Mind Games

Chapter 68

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks for your reviews.

J. Scott Marsh lay on the cot in his prison cell, and stared at the ceiling. Despair pressed on his chest like a weight; his life was over. He should have fled the country, he realized, in retrospect. He had money in foreign accounts, not a huge amount, but enough to get by on a remote island somewhere. He'd refused to believe that his dreams had been dashed, he had still been convinced that if only he could get rid of the Eppes brothers, and Charlie in particular, he'd still have a shot at renewing his lucrative deal with Aswad Shar'e – he'd have a chance at a fortune that would set him for life, and he'd be able to keep his identity, his freedom to live in the United States, or go anywhere that he wished. Now it was all gone – money, freedom, any reason for living.

He hadn't realized how dire his situation was until that afternoon. His lawyers had informed him that Charlie Eppes had made a positive ID, but Marsh still had an ace in his pocket, or so he had thought. He would try to strike a deal, he reasoned, give up Khalid. Instead, he'd been given the gut-wrenching information that Khalid was dead, and Aswad Shar'e had disbanded. It was all over – there was nothing left but black, blinding hatred against the Eppes brothers, and a feeling of even blacker despair. Tomorrow, they planned to transfer him to a federal prison, to await his trial for treason – or so they thought. Marsh had other plans; he only wished that before he ended his life, he could take the Eppes brothers with him.

It was approaching time for lights out, and the cell blocks were quieting. Marsh slipped out of his jumpsuit under his blankets and waited until the lights went down and the guard went by on his stroll. He would be back fifteen minutes later, but Marsh would be dead by then.

As soon as the guard went by, Marsh quietly slipped out of his cot and twisted the jumpsuit a few times, then put it around his neck and began twisting the ends. As soon as he had it to an appropriate tightness, he kneeled and tied the free ends – the arms and legs of the suit - to the leg of his cot, which was metal, and bolted to the floor. Then he lay down and began to flip over, again and again, tightening the fabric around his neck, tighter, tighter, until it choked off his breath. He lay there, fighting the overwhelming sense to undo his makeshift noose, fighting the desperate urge for air, the burning in his lungs, the sense of fucking panic…

He came to in the ambulance, swaying on a gurney as the vehicle lurched around a corner. As he realized that he'd made it; he was still alive, a huge wave of despair and helpless anger washed over him, but somehow, he kept his features composed. Through slit lids, he could see that there was a medic in the back, and sitting less than two feet away, an armed LAPD officer. He slowly, imperceptibly moved his hands; he wasn't cuffed – they clearly still thought that he was unconscious. He could still end his life – he could lunge for the guard and grab his pistol, and…

And escape. He turned the word over his mind, wonderingly. He probably wouldn't get far, but he could go out on his terms. He could make them shoot him, make them take his life. His heart quickened as another thought occurred to him. He could end it, certainly, but as he went, he could get revenge...

He waited until the ambulance roared around another corner and the officer and the medic both reached for something to steady themselves, and, using the momentum of the turn, he flung himself at the officer. The struggle was brief; the man was completely surprised, and a shot rang out as Marsh squeezed the trigger. The officer sagged to the floor and the ambulance jerked as the driver stepped on the brake. Marsh got to his feet and staggered around to face the driver and the medic in the back, his breath harsh in his throat, his eyes alight with crazed malice. "Keep driving!" he rasped, the words tearing from his aching throat, "and don't touch that radio!"

The man behind the wheel shot him a quick glance in the review mirror, terror in his face, and complied, and Marsh tried to collect his thoughts. He was still groggy from the after effects of his near strangling; he had to think…

Bang! Another gun report sounded, as Marsh made his first decision, and the medic in the back of the vehicle slowly sagged to the ground, the fear in his eyes giving way to a dull stare as his life faded. The medic had been too close to him, Marsh had decided, too much of a threat. Now it was just him and the driver. "Keep going to the hospital," he commanded the terror-stricken driver. "Keep both hands on the wheel where I can see them. If they speak to you over the radio, act normally."

There was a small window in each of the double doors in the back of the ambulance, too high up for anyone to see in, but Marsh straightened took a quick peek out. Sure enough, a marked LAPD sedan was following behind them, unaware of what had just happened inside the ambulance. He shot a glance out the front. No police in front, just the one unit, then, behind him. Somehow, he'd have to deal with them. Keeping his eyes on the driver, he bent over the fallen officer, fumbling for his spare ammo clip, then straightened, taking care to stay out of sight of the windows. He ran a hand over his raw, aching neck, and took in a deep breath. "How far are we from the hospital?"

"Seven minutes out," came the shaky response.

Seven minutes. Marsh had to move fast. He was clad in only his underwear, and he stooped again, still watching the driver, and awkwardly, with one hand, began to strip off the medic's uniform.

Don looked down at the sleeping figure on the sofa, and smiled softly. Charlie was sprawled on his side, completely out, his face relaxed, his breathing even. They'd made their way through Dad's chicken a la king and several more hours of conversation, and Don had lost count of the Hurricanes, although he was fairly certain he'd out-drunk Charlie two to one. They'd talked about everything; rehashing the entire case, some of it not so pleasant, but going through it was cathartic. As the night wore on, the conversation lightened; both of them were giddy with Hurricanes, relief, and a newfound sense of hope – the hope that not only might they get back to where they were before, but that maybe the ordeal had finally bridged a gap between them.

