Chapter 30 "Stan's Turn"

A/N: (5 December 2016) Omigosh, your comments on chapter 29 were awesome and warmed my heart! You are the best people, the kindest people! So I made haste to give you the next installment, which got tweaked to absolute death, because there were just so many ways it could go, and it was literally a matter of choosing the most, uh, hopefully satisfying course.

This is for all of you, with my thanks for all you have given back to a writer who wants to please you and do right by this story.

CBS owns Hawaii Five-0.

Chapter 30 "Stan's Turn"

(Saturday, 24 December 2016, 8 a.m.)

Steve had been awake, most of the 4 hours he had spent resting on his office couch, using a finely crocheted, every-shade-of-blue afghan as a blanket. It had been made by his Aunt Deb as a wedding gift to his parents years ago, so was almost a family heirloom. He kept it in a brightly pattered tote behind the couch, to be brought out for just such times as he found himself in – needing to rest in his office instead of going home to get a very abbreviated night's sleep. It comforted him to have something from home and family when he couldn't make it home to rest.

He was worried. It had taken him awhile to notice, but he was getting nothing from Danny, and hadn't since sometime the day before. He wasn't starving anymore. There was this void, and in a moment of complete honesty, he admitted to himself that it scared him to death. Immediately after thinking it, he rejected everything about his choice of words. "Come on, Buddy. Hold on. You gotta hold on. We're gonna find you, Babe, I swear we are. You gotta hold on."

It was hard to think about plans and sneaky ways to try to get Stan to talk, but they had decided on the best way to interrogate Stan Edwards. It was all they had, since Dr. Cornett had called Steve around 5 a.m. to tell him Mo Morris had suffered another severe brain hemorrhage and had passed away during surgery minutes earlier. There was nothing he would be able to tell them about what had happened to him. Add another death to Stan's long list.

Steve thanked the doc for letting him know, and offered his sincere condolences, because they had come to care in an odd way for Mo, who had stopped Stan from doing even worse to Danny than Stan had done. He had helped their friend. Steve then admitted his fear that Danny was worse, since it was as if their emotional / intuitive connection with one another had been severed. "I don't think he's dead, but something has changed. He's sick. I think he may be unconscious."

Danny's doctor had been silent for several seconds. "He may be sleeping very deeply. Or … you may be right. You question Stan Edwards at 8?" asked Cornett.

"Yup."

"We will be ready with a full team, hoping for the best. You'll find him, one way or another, and we will all take our best care of him. Whatever his condition, we will do everything humanly possible. I will be on stand-by all day if necessary, so I can be on the medevac that will be in the air minutes after you tell us where to fly. Now rest," ordered the doc, gently, his compassion on full display. "Get at least another hour, and try not to worry. Danny could just be sleeping. Grace has not spoken up about any fears, and I'm pretty sure she would."

"When do you pick up your son and his family at the airport?" asked Steve, remembering that it was Christmas Eve, and was supposed to be a day off for Dr. Cornett.

"Later this afternoon."

"Then you need to get some rest, too, Doc. But we will let you know what happens with the interrogation, and if Stan gives us anything that will lead us to Danny, we will definitely let you know. He will need you." Steve paused, and tried to be of comfort. "I am deeply sorry about Mo."

"Me too. I'll try to take a nap. You do the same." The doc ended the call.

'Rest in peace, Mo,' thought Steve, feeling a level of grief for this stranger who had helped his partner, and he knew he would see to it that Mo would be remembered, and buried with friends to bid him farewell, even if he did not know those friends.

The office came alive sometime after 6, when the members of Five-0 yawned and stretched their tense, weary muscles and used the locker rooms to shower, change, and prepare for the day. Steve spread the word about Mo's death, and quiet descended as they waited to hear that Stan had been taken to the room where Steve had decided to interrogate him. It was at Halawa, the prison where Stan would live the rest of his life once he was sentenced, and where he was awaiting either his trial or sentencing, whichever way he forced the situation to go. Steve wanted him kept from the rest of the population, and that included the usual room where inmates were questioned. His would be a secluded one not far from the staff parking lot and main gates. He would have to walk a long way in his cuffs to get to that dingy room from his isolated prison cell.

Breakfast was vending machine energy bars and strong coffee. Conversation did not extend beyond remarking that it was Christmas Eve. "It has never felt less like it," sighed Abby, and Kono agreed. It was Steve who said, "But it is Christmas Eve, a day to be spent with family, with ohana. And that is how we are going to spend it. We may not have Danny in our midst, yet, but he is certainly in our hearts."

