"How are you feeling now?" Jerry whispered, as he continued to sit quietly with Riley. "Do you want to move anywhere?" He patted her hand gently.

Riley considered that for a moment. She felt as though her head was going to explode, and every nerve in her body was firing and misfiring. But maybe Jerry was uncomfortable . . . "Do you need to move?" she asked.

"No, I'm good," Jerry said.

"I think if I move I might throw up," Riley admitted.

Jerry sat remarkably still at that revelation. After a few moments, his curiousity started to get the better of him.

"Does it hurt?" he whispered. He wasn't entirely sure why he was whispering, aside from the fact that Riley seemed to be very quiet and pale.

"Yes," Riley answered.

"When you see Steve, what do you feel?" Jerry asked. "You don't have to answer that," he added quickly.

"Fear . . . terror," Riley murmured, "and pain."

"Where? Where is the pain?"

"Everywhere, at once," Riley admitted, in a whisper.

"But it's okay, you can talk to him, right; you can hear his voice, and that's okay?" Jerry asked.

Riley was silent.

"Riley? That's okay, hearing him, right?" Jerry prompted.

"I can . . . manage it, just hearing him," Riley said. Her hands were pressing against her temples again.

"Shit," Jerry said, "talking about it, thinking about him . . . is it . . . "

Riley nodded miserably.

"Are you scared, Riley?" Jerry asked, his eyes sad. He'd never seen Riley scared, not once.

"Yes."

"Okay, look at me," Jerry said, gently turning her head toward him. "We're good, yeah? Okay, so I'm going to tell you about my very first epic round of Dungeons and Dragons. It was middle school . . . "

#*#*#*#*#

"Thanks, Catherine," Steve said quietly, as he sat behind the desk in the study. He could see Joe outside, loading some basic supplies into Steve's truck and the additional SUV.

Her voice came over the phone, steady and sure. "I'll have a team from Pearl go over, Steve. I've been given clearance to approve anything that would aid in bringing WoFat in; keeping Riley safe definitely falls into that category."

Steve struggled to control his emotions. It had been too much to process already, and hearing Catherine's voice was pushing him over the edge.

"What else can I do, Steve?" she asked. "Do you need me to call the team? Call Danny?"

Steve cleared his throat. "Joe called them . . . I don't even know what to tell them, Catherine, I don't want to risk . . . but I can't keep them in the dark on this. Joe said he'd handle it."

Behind her desk, Catherine shook her head in dismay. For Steve to willingly give up any hint of control . . . it spoke volumes as to his state of mind. She made up her mind; she'd be at Tripler when he arrived. It was well within the scope of her orders.

"What else, Steve? Anything?"

He thought for a moment. "Mary is at Barstow Marine base, as far as I know. Maybe put a call in, just check? I don't think WoFat or the SAD would make a play for her, but I'd feel better knowing . . . "

"I'm on it, sailor," Catherine assured him. "Have you already run a background check on the boyfriend?" she asked, guessing quite accurately as to why Mary would be on a Marine base, and what Steve would have done.

"Yeah, he checks out," Steve chuckled. Catherine could read him like a book. "He's a good guy; good Marine."

"Okay, then you focus just on Riley," Catherine said.

Steve was quiet again. "When she looked at me, Catherine . . . I've never seen such pure, unadulterated terror. I can't . . . Catherine, what if we can't . . ."

"Steve. There's going to be a way. We'll find it. If what you and Joe are thinking doesn't work, we'll . . . I don't know. We'll force the CIA to cooperate. We'll go to Tokyo. Something."

"Okay, Cath," Steve said. "I'll keep you posted. Thanks."

"Copy that, Commander."

"Cath -" Steve hesitated. "I want . . . when this is over . . . " He stopped. He wasn't even sure what he wanted or needed to say; just . . . more.

"I know, Steve," Catherine said quietly. "When this is over."

#*#*#*#*#

Jerry and Riley could hear heated conversation coming from the kitchen.

"No, Fielding, you're supposed to be dead," Steve argued. "You have to stay here. We can't risk exposure."

"But I can disable her; render her unconscious if necessary," Fielding argued.

"Oh, now, that's a great idea," Steve said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because things go so well for her when she's unconscious."

"Steve is right," Joe said, stepping in. "Fielding, you have to stay back. Jerry, too. We can't risk a civilian. Steve will drive, I'll ride in the back with Riley. In close quarters, I think I can manage her if things go sideways, and she's fine as long as Steve isn't in her line of vision."

