Another storm was brewing - unusual for this time of year, but then again, storms seemed so much more common at the higher elevation. The clouds were dark and lightning was starting to flash in the distance.
Dinner was long finished and cleaned up. Steve had checked Fielding's bandages and changed them, declaring the wounds to be healing as expected. Riley had watched with curious detachment, and slipped out of the room quietly. By the time she returned, hair damp from a shower, and wearing the soft flannel sleep pants and tshirt that Renee had selected for her, both Fielding and Joe had turned in for the night.
Steve was still putting away the medical supplies when Riley padded into the comfortable study.
"Can you take these stitches out of my arm?" she asked, curling into the sofa and extending her arm.
"They can't possibly be -" Steve broke off, looking in disbelief at her arm. The deep gash, which had been stitched, torn open, and restitched, was almost healed.
"I guess this is my circus trick," Riley said, shrugging. "I can tell, by looking at Fielding's stitches, that mine are healing much faster."
"Yeah," Steve said, rubbing the back of his head, "that would be an understatement. Okay, let's get those out." He carefully cut each stitch with suture scissors and gently pulled the stitches out with a pair of fine-tip forceps.
Riley flexed her fingers and rotated her arm, relieved to be rid of the distracting line of sutures.
"Thanks," she said. "Where did you learn all the medical stuff?"
"BUD/s training," Steve explained. "All SEALs are extensively trained as field medics. We never know when we're going to have to take care of one of our team, or a civilian, or a person of interest."
"Joe never taught me any of this," Riley said quietly. "I guess I was just supposed to inflict damage, not heal it."
"Hey," Steve said, tucking his hand under her chin and turning her face up to his. "You can ask Joe, tomorrow, why he neglected this part of your training. In the meantime, let's get started."
"Really?" she asked, smiling and pleased.
"Yes, really," he answered. "First, we start with simple lacerations . . . "
They spent the next hour in basic field aid, until Riley was yawning and blinking slowly.
"Okay, that's enough for tonight," Steve declared firmly. "You need to go get some sleep."
She nodded slowly, clearly trying to get up the nerve to ask Steve a question.
"What is it, sweetheart?" he prompted.
"Is there a way to lock my door, from the outside?" she asked, fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt.
"I don't know," Steve answered. "Why?"
"I want you to find a way to lock my door. From the outside. So I can't get out at night," Riley said.
"Riley -" Steve started, but stopped when she looked up at him, her eyes full of misery.
"Please," she whispered.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him, cradling her head against his shoulder.
"Okay," he mumbled into her ear. "Okay; but just until we figure some stuff out, and you feel better about things."
A short while later, Steve stood outside her bedroom door, reluctantly latching the simple slide bolt that he'd retrieved from the supplies in his truck. Joe had heard the quiet whir of tools and come out from his room and helped; without question or comment, his eyes filled with remorse. When they finished, Joe put his hand flat against the door.
"Good night, Riley," he said. "I hope you sleep well."
"Night, Joe," she replied. "Night, Steve." Her voice sounded small.
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the door. Joe hesitantly placed his hand on Steve's shoulder, and when Steve didn't shake him off, squeezed sympathetically.
"I'll stay up a shift," Joe said quietly. "Go get some rest, son."
The familiar term of endearment slipped out, and Joe waited for Steve to lash out at him, as he had the last time. But Steve just nodded absently.
Joe watched him walk the few steps to his room, shoulders uncharacteristically hunched with fatigue and concern. It appeared that he was slowly rebuilding some of the shattered trust between himself and his younger protege. Joe sighed, knowing that if he was to truly earn back Steve's trust and respect, he was going to have to reveal more painful secrets . . . before Steve and Riley found out from other sources.
Shaking his head ruefully, Joe went to the kitchen to fix some tea. He was glad he'd offered to take the first shift . . . sleep would not come to him tonight, even if he tried.
#*#*#*#*#
Riley was once again up the next morning, fixing tea, when Steve made his way into the kitchen.
"Did you sleep?" he asked, concerned. It was early, even by SEAL standards.
"Yeah," she shrugged. "Mostly. Joe unlocked my door right at sunrise. Tea?"
Steve nodded in her direction, and she fixed two cups. They took their cups out to the porch, hands wrapped around the warmth. Steve settled into a chair, but Riley paced back and forth at the railing.
"What's wrong?" Steve prompted.
Riley sighed and shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted. "Just restless, I guess."
