ METROPOLITAN DETENTION CENTER

Don rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. He wasn't fond of being on narcotic pain meds, but he'd obeyed Anderson's gentle insistence that the nurse dope him. He just didn't see what the appeal was to addicts. They just made him spaced out and sleepy, neither of which were fantastic attributes in an FBI agent.

He was relaxed though.

And comfortable.

Okay, Anderson knew what he was about. If you had to be stuck in solitary confinement after being kicked around by a guard, this wasn't a half bad way to handle it. Drug-induced contentment had significant advantages over post-incident stress, given the lack of friends around to laugh it off with.

He opened his eyes and did a lazy survey of the cell, coming to an odd conclusion. He felt safe, even at peace. He frowned. Drugs? Stockholm?

His growing affection for the officers did seem to resemble it. He was more grateful to them for protecting him and treating him fairly than he was upset about being confined so strictly. He'd just been cruelly attacked, and what stood out more in his mind was not the careless injustice, but the quiet kindness of Anderson's response to him afterwards.

So, is this Stockholm syndrome, self-deception, or simply choosing not to be miserable? Am I turning into a victim, or am I just confused as hell because my own guys are holding me prisoner?