He yawned and blinked sleepily, weaving a little. Too many drinks, and not enough sleep, he decided. He trudged over and got the blanket from its resting spot on the chair and laid it gently over Charlie. No sense trying to move him to the bed; he was sleeping soundly. Don trudged back to his bed himself, and crawled onto the bed and collapsed, not caring that the bed was rumpled, or that it smelled faintly of Charlie. In fact, that was a bonus, as far as he was concerned; an olfactory reminder of a newfound sense of closeness. He drifted off to sleep, with a slight smile playing on his lips.

Bill Masters and Brian Rogan met outside their hotel room, both on the run for Masters' rental SUV. "What happened?" asked Rogan breathlessly, as they sprinted for the vehicle. Masters was shrugging on his jacket over his shoulder holster, and he wrenched open the driver's side door.

"Lieutenant Walker just called," he panted, as Rogan threw himself into the passenger seat and they slammed the doors. "Marsh just tried to kill himself – he might have been successful, they're not sure yet. They got his heart going again at the prison, but they don't know how long he was without oxygen - he could be brain dead. They're transporting him to Cedars by ambulance."

Rogan shot him a perturbed look, and tried to steady himself as Masters squealed out of the parking lot. "Under guard, I hope."

Masters nodded. "They've got an officer in the bus with him, and a marked unit following. Walker is on his way there – we'll meet him at the hospital."

"Pull up here, and wait."

The ambulance driver complied with his instructions, pulling over outside the emergency bay with shaking hands. Marsh sat and waited; the LAPD unit had been following closely, and even without looking out the windows, he was sure they'd pulled up behind them. The officers in the vehicle were probably wondering why there was no activity – why the medic wasn't opening the doors. He waited until he heard the latch on the door begin to lift, and then he leaned back on the edge of the gurney and kicked the doors hard. They flung open on the two surprised officers; they had their guns drawn, but the doors made them take a step backwards and lift the guns out of the way, and Marsh fired two shots in quick succession, taking them both out. He was out of the back immediately, running for a Honda sedan that was pulled over to the curb, where a young man was carefully helping his very pregnant wife out on the passenger side. Marsh waved a gun at them. "Give me your keys!" he rasped, and the astonished couple stared, and then the young man nervously tossed the keys toward Marsh and they backed away. Marsh caught a brief glimpse of the terror on their faces and the shock on the face of another medic, who had come out to assist with the ambulance. Marsh ran around the front of the Honda, jumped in and gunned the gas.

Once in the car, he had the almost irresistible urge to hit the highway and keep going, but he forced himself to think. He had a bag in the locker at the gym where he had stored the vest – it had several things that could be useful to him, including two sets of fake ID. He could simply run and get it, and head for one of the borders. However, if he could take out the Eppes brothers before he fled, it would improve his long term prospects for freedom. It wouldn't change his short-term prospects – they would hunt him hard during the immediate aftermath. If he was lucky enough to escape to another country, however, and the hunt died down, there would be less chance that they would keep up that search for him, if Charlie Eppes was gone. They would be minus their most important witness, after all, and their treason case would probably fold. He would still be considered a murder suspect, but that probably wouldn't warrant the resources required for an international search…

Going for the Eppes brothers was risky, but it had a long-term upside. It also had a short-term one – revenge. Marsh could almost taste it. Plus, he knew where they were – he'd heard his lawyers and the U.S. prosecutors conversing in the hallway after the line-up that morning, heard one of them say where they could reach Charlie Eppes – that he was staying with his brother. That knowledge, and the convenience of the arrangement – both of them there together, was the deciding factor. He could hit them now, quickly, before the word got out that he was free, stop for his bag at the gym, and be gone. He gunned the gas, and headed for Don Eppes' apartment.

He'd been there before more than once to reconnoiter, but he'd never been inside. The vest had been delivered by mail, and the knife and gun had been left for Don by one of Jorge Cazares' acquaintances. Marsh did know the outside layout, however, and where the surveillance units placed themselves. A slow drive by and a quick look at the parking area revealed that there was only one man on guard; he was sitting alone in his SUV. No doubt they thought that more surveillance wasn't necessary, with Marsh in custody. Marsh smiled, swung around the corner, and parked the Honda.

A few moments later, he crept up next to the SUV, gun in hand, wrenched open the door, stuck the gun right into the surprised man's gut, and fired. He had pointed the barrel upward so the bullet would travel into the man's chest, and he died instantly; his eyes glazing, staring sightless as he slumped in the seat. His body had acted like a silencer of sorts and muffled the shot, but there was still an audible 'pop;' and Marsh looked around the dark lot quickly. There was no sign of anyone around, no sign that anyone had heard, and he quickly felt in the man's pockets. More than likely, a man on surveillance would be given keys to the building and the apartment, so he could gain quick access if needed. Marsh's fingers closed on a ring holding two keys; a separate set of keys hung from the ignition, so more than likely these two were the right ones. He took the set from the ignition also, just in case, and pushed the man over so that he wouldn't be visible to any passers-by, then shut the door and turned for the apartment building. By the time the radio crackled in the officer's SUV, Marsh was already inside the building.