Jerry glanced down at Riley; she had her hands pressed over her ears, trembling. He carefully eased his arm out from where it had stayed, wrapped comfortingly around her shoulders, and propped her gently against the wall.

Steve, Joe, and Fielding looked up in surprise when Jerry entered the kitchen. His demeanor had shifted, and suddenly his bulky frame looked less like a teddy bear and more . . . intimidating. Steve was absently impressed, as Jerry pointed viciously toward the back door, and the four men stepped outside.

"She is not fine," Jerry hissed at them. "She is not fine as long as Steve isn't in her line of vision. When you hear someone's voice, you get a mental image of that person. When she hears Steve, she pictures Steve. When she pictures Steve, it's a step away from seeing Steve. When she sees Steve, she experiences inexplicable terror and agonizing pain."

"But I thought -" Fielding started, and broke off, stepping back and flinching as Jerry turned on him.

"Well, you thought wrong," Jerry snapped. "Without the actual visual, she can, so far, maintain some sort of control, but I wouldn't count on that lasting. She is terrified, and in pain, and she's suffering. And you're not taking her to Tripler without me."

Joe and Steve nodded at Jerry, with respect.

"And I don't think she should be in a car with either of you," Jerry added, for good measure. "I think I should drive her."

"I didn't know you could drive," Steve said.

"I'm an excellent driver," Jerry said. "I just choose not to, usually."

Steve smiled a bit; that reminded him so much of Danny choosing not to swim. He sighed . . . he missed his team. What he wouldn't give to have Danny here, and Chin, and Kono . . . but he couldn't risk them, not in this mess.

"Okay, Jerry," Joe was agreeing. "I think you're right. Steve and I will take the truck; you drive Riley in the SUV."

As they moved back inside the house, Steve clapped a hand on Jerry's shoulder. "Thanks, man," he said quietly. "Thanks for looking out for her."

"Thanks for not shooting me," Jerry said. "I'll get her in the SUV; follow you and Commander White to Tripler."

#*#*#*#*#

Fielding was pacing back and forth on the porch, at loose ends, when he heard the explosion. He looked toward the sound, halfway down the mountain, and could just see a tendril of smoke, wafting up over the treeline.

He walked, without hesitation, into Joe's room, and then Steve's, and gathered the backup weapons that they thought they'd so carefully concealed.

Within thirty seconds, he was out the door and headed down the mountain.

#*#*#*#*#

It was as bad as he had feared.

By the time Fielding reached the two mangled vehicles, it was obvious to him that the first strike team had come and gone. If the bullets currently whizzing over his head were any indication, the clean-up team was moving in fast.

He knew exactly what to expect; he'd put the team together, created the protocol.

The Silverado was crossways in the road, tilted at a precarious angle toward the driver's side; the top of the cab resting on a large boulder. One wheel still spun idly, while the gear box in the back spilled its contents onto the road. Fielding headed for it immediately; the truckbed would provide cover, and he knew that McGarrett stored a veritable arsenal in that truck.

He spared a regretful glance toward the SUV, which had sustained extensive damage to the driver's side; probably from an RPG. He wondered if Jerry had survived the initial impact. He doubted it. Steve's SEAL training would probably have demanded that he protect the civilian first; thankfully, that wasn't how CIA training worked. He knew that Steve and Joe were the most valuable assets in this situation. He had to choose, and they had to be his priority.

He didn't bother to look at the passenger side of the SUV; he knew it would be empty.

Hunkering down behind the truck bed, Fielding smiled grimly as he collected a couple of grenades, a box of ammo, and two more guns. His hand hesitated over Steve's diving knife, and he wondered if held under a lab light, if it would still reveal traces of Riley's blood. He grabbed the knife. Riley's blood was on his hands already; a few more traces wouldn't make a difference.

He looked over as a hand reached out of the truck, toward him.

"McGarrett," he said, grabbing Steve's hand, "When you don't show up at Tripler, they'll send people. We've got a clean-up team coming this way, and they mean to kill you. I'm going to draw them off as best as I can, take as many out as I possibly can. If some of them get by me . . . can you still shoot?"

"Affirmative," Steve gasped, feeling for his gun, and coming up with it in his hand. "Riley? Where's Riley?"

"Riley's best chance is me keeping you alive," Fielding answered. He gave Steve's hand a squeeze and moved away, leaving Steve to call after him in confusion. He didn't respond; there was no time.

Moments later, Fielding smiled to himself as the sounds of gunfire had ceased completely. In fact, there were no sounds - no radios, no footsteps, nothing moving toward them at all, thanks to Steve's penchant for keeping live explosives casually in the back of his truck.