Steve pondered for a moment, then broke into a smile. "I have just the thing for that."
#*#*#*#*#
"The package came?" Steve asked, as Jerry opened his front door and motioned him inside.
"Yeah, arrived late yesterday afternoon," Jerry said, handing Steve a small box, wrapped discretely in brown paper. "I've never accepted a package hand delivered from the US Navy before," Jerry added, slightly awed. "Someone drove here from Pearl, said that Catherine wanted to get something into your hands, asked if they could leave it here. You might have warned me."
"Sorry, Jerry," Steve said. "I'll give you the heads up next time."
"You promise you won't have to kill me?" Jerry fretted, as Steve helped him load the last of the computer equipment into the back of the Silverado. "Can you tell me what's in the package?"
"I won't have to kill you," Steve answered, smothering a smile. Jerry was dead serious. "And inside that package is the most secure satellite link available."
"Then this is the coolest thing I have done in a long time," Jerry said, climbing into the truck. "Possibly ever. How's Riley? How's her arm? I was wondering, if we got her one of those survival suits, you know, the reflective ones, like people wear in forest fire situations, if that could possibly block the transmission . . . "
On the drive back up to Mokoto's - no, actually, Riley's house, Steve reminded himself - Steve let Jerry's ramblings wash over him. He'd learned well in his years of Naval Intelligence not to dismiss any idea, no matter how unlikely, and he was an expert at letting his brain filter through it on a subconscious level. It wouldn't surprise him if something of significance came back to him in the middle of the night. Jerry might be a conspiracy theorist with an active imagination . . . but he was brilliant. And if ever there was a situation that Jerry could make sense of, while the rest of them stood scratching their heads, this was it.
The immediate concern, however, was a well-deserved distraction for Riley, who had only been told that Steve was coming back with a surprise for her.
As his truck rumbled up the loose stone drive, Riley appeared on the front porch, peering curiously into the passenger seat, and grinning widely when she recognized Jerry.
He got out of the truck, eyes wide at the sight of the Japanese style house, tucked away into the dense foliage. Riley bounded down the stairs and toward him, and he wrapped her in a big hug, lifting her feet gently off the ground.
Fielding and Joe had both come out, and while Joe smiled at the sight, Fielding looked completely confused.
"Who is this?" he asked. "Is this the computer guy?"
"Yes," Joe answered, "and apparently, Riley's first friend, outside of Five-O. They do make an unlikely pair, don't they?"
Fielding shook his head. "She wasn't supposed to make friends. It's dangerous; for her, and for them. That's why Shelburne kept her isolated. You went off the reservation; went behind the scenes and allowed her to go to the university. That was the beginning of the end."
Steve had quietly joined them, and put a calming hand on Joe's shoulder, as he reacted to Fielding's words as if he'd been physically struck.
"No," Steve said firmly, "the beginning of the end was when Shelburne" - he spat out the name - "and crew decided to play God with my sister's life. That was the beginning, and I will damn well see to the end. And you," he added, jabbing a sharp finger into Fielding's chest, mindless of his injury, "would do well to remember your position at this point. Shelburne wants you dead. Don't make me agree with that sentiment."
Fielding wisely retreated back into the house, leaving Joe and Steve together.
"He's right, you know," Joe said quietly. "Maybe she would have been better off, safer, had I not interfered. I thought . . . I really did think that I could find a way to get her out, distract WoFat, somehow salvage all of this. I'm as guilty of playing God as Doris, and you have every right to be as angry with me as you are with her."
Steve flinched at the use of his mother's given name; it was easier, somehow, to keep her boxed up behind the wall of a code name.
"I am angry with you, Joe," Steve said honestly. "But I also appreciate that you're trying to do the right thing now. I just hope my willingness to trust you, to some extent, isn't completely misplaced."
"And I intend to prove that to you, Steve," Joe said. He hesitated, prompting Steve to look at him closely, sensing that there was more on his mind. "There are some things that I need to tell you, and Riley. And I will; I promise. But not today, not with Jerry here. Speaking of, why is Jerry here?" Joe smiled down at the sight before them, of Jerry and Riley gathering up loads of equipment.
"Jerry is here because Riley is restless and anxious, and I suspect this is starting to feel like an exile, a punishment," Steve explained. "And she needs a friend right now."
Jerry and Riley were making their way up the stairs, and Riley paused next to Steve. Her hands were full, but she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
"Thank you," she whispered, smiling.