"Hear, hear," responded Chin, before the silence once again enwrapped them all. The difference was that each felt closer to their friends, more united than before. They were more than the Five-0 Task Force, missing one. They were ohana.

Steve fielded several calls, and search teams were once again combing the island, looking for a shipping container with a small solar panel and probably an air pipe on top. One chopper would swing by to pick them up and fly them all to Halawa Correctional Facility, since it would be faster and would avoid the holiday traffic. Time, Steve felt, was very short. They had called ahead to make sure that the helipad closest to staff parking was ready for them.

The day was as cold, gray and rainy as the day before, but this time everyone had dressed for it, their jackets feeling bulky in the unseasonal weather.

Each of the members of Five-0 was armed with their handgun, as a precaution. "Ammo check," said Steve in a subdued, but commanding voice. Chin, Abby, and Kono all checked for the third or fourth time that they were good to go. They heard the chopper land in the parking lot across from the park-like Iolani Palace grounds. "Are we ready to do this?" asked Steve, and looked each of his team members in their eyes. One by one they nodded, faces grave.

"Then let's do this. We have to play nice, but we must make him talk, so be on your toes. He drops the slightest clue, we pounce."

"We're ready," stated Chin, steeled and prepared. Kono and Abby echoed his statement.

H50 H50 H50

At 7:45 a.m. precisely, they landed and climbed out of the chopper. The pilot stayed with the craft, since this could be a long or very short interrogation.

Steve looked around the lot, where two guards had come to escort them to the waiting room. A driver had just climbed out of his maintenance truck, shielding his eyes from the dust kicked up from the slowing rotors as he checked his tool belt. Another guard hurried him past them and into the same doors they would enter through in a few minutes.

It was a solemn, quiet group that was checked by the guards, and escorted in. "Is Stan on the way? Is the room even ready for him?" asked Steve, his voice peeved and tense as he stood outside, having looked in through the door's narrow window to see the workman using a battery powered screw driver on the lower part of the bar to which Stan's wrists would be cuffed. The guard with the workman gave them the thumbs up signal, and escorted the man back out. He passed Stan, being led down the hall by two more guards.

Stan's jumpsuit was gray. "Why isn't he in blaze orange?" barked Steve, his voice carrying down the tunnel-like corridor. Chin quieted him. "Calm down, Steve. It doesn't matter what color his jumpsuit is." Stan smiled at Steve as he shuffled serenely into the room, as if his sole intention in smiling was to annoy his obviously agitated interrogator.

As the door was opened for Stan, the guard in charge of Steve and his group whispered to Steve that the bar on the wall was no longer loose. Steve glanced at Stan, who didn't react as if he had overheard this lapse, and rolled his eyes at the guard. "Good. We saw the workman arrive just after we choppered in. That's cutting things a bit fine, don't you think?" Kono and Abby exchanged quietly worried looks, hoping Stan had not heard Steve's acidic comment.

"It was, but he got stuck in traffic," scowled the guard, trying to remain civil, even as Stan was now out of earshot. "Everything is ready now, Sir. The prisoner has been secured."

Steve sighed and nodded. "Okay, I understand. I just don't want anything to go wrong." He turned to Chin. "I'm tense. I should not have had an energy bar and coffee."

"We can do this later. A few hours won't make much difference. We should talk to Stan when you're more collected."

Steve stared down at his camo-booted feet, hitched his sling so it felt more comfortable on his cast. "No. No, let's do this now. I promise to calm down. I know how much is riding on this." He turned to Kono and Abby. "Ladies, the room next door awaits you. Let's get this started. Stay sharp, everyone."

"And calm," whispered Kono before following Abby into the observation room, her laptop tucked under her arm.

H50 H50 H50

Steve stood six feet from Stan, staring silently at the smugly relaxed man sitting in the metal chair, his hands cuffed together behind his back, secured to the bar on the wall, each ankle cuffed to a chair leg. Chin stood to one side, in Stan's line of vision but closer to the door.

Steve and Stan were engaged in what for all the world seemed like a staring match or game of chicken. Since it was apparent that the retired Navy SEAL would not budge, Stan finally broke the lengthening silence.

"I thought you had forgotten about me," he quipped. "But where are my manners? Happy Christmas Eve, Steve, Chin." He turned to the two-way mirror and added, "And ladies."

