Mind Games Chapter 69, a numb3rs fanfic

Mind Games

Chapter 69

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: And now – a little over one year since I started writing this fic - for the final chapter.

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Colby made a hard right into the parking area, his tires screeching in protest, right behind David, and another SUV pulled in directly behind him. It contained Rogan and Masters; Colby had seen them in his rearview mirror, and the four of them leapt out of their vehicles and ran toward another SUV, parked in the lot. There was patrol car pulled in front of it, lights flashing, and a patrolman stepped forward as they pounded to a halt, jerking his head toward the vehicle. "We've got a casualty," he said, his face tight. "One of our guys – he was on surveillance duty. Looks like he was shot, right in the vehicle. No sign of the perp, or anyone else for that matter, when we got here."

David gave him a nod and looked at the others. "I tried calling Don – I couldn't get an answer. Colby and I are going up."

"We're coming with you," said Masters, his words directed toward their backs; the FBI agents were already sprinting toward the building.

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Charlie blinked, as a thin stream of blood trickled into his right eye.

He'd been roughly awakened from a dead sleep by a strong hand pulling him off the sofa, and he'd instinctively gotten his good foot on the floor, trying to pull away, a startled, indistinct noise coming from him as he did. As the hand pulled harder, he found himself upright, his weight on his good foot, the back of his shirt gathered in someone's fist; and he could feel cold metal press against his temple. His heart thudded in his chest. "Don't move," a voice hissed.

The man shifted his grip, releasing his collar and quickly sliding his arm around Charlie's throat, then dragged him a step, pulling him toward the end table. The arm around his throat tightened, and he felt the gun leave his temple as the man reached to turn on the light. Then it was back, cold and hard against his head. The man called out, "Come out, Agent Eppes, unarmed and with your hands over your head, if you want your brother to live," and it was then that Charlie realized it was Marsh. His voice sounded hoarse, raspy, but it was him, and Charlie's heart contracted in fear as the gun left his head once again, and Marsh's arm extended, pointing toward the hallway that led to the bedroom. As soon as Don showed himself, Marsh would shoot.

"Don, don't -," Charlie blurted, but the words were cut off by a grunt of pain as the gun found his head again; this time with a sharp rap. He saw stars and blinked, trying to clear them, and then felt the sensation of something wet sliding through the hair on his scalp, dripping down the side of his forehead toward his eye. At the same time, he caught his breath as Don swung through the opening, gun extended. His eyes were dark and dangerous, and Charlie felt an involuntary start of fear at the sight, even though his rational mind knew that the hatred in Don's eyes wasn't directed at him. He forced it aside, as Marsh, who had been aiming at the opening that led to the hall, pulled his gun back quickly and put it to Charlie's head again. Apparently, upon seeing that Don was armed, he had reconsidered his plan.

"Drop the gun, Eppes, or I blow his brains out," rasped Marsh. "I've got nothing to lose. I'm not going back to prison – I don't give a shit if you kill me, and if you don't listen, I'll take him with me."

Don kept his weapon level, but Charlie could now see the apprehension in his eyes. He was wavering, and Charlie knew that the moment Don dropped his gun he would be a dead man. He had to act, had to create a distraction somehow. He was held tight against Marsh's body and he could sense the position of Marsh's legs and feet. Quickly pulling his upper body forward and swinging his cast back between Marsh's legs, he then forced it around behind Marsh's left leg. Then, in almost the same instant, he shifted his weight backwards, pushing his upper body into Marsh's. Marsh tried to move his feet to compensate and maintain his balance, but Charlie's cast was blocking the movement of his left foot, and he tilted backwards. Had it merely been Charlie's leg, Marsh might have been able to get around it, but the stiff, cumbersome cast proved to be too much of an obstacle.

It was a variation of the move that Charlie had learned in his FBI defense classes, similar to the move he'd used on his own brother at the Craftsman, weeks ago, and Charlie could feel Marsh jerk as he lost his balance, and they both fell backwards. At the same time, a deafening report went off in his ear as the gun discharged, and then he went down with Marsh in a tangle of arms and legs. His cast was trapped between Marsh's legs, and as he hit, the odd angle of his leg and the fact that Marsh's leg acted like a fulcrum created a force that was enough to deflect the cast – slightly and instantaneously, but sufficient to put stress on the weak, healing bones. He felt something in his leg give and shift, a sickening lightning bolt of pain ran from his lower leg up his spine, and it stole his breath, made his head swim. As he tried to fight it back, he could feel Marsh pushing him aside and rising to a sitting position, could see the gun coming up again, and then another shot sounded.