"You're welcome," Steve said. He pointed to a bag in her hand. "What's in the grocery bag? I didn't load that."
"Hot Pockets and Red Bull," Riley said. "They're amazing. Seriously."
Steve shook his head and chuckled as Riley and Jerry disappeared inside the house.
Within the hour, Riley and Jerry were ensconced in front of an impressive array of laptops and keyboards. Steve made a mental note to arrange for some larger screens to be delivered, but aside from that, the two looked happy as clams.
"You're sure this is completely secure?" Riley asked nervously. "I would never forgive myself if anyone, especially Jerry, was put in danger."
"Catherine supervised the encryption herself," Steve said. "It's as secure as the highest capability of US Naval Intelligence can make it, for starters, and then between you and Jerry . . . I doubt even our best guys could hack it. Just . . . please promise me that you aren't going to launch any nukes." He was only half teasing.
"We actually thought we'd enjoy some gaming," Jerry offered. He'd gladly followed up on the favor Steve had asked of them on the drive up - give Riley something, anything, to think about, other than Shelburne.
Fielding came quickly out of the kitchen, having overheard their conversation.
"Don't play anything that you played before," he said urgently.
"I know; even if I create a new account, players will recognize my style of play. Besides, it was all monitored," Riley said. "By Shelburne."
"You knew?" Fielding asked, shocked.
"No, not at the time," Riley said. "But it makes perfect sense. Joe thought he had managed to safely hide me at the University of Tokyo, but he hadn't, had he? Shelburne knew exactly where I was. What better way to gather data than by closely observing a video game, right? What did it tell you, Fielding?"
Fielding was silent for a moment. "It was used to collect data on hand-eye coordination, mental processing speed, and even emotional responses. You routinely sacrificed yourself, in the games, to protect others that were classified as innocents."
"Hmm, and why was that significant?" Riley asked.
"It frustrated Shelburne and Garrison," Fielding said. "That behavior was outside the parameters of your programming." Fielding stopped short and held up his hand, as anger flashed in Steve and Riley's eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't realize, until I said it out loud . . . for what it's worth, Riley, I always admired that quality. You have to understand; I hadn't met you. You were a series of charts and a flow of data. But even then, I admired that, and I think on some level I was always secretly cheering for you when you went against the expectations of the program."
"Yeah, well maybe the McGarrett DNA is stronger than they realized," Riley said, leaning into Steve who had instinctively wrapped his arm around her shoulders, as if to protect her, somehow, from Fielding's words.
Steve dropped an affectionate kiss to the top of Riley's head, and tousled her hair. "McGarrett stubbornness is pretty legendary, too," he said. "Okay, don't take over any small nations or take over the stock exchange, you two."
He nodded discreetly to Joe and Fielding, who followed him into the study while Riley and Jerry settled in to create a brand new online persona for Riley, in a game she'd never played.
"Maybe I can at least beat you the first round," they heard Jerry comment, as they left the room.
Steve looked at Joe and Fielding as he sat down at the desk and pulled out a laptop that he had secured at Jerry's. "Okay, we need a plan. Our first priority is to somehow, safely, find a way to . . . to turn off, or disable, or eliminate this tracking and monitoring, and, God help us, potential control, that Shelburne has over Riley. I know the science was kept compartmentalized, but I want to know everything - absolutely everything - that the both of you know. Start with every physical location of every base of operation that Shelburne ever used. If we have to, we'll burn each of them to the ground until we find them."
Fielding and Joe began to try to recall every detail possible, while Steve listened intently, typing out details into his laptop. It was time to put his Naval Intelligence training and education to the test.
#*#*#*#*#
The three men were engrossed in trying to piece together the details of the situation, hours slipping away unnoticed, and the sun was considerably lower in the sky when they heard Jerry's shout from the main living space.
"Riley?! Guys, I need -"
Steve was the first to reach them, dropping to his knees beside Riley, as Jerry stood back in alarm.
"What is it, Steve?" Joe asked urgently.
"She's seizing," Steve said, as Riley's eyes rolled back and she jerked violently.
Joe started pulling furniture out of the way quickly, Jerry helping him, so that Riley wouldn't injure herself. Steve knelt helplessly next to her, resisting the urge to gather her in his arms and try to hold her tight, relying instead on his SEAL medic training and following protocol. It seemed to go on forever, and Steve found himself fighting back tears as he could only watch and wait, keeping one hand loosely on her shoulder, and keeping up a steady litany of soothing words, hoping she could hear him.