Steve's manner had changed to what his co-workers recognized as super focused, entirely purposeful. "You can call me Commander, and my colleague will be addressed as Detective. Is that understood, Stan?"

"I had no idea Chin had the same rank as Danny. Guess I never thought to ask anyone about that," replied Stan, still smirking annoyingly. "I'll call you both whatever I want, since there isn't anything you can legally do to me but talk, talk, talk."

"Have you even wondered why you are in this room, instead of the more usual interrogation rooms?" asked Steve, standing like a statue, and showing about as much emotion.

"Not really."

"We have a lot more privacy here. And we've sent the guards away."

"Oh goody! This prison is so overcrowded, a little privacy is a good thing," smiled Stan.

"Not necessarily in your case." Steve moved a pace closer. "The thinnest sliver of wood or metal shoved under a fingernail causes excruciating pain," he said, as if making conversation. "It's even worse under a toenail." He nodded to Chin, who pulled out a wooden match and a penknife from one of his pockets. He shaved off a sliver from the match, which he handed to Steve before putting the knife and match back in his pocket.

"Oh, scary." Stan shivered, mockingly. "Remember that I said 'legally' before. That little sliver would be best used to pick your teeth."

Steve turned to Chin. "Do my teeth need picking?" he asked, and Chin shook his head. "Brushed and flossed, Boss."

"I did," said Steve, and turned back to Stan. He moved forward suddenly and went down on one knee, using his good hand to yank off Stan's slipper and sock. "Which toe do you think, Chin?"

Stan was finally looking alarmed. "Hey hey hey!" he stammered. "You can't do that!"

"We can," informed Steve. "We're Five-0."

"Personally," answered Chin, "I would go for the big one, but take your pick. I can make more slivers, if you need them. Why don't I just carve some more, and hand them to you as needed." Chin retrieved the match and knife, and began carving slivers.

"Good idea," said Steve. "The big toe can take more than one." He placed the pointy end of the one Chin had given him, and began to slide it just beneath Stan's big toenail. "Whoever does your pedicures does a real nice job."

Stan was breathing hard, but he smiled, less convincingly. "I know a bluff when I see one."

"Chin, the guy who tried to kill me and Danny, and who failed in doing either, thinks we're bluffing. I don't think we're bluffing," he commented, and shoved the thinnest part just enough under the nail that it was poking the skin, not yet sliding under the nail. He stopped, withdrew it, and handed it back to Chin. "Could you make that look more like a fat splinter? It's a little thick. And I probably only need this one, since I can keep pulling it out and shoving it back in. But keep that match ready, since I might want to set this little thing on fire, later. Stan likes fire, so he won't mind. He burned down Danny's house."

"Sure, Boss." One flick of the blade, and Chin handed a thinned sliver back to Steve.

"Don't do it!" Stan was struggling slightly, as if trying not to but unable to help himself. "Look, we can talk. I know you came to ask me about things."

"Just let me do this one," said Steve. "I can't resist." He shoved the little-more-than-a-splinter under Stan's big toenail.

Stan bit off a wail. "Dammit! Pull it out!"

"I can't. It broke. Chin, we need to find just the right thickness for the next one."

"**** you!" hissed Stan, breathing heavily, the pain already breaking his nerve.

"Chin, we can go massive on the others. You used the wrong word, Stan. We have Mo's phone, and know what you wanted to do to Danny, and what you did do. Not the way to get on my good side."

"You're lying. I looked for that phone." His assured voice was betrayed by the fear and flickering-to-life anger in his eyes.

Steve stood up and pulled the phone out of one pocket. He played some audio, and held it out so Stan could see the video. "Mo's phone." He shrugged as he re-pocketed it. "Your search for it was probably a bit on the rushed side. He's out of his coma now, and I know he wants real bad to testify against you. Chin, could I have a fatter splinter this time?"

"I made several. Take your pick."

Steve stepped back and selected one after due consideration. "This one feels sharp and strong, and it's got the desired length. I can set the end on fire later. Thanks, Chin. Good job."

Stan was not even trying to hide that he was struggling. "Look, just ask me questions, I'll answer them! You don't need to – God dammit!" He wailed impotently as Steve shoved the second splinter beside the first one.