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David yanked open the outer door to the apartment building and they darted inside, one after another. He didn't have a key, but someone, Colby noticed, probably Marsh, had left a small stone in the door to prop it open, just enough to keep it from latching, undoubtedly planning ahead in case he had to make quick getaway. Just as they got inside, a shot sounded above their heads. It was muffled by the doors and walls between them and the source of the noise, but it was without question a gunshot, and they leapt up the staircase and pushed through the door at the top as a second shot sounded. Don's apartment door was unlatched, and David barged through it without hesitation, Colby on his heels, guns extended. Rogan and Masters barreled in behind them, and then the four of them stopped, chests heaving, as they took in the scene.

Charlie was in the act of crawling across the floor as they burst through the door, his face contorted in an expression of fear and agony as he reached the far wall near the hallway and collapsed against it next to his brother. Don had slid to a seated position, leaning against the wall, and Colby's heart jumped as he saw the red stain blooming on the left side of Don's T-shirt, and the blood streaming down the side of Charlie's face. He cast a quick glance sideways as he moved toward them, taking in the fact that Marsh was lying on the floor, a dark stain on his chest, a bullet hole, black and glistening, in the center of it. Marsh was gasping, his breath making horrible rattling sounds in his throat, his eyes wide as he fought for air. Beyond him lay his gun, and as Colby reached Don and Charlie, he saw David move to secure the weapon and bend over Marsh.

Charlie was moaning Don's name and was weakly pulling at his shirt to get a look at the wound, and Don was beginning to push himself upright as Colby knelt beside them. "No, don't move, Don, just wait," he commanded, and gently pushed Charlie's hands aside and lifted Don's shirt, anxiously scanning the wound. It was bleeding profusely, but it appeared to be a simple gash in the skin along his rib cage, and as he glanced upward, he saw a hole in the wall where the bullet had entered. Charlie looked pale and nearly in shock, and Colby hastened to say, "It just looks like a gash," just as Rogan appeared behind him with a clean towel snatched from the kitchen to press on the wound.

Don hissed as the pressure was applied, and scowled at Colby. "I could have told you that, Granger." The initial shock of the hit was wearing off, and Don appeared to be regaining his senses as he looked anxiously at Charlie, who had slumped against the wall, shaking with relief and pain, and closed his eyes. "Charlie, hey, there, buddy. Look at me. Are you okay?"

Charlie blinked, his face pinched with agony. "My leg -," he managed to whisper, and Colby saw the tension in Don's shoulders relax a little, although the concern remained in his face as he took in the pain on Charlie's face, and the blood trickling down his cheek. Rogan kneeled next to Charlie and checked his head wound, as Masters got on the phone behind them, calling for ambulances.

Colby glanced back at Marsh, who took one last strangled gasp, his eyes rolling back in his head. His lids drifted halfway shut and stopped there, and David reached out and felt for a pulse. Colby was a little shocked at the sense of satisfaction he felt as David said, "Tell them one of them is gonna be DOS," and he stared at Marsh's body, his blue eyes flashing with the grim light of retribution.

He turned back to Don and Charlie, who were both slumped against the wall, now staring at Marsh with identical expressions. Charlie was gripping his brother's hand tightly, both of them white-faced with pain, and the dawning realization of how close they'd come to death. Don began quietly recounting what had happened, explaining how Charlie had tripped Marsh, who had fired at Don as he went down.

"As he sat back up, he aimed the gun at me again. I saw the opportunity for a clear shot," Don said calmly, "and I took it." Except for lines of pain, his face was nearly expressionless, but Colby could see an almost identical expression of satisfaction in his SAC's eyes, and it was echoed on Masters' face, as he came to stand next to David and looked down at Marsh's body.

"Death was too good for that bastard," Masters said softly, and they nodded.

"Yeah," Colby agreed, as they gazed at Marsh. "You got that right."