Rogan and Masters had no problem finding the emergency entrance to Cedars; they could see the flashing lights of a police car from two blocks away. They pulled to a screeching stop and jumped out of the vehicle, sprinting toward Lieutenant Walker. Masters could see two officers on the ground, medics bent over them, and more medics pulling someone from the ambulance. "What happened?" gasped Masters, as they pulled up next to Walker.

Walkers face was grim. "Marsh escaped. Apparently, he came to and overpowered the guard in the ambulance, shot him and the medic in back. He instructed the driver to pull over at the hospital, and then just waited. When our men in the patrol went to find out why they were taking so long to open the door, he was waiting for them – shot them both as the doors opened. He commandeered a Honda sedan – we've got an APB out for it. I've got all my available units out on the street, and I called A.D. Wright – he's getting his people out also."

Masters stared at him, stunned. "Shit – I can't believe it. We had the bastard wrapped up. How in the hell was he able to attempt suicide to begin with?"

Walker's lips tightened, and he shook his head. "He used his jumpsuit – took it off, twisted it, put it around his neck and tied the ends to the leg of his cot, and kept turning until it twisted tightly enough to cut off his air supply. We think it was a legitimate attempt at suicide and not a planned escape, but when he woke in the ambulance he took advantage of the situation."

"What about the Eppes brothers?" asked Rogan, concern growing in his face.

"One of my men is on the radio to the surveillance unit outside Don's apartment. We've got another unit on the way, and Wright is sending a couple of agents over."

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth, than an officer jogged up to them, panting. "Excuse me sir, but I need to tell you that we're not able to raise the officer on surveillance at Agent Eppes' apartment. We can't get Eppes on his cell phone, either. We've got units on the way, but the nearest one is at least five minutes out."

"Damn it," muttered Masters, and he turned for his vehicle, Rogan following his lead. Masters shot back at Walker over his shoulder, "We're heading over there – keep us posted if you hear anything from your men!"

Colby Granger flipped his phone open as he sped through the dark streets, and put it on speaker. "Yeah, David. Where are you?"

David's voice floated out from the phone. "I'm on the 10. I just got a call from Wright – we're to divert straight to Don's apartment. Apparently, they haven't been able to raise either Don or the officer on surveillance there."

"Shit," muttered Colby, under his breath, his heart rate ratcheting up a notch. "Okay, I'm headed that way now. I'll see you there."

He flipped his phone shut, punched on his lights, and gunned the gas, his face grim.

Don stirred restlessly, as a faint sound reached his ears. Frowning sleepily, he opened his eyes, trying to place it; he had the impression of the muffled distant report of a gun, and he lay there for a moment, half-asleep, listening. The silence stretched, and he drifted back off to sleep.

He jerked awake a few moments later, certain that something was wrong. He'd heard a noise again, he was sure of it, but he couldn't place the sound. He lay there, completely motionless, and then he heard it – the soft click of the front door latching. His heart gave a painful leap, then settled into an equally painful thumping and he leaned over on his elbow, easing the drawer of his dresser open, and lifted out his service piece. It had just been reissued to him the day before, and he hadn't even loaded it yet – he had simply stuffed it in the drawer, out of Charlie's sight; he hadn't wanted to make him nervous. He felt in the drawer for a clip of ammo, and in the dark, underneath the blankets to muffle the sound, he slid out the empty clip and put in the loaded one. Just as it slid home, he heard a muffled, surprised sound from Charlie, and then a light clicked on in the living room. He could hear a faint buzzing noise – it was his cell phone on the dresser across the room, and he mentally cursed himself. He usually always set it to 'ring' at night so it would wake him, but under the effects of the drinks, he'd forgotten and left it on 'vibrate.' He wondered who had been trying to call him and for how long. Had someone been trying to warn him? All of that went through his head in a split second, as he slid quietly off the bed.

As a voice floated in from the living room he froze, staring toward the doorway. "Come out, Agent Eppes, unarmed and with your hands over your head, if you want your brother to live." It sounded like Marsh, and Don's head whirled. How on earth could that be? For a moment, he wondered wildly if there was someone else in on this, like Rogan or Masters, or someone even higher, with the power to set Marsh free. After all of the lying, the mind games, the cover-ups, he didn't trust anyone anymore. He also knew that if he went out unarmed, they would both be dead; Marsh would shoot him first, and then deal with Charlie.

There was a thumping noise and an indistinct noise from Charlie, and Don slid out of bed, still holding his service revolver, as Charlie's voice came from the living room. "Don, don't –," It broke off suddenly, transforming into a sharp grunt of pain, and Don's jaw tightened. The apartment phone began to ring, and he used the noise as cover as he crept forward, crouching slightly as he headed down the hallway, hands extended, holding his service weapon. He reached the end, took a deep breath, and swung around the corner.

End Chapter 68

A/N: One more cliffie for you! Next up, the conclusion.