He looked around at the beautiful foliage, some of it in full bloom, and wondered idly if Lieutenant Rollins and Detective Williams - he was sure Danny would be bulldogging his way onto the scene, regardless of Steve's instructions - would reach him in time to staunch the flow of blood from his stomach, his leg . . . he'd had to let the clean up team get close enough, close enough to make the grenades count. He'd succeeded; that was all that mattered. Steve and Joe had given him what he hadn't deserved - a chance to redeem himself, in some small way. That was all that mattered.

He closed his eyes to rest.

#*#*#*#*#

Steve heard the rapid staccato of gunfire, and clenched his hand around his SIG. He glanced over at Joe; the seatbelt had him firmly locked into his seat, limbs hanging limply toward Steve. Blood dripped steadily from a cut on his temple, and the spiderweb design of the passenger window was tinged red. His chest moved slightly, and slowly, but he was breathing.

Steve gritted his teeth and unlatched his seatbelt, fighting back the accompanying nausea. He was hopeful that the blood dripping from a gash on his head meant that the nausea was related to a simple concussion, and not internal injuries. A vicious stab from his knife dispatched the airbag, and he shoved it out of his way. He opened the door and it hit the ground with a dull thunk, the metal wedging in the soft earth, and the truck groaned against the rough boulder keeping it from falling flat to the ground. He had just enough room to wriggle through the opening. There was pain - a lot of it - but he shoved it to the back of his mind to deal with later, once he'd located Riley.

Steve instinctively covered his head as a muffled explosion shook the ground near him . . . near enough that some debris showered down within feet of him. He waited a moment, and then there was nothing. Silence. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself off the ground, grabbing the back of the truck as the world spun wildly around him. He looked for the SUV, disoriented, and completely confused when he realized that it was somehow in front of the truck . . . they must have taken out the truck first, and Jerry must have tried to make a run for it. Using the truck as support, he began to make his way back, toward the SUV.

He made it within feet of the SUV . . . close enough to see that Jerry was slumped forward over the steering wheel, close enough to see that the passenger seat was empty . . . before searing pain exploded in his lower back, and he fell to his knees.

#*#*#*#*#

Catherine was pacing in the waiting room at Tripler. A surgical suite had been set aside; a team of doctors directly from Pearl, vetted and screened by Catherine herself, were waiting anxiously to meet Riley and see if any of Steve and Joe's hunches played out.

"They should have been here," Catherine said quietly to Danny, who had ignored every directive thrown his way about staying clear of the situation. Ironically, he'd convinced Kono and Chin to stay at Five-O headquarters, citing their need to 'cover for him'.

"I know, babe," Danny said, squeezing her hand.

"Anything on Steve's cell phone? Joe's?" Catherine asked a fellow officer.

"No, ma'am," he said, shaking his head. "No answer from either of them. They checked in just as they were leaving the mountain house, and now we can't reach them."

"That's it," Catherine said decisively. "We're going. Danny, you know the place?"

Danny nodded, already heading toward the door. "I've got gear in my car; let's go."

#*#*#*#*#

Steve wasn't sure how long it had been since his convoy had been hit. He could hear at least one of his men groaning; there was at least one other survivor. He frowned at the lush grass underneath him; it was damp and warm. That seemed odd; North Korea was dry, and cold. He knew that his first priority should be to locate and secure Hesse; but something was nagging at him, something that seemed even more important. He tilted his head to the side; his ears were ringing, that had to be it, but it sounded like sirens.

He'd made it to his hands and knees, and he could see a flurry of activity . . . tires, flashing lights, boots . . . the familiar Navy working uniform camo pattern . . . a pair of ridiculous looking loafers, headed with purpose straight toward him . . .

"Steve! Steve; I've got Steve," a voice yelled. Steve placed the accent. Jersey. No one in his unit was from Jersey. Strong hands wrapped around his shoulders; softer hands cradled his face.

"Where's Riley?" the Jersey voice demanded, and Steve frowned.

Long, silky, dark hair swung into his line of vision, and the softer hands moved from his face, to his neck, checking for injuries. "Steve? Where are you hurt? How badly?" It was a feminine voice . . . he knew that voice. Lieutenant Rollins . . . but she was stateside.

"Cath?" he gasped. "Why are you here? Where's Hesse?"

Both sets of hands on him stilled instantly.

"Oh, babe," the Jersey voice said quietly.

There was more pain, then blessed darkness again.

#*#*#*#*#

"Thank you, I'll notify Shelburne. We're ready on this end," Garrison said into the phone, smiling in satisfaction. He turned to the woman standing behind him, arms folded, watching the data stream.