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A week and a half later, Alan knocked softly on Don's apartment door, still slightly out of breath from ascending the stairs so quickly. It was unlatched, and he didn't wait for a response; he turned the knob and stepped inside. His sons were seated together on the sofa - two dark heads came up in tandem, two warm relaxed smiles greeted him, and for a moment, he just stood there, as a little knot released inside his chest. Jonathan Wilkes had been right; putting his boys together for a couple of weeks had been the right thing to do.

"Well, you two looked like you survived," he said smiling, and he saw his sons exchange a glance, and then grin at each other. "What?" Alan asked, looking from one of them to the other.

Don simply shrugged, and said, "We're doing fine, Dad. Welcome back."

Alan peered at Charlie. "You, however, don't look like you've been eating my dinners."

Again there was an exchanged glance, and then Don looked back at Alan. "He, uh, spent a couple of days eating hospital food, Dad. He hurt his leg, and they decided to move up his surgery."

"What? Why didn't you call me?" sputtered Alan, with indignation.

"The good news is, it's all done, Dad," Charlie said, trying to mollify him. "They put in a plate and a few pins, and now all I have to do is heal up. After that, a little physical therapy, and I'll be walking again."

Alan stared at him, then at Don, suspicion growing in his face. "Why do I have a feeling that there's more to this story?"

Charlie's eyes moved unconsciously past him, and Alan glanced in that direction. There was a gouge in the wall near the hallway that led back to Don's bedroom that looked like a – "Is that a bullet hole?" Alan asked, his voice rising.

Don sighed. "Dad, sit down. There are a few things we have to tell you."

Several minutes later, Don reached the end of his explanation, and silence fell. Alan sat there for a moment, processing the information he'd just been given, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see his sons' sheepish expressions. They were sitting silently, waiting for an outburst, and it reminded him of the time they'd they come in to confess they'd broken the garage window with a baseball. "And you didn't think it necessary to tell me what was going on."

Don and Charlie shot each other yet another glance. Alan maintained a stern look on his face – granted, the information was shocking, and he was frankly astounded that they'd kept it from him, but inside, he felt like dancing for joy. Their body language, their expressions when they looked at each other, the very fact that they'd collaborated, schemed together, all spoke to the fact that they'd beaten back the barriers between them. Still, he wasn't going to let them off the hook so easily. He looked at them with an admonishing expression.

"That was my fault, Dad," said Charlie slowly. "It was already over, Marsh was dead. Don just needed some stitches – they didn't even keep him in the hospital that night." He glanced at Don, with a glimmer of gratitude in his dark eyes. "Not that he left anyway. He slept on the recliner in my room. They did the surgery on my leg the next day – you couldn't have gotten back from Juneau in time anyhow, and you just would have stewed. I talked Don into not telling you." He grinned, and his dark eyes danced mischievously. "Plus, Don makes such a good servant."

"Don't think you're not gonna pay me back, Chuck," Don growled, with mock gruffness, his eyes glinting with affection. He reached over and tried to ruffle Charlie's hair, and Charlie, grinning, batted his hand away.

Alan shook his head and smiled, and then his expression sobered. "So, where does that leave you? Is there going to be any kind of inquiry – will either of you need to testify?"

Don shook his head. "No – it's over, Dad, all of it. We're done except for some counseling." He glanced at Charlie, and then looked back at Alan, steadily. "We've come a long way, but Wilkes is insisting that we do some follow up sessions. He has to get back to New Orleans, but he said he would assign someone with the proper clearances for the information to meet with us." As he spoke, a knock sounded at the door, and Don glanced at his watch. "In fact, that's probably him now – Charlie has an appointment in five minutes, and I asked Wilkes to have the therapist come here."

He rose to answer the door, and Charlie said softly, "This stuff was pretty sensitive – it makes you wonder who they found with the clearances to do the therapy." A bemused expression came to his face, and Alan turned in time to catch Don standing at the door, with a look of surprise.

"Well," said a familiar voice, "are you going to stand there, or are you going to let me in?" Don stepped back with a grin, and Megan Reeves sauntered into the room with a smile. "Hi guys." She raised an eyebrow at Charlie. "Don't look so surprised. You have to admit, there aren't that many people with a background in psychology, who also happen to know the particulars of this case." Her smile turned teasing. "In math terms, Charlie, those two subsets barely intersect."