"Oh yeah," commented Steve, studying his handiwork, which Stan, try as he might, could not see. "There's enough of an end to burn." He gazed like stone at Stan, who was breathing in pained hisses. "That one was for Neil Lane, the roofer who looked a bit like Danny, who you killed and then stuck in Danny's car and torched. His widow misses him greatly. All the others, though," Steve said as he held his hand out to Chin, who laid more splinters in his palm, "will be for Danny."

Eyes full of fear, Stan pleaded, clearly angry at his own weakness and need to beg. "Look, I'll talk. Just don't – I'll talk!"

"We know." Steve nodded, and then swore. "Chin, we did this wrong. Do you have the clipper?"

"Oh! Yeah. Oh wait, Abby has it. Let me just go next door for a sec."

Chin left the room, and as soon as the door was closed, Steve tweaked the splinter, just the tiniest movement. Stan grunted, his face beaded in sweat. "See, I'm making it my mission in life to make you talk. And if you refuse to talk, I have this." He pulled a syringe from his pocket, fully loaded with something bright yellow. "No antidote. It causes really bad, whole-body pain if I give you just a little. It wears off after a few hours. But if you make me give you all of it, it paralyzes, and kills slowly, but you will feel every second of every hour of about three days. Even the strongest pain killers won't work against this."

Stan could not take his wide, terrified eyes off the syringe. "H-how do I know you won't use that after I tell you everything?"

Steve instantly pocketed the syringe as Chin came back into the room, but he mouthed to Stan, "Be good."

"Steve, here's the clipper."

Steve took it in his left hand, and thanked Chin. "I may be a bit clumsy with this, but nobody in prison will care." Without further ado, he asked Chin to hold Stan's head still. As soon as Chin did so, Steve began to shave off Stan's thick hair, which looked good even without gels and sprays to style it. Soon, all of it was lying on Stan's shoulders and on the floor around his chair.

"You guys are sick," Stan whimpered, furiously. "Really sick."

"You wanted to rip off some of Danny's scalp. That is sick," Steve and Chin intoned icily in unison.

Steve handed Chin the clipper and stood back to admire his handiwork. "What do you think, Chin?"

"I like it. Now he knows how Danny feels."

"Not quite. We didn't use a shaving razor on the stubble, but we can always do that later."

Stan, too afraid of Steve's syringe, said nothing, though he was seething now with rage.

"He should see this. Shall I do the honors?" Chin held up a handcuff key.

"Be my guest," answered Steve, face hard and eyes noticing Stan's fearful expression as he patted his pocket. He mouthed again, "Be good."

Chin unlocked first the wrist cuffs from the bar, then relocked his wrists in front of him, then unlocked the ones on Stan's ankles. He grabbed his arm and hauled him up, but as soon as he did, Stan unsnapped the cover of Chin's gun holster and grabbed his gun. With hands shaking with humiliation, rage, and fear, he shot Chin, then Steve, who both dropped like stones, red stains spreading on their chests. Kono and Abby were in the room in an instant, guns drawn, only to be shot multiple times while their shots went wide. They went down, faces shocked, and lay still. He grabbed up their guns and shoved them into his coverall.

Stan fumbled with the key he had taken from Chin's limp hand, and unlocked his cuffs. He yanked the one splinter he could from beneath his big toe, then as an afterthought pulled the syringe from Steve's pocket, and injected the contents into Steve, who was beginning to stir. Steve moaned, but did not regain consciousness. Stan didn't know if they were all dead – except for Steve, who couldn't survive that syringe of whatever it was; he was satisfied that they were all hurt and, for now at least, unable to hurt him. For good measure, he shot all but Steve again. Dead was best.

Stan was out the door and running down the hall, toward a doorway that he guessed the members of Five-0 had entered from. It was miraculously unlocked, and unguarded, so he looked wildly around, saw the chopper, and moved toward it stealthily, his toe paining him. But escape was the most important thing. He hid behind the handyman's truck, and noticed a number of tools in the storage area behind the seat, including a blowtorch and a heavy duty bolt cutter. He grabbed the last two items before heading to the chopper. He shot the chopper pilot, climbed in, and had the rotors spinning in nothing flat as he prepared to fly. Finally a guard appeared, who he shot at, and then he was airborne, swinging the chopper so he was flying away from the prison, even as he heard the pops of gunshots as other guards fired on the chopper. He was out of range quickly, then changed course for a straight-line flight to where he had left Danny.

If there was one thing he was going to be sure of before he tried to altogether flee the islands, it was that Danny was dead dead dead dead.