"They've collected the package," he said. "Relatively in one piece, enough for our purposes anyway, and whatever is damaged will heal quickly enough."

"She wasn't supposed to be damaged," Doris McGarrett spat, eyes blazing. "I thought you said this team worked with precision."

"This team did work with precision," Garrison said coldly. "I'd like to see any team go up against McGarrett and White, and collect a person under their protection, with zero casualties on our end, and our prisoner relatively unharmed. They had to stop her vehicle with an RPG."

"And what of Commanders McGarrett and White?" Doris asked.

Garrison studied her for a moment. "I made a different call. I decided to send a clean-up team in after the primary target was secured. We didn't need the loose ends."

Doris grabbed Garrison by the throat and pushed his chair back against the conference table.

"You did not have the authority to make that call," she cried. "I am in charge of this project. I decide what teams go in."

"You are in danger of allowing your personal attachments to cloud your judgment," Garrison wheezed. "You're not objective." He pushed back, violently, and Doris released him.

"We'll be disavowed," she said.

"It doesn't matter," Garrison argued. "We have the subject, the data, everything. We let the CIA and the US Navy fund our project, and now we sell it to the highest bidder."

Doris felt a chill go up her spine. "The project - you mean the technology. We sell the technology to the highest bidder."

Garrison shrugged, "Sure," he replied. He stood, gathered his papers, and headed for the door. "I'll see you in the lab," he called back over his shoulder.

Doris sat down at the table and rested her head in her hands, eyes closed, for a long moment.

"Steve," she whispered to herself, wiping a shaking hand across her eyes. "This is why I never wanted you to find her . . . I wish you had never found her."

Then she stood, straightened her elegant sheath dress, squared her shoulders, and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

#*#*#*#*#

Riley was pretty sure she was floating. She remembered the monks, once, after one of Joe's training sessions, helping her slide into one of the natural mineral springs near the monastery. They'd cushioned her head on a soft buckwheat pillow, and let the rest of her body float in the water as she'd slipped in and out of consciousness. She remembered their hushed voices, the eldest of the monks chiding the others for anger. And then, an indeterminate amount of time later, there had been sticky rice, and jasmine tea.

Riley hummed softly, wondering if there would be jasmine tea now.

"Is she secure?" a voice said.

"She is," came the reply. "She's flooded with oxytocin, thanks to our guys back at the lab; plus, we gave her a solid kick of ketamine. She's like a kitten. Declawed," the voice laughed.

"I don't care; I've seen what she's capable of," the first voice insisted. Riley felt a pressure around her wrists, her ankles. "Do not release these restraints under any circumstances."

#*#*#*#*#

Joe heard a muffled conversation.

"Secure his C-spine with a collar; don't release the seatbelt. Then we lower the truck back level, and take him out through the door. Ultimately, it's less of a risk to his spine than trying to fish him out with the truck in the current position."

He felt hands moving around his neck, and tried to explain to them that they needed to help Steve find Riley. And then the truck was lurching, and Joe closed his eyes, willed himself not to vomit, and waiting for the earth to stop tilting.

Cool hands pressed against his forehead, and the scent of the ocean and board wax drifted into his awareness. He cracked open the one eye that wasn't swollen shut, and peered into Kono's concerned face.

"Riley," he gasped.

"Shh, brah," she said, holding a wad of gauze against his temple while an EMT started an IV. "We'll find her; we'll get her back."

He felt her long, delicate fingers brush away the tear that tracked down his face.

#*#*#*#*#

"We're ready for you, Director Shelburne, Director Garrison," a young technician said respectfully. "The subject is in Observation Room 1." She turned and walked silently down the hallway, her shoes muffled by booties similar to those worn in operating rooms. The windowless space was lit by ancient fluorescent lights, which sputtered and blinked intermittently.

Doris and Garrison stopped outside the room, while the technician replaced her surgical mask and entered.

"Why the creepy operating room get-ups?" Garrison questioned.

"We are doing this my way," Doris said. "I've created a scenario that should prove acceptable to her consciousness; provided, of course, that your ad-libbing procedure and protocol hasn't ruined it before we even start. From this point on, Garrison, make no mistake: you do nothing without my explicit approval, and you are to have zero contact with the subject. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Garrison said snidely. "Though may I remind you that since we are no longer operating under the supervision of the United States Government, you are no longer my superior?"

Doris fixed him with an ice-cold glare. "I don't need to be, Garrison. Cross me, and I will end you."