Charlie had managed to recover from his initial surprise, and said with a grin, "You know, Megan, you're absolutely right."

Don rubbed the back of his head, still smiling, but he looked slightly uncomfortable, and edged toward the door. "Charlie's first," he said hastily. "C'mon, Dad, let's go get lunch."

He didn't wait, he headed straight out the open door, and Megan called after him. "You're not getting away from me, Don Eppes – I will track you down!"

Alan scooted past her, with a grin and a nod. "Don't worry," he said, "I'll bring him back."

She turned to look at Charlie as Alan shut the door, and Charlie said, softly, "I don't think you'll have a problem getting him to talk. He's been doing a pretty good job of that lately." He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

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Three months later…

Don pulled Charlie's pack out of the SUV and handed it to him, hesitating before he relinquished his grip. "Are you sure you're up for this? Maybe we should just make this a day hike."

Charlie shook his head. "I'm fine. I told you, I've been walking five miles a day, and last Saturday, I did ten."

"Yeah, I know, I was at the house when you got back, and you were limping, remember?"

Charlie shrugged on his pack, with an unconcerned expression. "As long as we don't try to do too much in one day, I'll be okay." He sent Don a sly grin. "Don't tell me you're trying to weasel out of this."

Don's face relaxed and he smiled back. Charlie did look fine; he was still about five pounds underweight, but his color was good. His dark curls danced around his face as he smiled up at him, and Don had a sudden flashback of a night, months ago, in Chicago, just before they began their mission. They'd stepped out of a bar, and Charlie had looked up at him, just that way, his face illuminated by a streetlight, his hair ruffled by the cold Chicago lake breeze. He wore same expression of brotherly affection, held the same glimmer of anticipation in his eyes – not for the mission, as Don knew now, but because Charlie was looking forward to spending time with him. Chicago, and the start of the mission - it seemed so long ago, but somehow, they were closer to that point, to each other, than they had been any time in between. In fact, perhaps closer than they'd ever been in their lives.

"Weasel out? Not a chance," he said. His eyes rested on Charlie's face for a moment, and his smile faded slightly. "I was afraid you might."

Charlie's eyes wandered over to the sign at the edge of the parking space, and his expression turned thoughtful. "The last time we were here should have told you the answer to that," he said quietly. "If I followed you into these woods then, you should know that I'd follow you anywhere." He looked up, smiling a bit shyly, as if abashed by his own statement, but his eyes were clear, intent, and Don knew that he meant every word.

"Likewise, buddy," he said softly. "Well, then, let's hit the trail."

He heaved on his own pack, closed the hatch of the SUV and hit the lock button, and they headed toward the trail head. 'Welcome to the Angeles National Forest,' said the sign, and below it, were the words, 'Ridgeline Trail.'

Don's pack was heavy, and he shifted it with a grunt. Something inside clinked, and Charlie frowned. "That sounded like glass. What do you have in there, anyway?"

Don grinned at him. "Just a little something for our fireside chats."

Charlie's frown of confusion faded to a curious smile. "What?"

Don's grin broadened, and he took a deep breath of fresh air and tilted his face to the sky as they stepped onto the trail. "Hurricanes, Secret Agent Man. Hurricanes."

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End

A/N: In case you were wondering, that was the original ending for this story. I killed Marsh off for a couple of reasons – first and foremost because I think it was the most appropriate ending for this fic. There is more than one way to spin a sequel to this even without him, but truthfully, I have other bunnies for other stories hopping around, and I will probably deal with them first. My next story, which I am already working on, is much shorter. It's not related to this fic at all, although this story birthed the bunny for that one.

Many, many thanks to FraidyCat for doing the grammar and sense checks on this for me – not a small task considering the length. And many more thanks to all my reviewers, and especially that faithful group who reviewed every chapter. Posting something this long takes some effort, especially posting multiple times per week, and you all kept me going. I was also delighted to see some first reviews in this piece – thank you so much to everyone who reviewed; you make feel very humble.

Thanks again, and I'll see you (hopefully) in a few weeks. SG