"Riley, sweetheart, it's okay, I'm right here, you're going to be okay," he said.
Joe ran to the Silverado and returned with the well-equipped military issue medic bag, just as Riley finally, blessedly, stopped seizing. He dropped the bag next to Steve.
"Is she breathing?" Joe asked, his own training kicking in, knowing that airway and circulation needed to be confirmed immediately.
Steve crouched over Riley, his cheek over her nose and mouth, as Joe felt for a pulse.
"Yeah, she's breathing," Steve said, relieved. "Pulse?"
"Steady, and strong," Joe said, shaking his head, "but unbelievably fast. Feel for yourself."
Steve raised his eyebrows curiously at Joe, and pressed his own fingers into Riley's carotid.
"Shit, Joe," he said in alarm. "That's not sustainable. Her heart's going to explode."
"No, it won't," Fielding said quietly, kneeling down next to Joe. "May I?" he asked, and Steve nodded, giving him permission to replace Joe's frantic fingers with his own. "It's fast, yes, but her physiology can handle it. It's one of the things that's enhanced. Her heart can keep up with incredible amounts of exertion."
"Like when she was able to walk up the mountain to the monks, like it was nothing," Steve said. "That's because her heart rate can increase as needed?"
"Yes, much as yours can, to an extent, due to your physical conditioning," Fielding explained. "Hers can, even without conditioning."
"That's why she was capable far beyond my expectations as a teenager," Joe guessed.
"Okay," Steve said, turning his attention back to Riley, who seemed to be unconscious, her muscles still spasming and twitching, "what caused this, and what do we do? Do I try to slow her heartbeat? I can give her a beta blocker, but I don't know that what I would use in the field applies to her." He scooped her up off the floor and placed her gently on the sofa. Jerry silently handed him a blanket, which he placed loosely over her.
Fielding was glancing around the room, and stopped, tilting his head curiously at several cans of Red Bull, scattered among the computer equipment. He grabbed one - empty - and held it up to Jerry.
"Did she drink any of these?" he demanded.
"Just one," Jerry said, holding out his hands defensively.
Fielding pondered for a moment; pulling pieces together in his mind. "Okay, so back at the cannery, when we were monitoring her vitals . . . we made a clear connection between the moment that the Shelburne programming integrated with her central nervous system, to the time that she flatlined."
"Yeah," Steve said, trying to remember the exact details. "She flatlined from loss of blood volume; even though they were replacing it, it wasn't fast enough."
"They restarted her heart," Joe added. "But not by shocking her - with epinephrine. The programming, the tracking - it integrated with her central nervous system because of a chemical catalyst, the epinephrine."
Fielding looked at the innocuous can of Red Bull in his hand. "Caffeine . . . " he said slowly. "Epinephrine is essentially adrenaline. Caffeine mimics the effects of adrenaline. A chemical catalyst . . . "
"If a chemical catalyst works one way," Steve wondered out loud.
"Could it work to reverse . . . " Joe said, picking up his train of thought.
#*#*#*#*#
Garrison paced in front of the monitors, pulling frantically at his hair.
"We're losing the connection," he shouted, mindless of the spittle flying from his mouth and landing on the hapless technicians seated in front of him. "The brain activity is off the charts. What the hell is going on?"
Shelburne stood at the back of the room, her arms crossed, calmly surveying the screens, the frantic director, and the technicians whose fingers were flying over their keyboards.
"It's a seizure," she said. "It's already stopped, everything will be fine."
"Not if we lose the programming," Garrison argued. "What if they've figured something out?"
"I want alarms on the tracking," Shelburne said. "If they move, we go physically retrieve the subject. In the meantime, this data is priceless. Look at it."
Garrison calmed. He did love the data; the stream of information, the undulating gamma and beta waves, the scrolling of binary numbers which translated into heartrate, respiration. He let himself be soothed by the steady flow which he could interpret as fast as it appeared.
"The subject is unconscious," he observed. "Highly suggestible in this state."
Shelburne smiled in agreement. "Yes, that's very true. Very highly suggestible."
"We shouldn't let this opportunity go to waste," Garrison said, slipping into his chair and caressing his keyboard. He pulled up a series of photos. "Where shall we begin?"
He flicked through the photos, slowly, until Shelburne spoke.
"With him. Let's begin with him," she said, as the photo of Steve McGarrett filled the screen.