They turned to the window and watched as several technicians, all dressed as hospital staff, worked efficiently around a narrow hospital bed, typical of those found in emergency rooms. Riley lay silent and motionless as an IV was expertly started, and several bags of fluid hung. A technician slipped a pulse-ox monitor on her finger, and patted her hand when she twitched in response.

The first technician stuck her head outside the door and address Doris.

"Restraints?" she asked.

"They stay on," Doris said. "Wrists and ankles. Do not underestimate her; not for a moment."

"Yes, ma'am," the technician said. "We estimate about an hour, maybe a little longer, until she begins to regain consciousness."

"Thank you," Doris said. "I'll be ready. Notify me at the first sign that she's coming around; I want to be in the room before she's fully conscious. Make sure she's out of those cargo pants and boots, too. I want her in a hospital gown, not anything that could possibly connect her with what she's been doing these last few weeks."

"Yes, ma'am," the technician repeated, and closed the door as she returned to her tasks.

"I'm going to set up," Doris said, turning to continue down the hallway. "I suggest, Garrison, that you run your final analysis of the most recent stream of data. You're supposed to be monitoring that slight irregularity from the seizure. And while she's unconscious, you need to manipulate the last of the images. Add Joe White and Frank Bama."

"Yes, of course," Garrison said. He watched as Doris turned the corner of the hallway, and then settled in to watch through the one-way mirror as the technicians carried out the instructions and dressed Riley in a hospital gown. She was, Garrison thought, as he leered at the window, a very fine specimen indeed.

#*#*#*#*#

Jerry was aware of Chin's voice, cutting through a lot of racket. There were sparks, and flashes, and a horrific grinding noise, but in it and through it, Chin's calm voice reached him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Jerry, they're cutting you out of the car, brah," Chin said, "just hold steady, they'll have you out of there in no time."

Chin shook his head at the sight in front of him: Jerry's broad back was a mangle of glass and metal. He'd obviously turned his considerable bulk in an effort to shield Riley from whatever had struck the side of the SUV . . . an RPG, if Chin was guessing correctly.

True to his word, Jerry was an excellent driver. In fact, when he saw Steve's truck spinning wildly out of control in front of him, he'd swerved so expertly, and accelerated so rapidly, in an effort to get clear of the area, that the strike team had scrambled to stop him. Unable to clear the massive Silverado turned sideways in front of them, they'd resorted to their plan b: take out the SUV with an RPG. Aimed at the driver's side, of course - they could bring the subject in injured, but she needed to be alive.

"Alright," Chin heard them say. "Let's see if his leg is still attached, once we pull this steering column out of the way. Ready?"

#*#*#*#*#

Doris stood outside the observation window, watching as Riley's hand twitched against the sheet.

The technician stepped outside the room. If she was startled by Doris dressed in yoga pants and a long tunic, she didn't let on.

"She's beginning to regain consciousness," the technician explained. "However, she did sustain some fairly significant injuries in her . . . recovery by the strike team. She has a severe concussion; several bruised ribs; a hairline fracture of her collarbone - probably from the seatbelt. There are several lacerations, some of them fairly severe, from pieces of glass and shards of metal. We've sutured those and administered a tetanus shot. Her right knee is at least sprained; we'll repeat an x-ray when the swelling goes down to rule out a fracture. There is a massive, bone-deep contusion on her right hip. Interestingly, almost all of her injuries are on her right side; it's as though something or someone attempted to shield her left side from impact. The manipulated oxytocin and the administered ketamine will be wearing off soon; do you want us to have other pain management on board?"

"No, that won't be necessary," Doris replied.

The technician hesitated. "Ma'am, I'm not sure if you're aware of the extent . . . none of these injuries sound terribly severe, and of course at this point they aren't life threatening, but they are incredibly painful injuries. She's going to be in excruciating -"

"That will be all, thank you," Doris said, cutting her off. "You can stay in the room with her until she regains consciousness. Once she's aware of your presence, I want you to leave before she attempts to communicate with you. Do you understand? The timing is important."

The technician opened her mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it. Nodding her head, she went back into the room.

Garrison joined Doris at the window.

"What does her latest EEG show?" Doris asked.

"Still an abnormality in the bilateral amygdala," Garrison frowned. "Fear and anger perception and responses may be difficult to differentiate. We won't know until she regains consciousness. It may be minimal, intermittent . . . the deviation is small."

"Understood," Doris said. "Keep me informed; I'll want constant readings. And I want a warning if aggression levels spike."

"Did you bring your dart gun?" Garrison joked, pleased with himself. His chuckle faded and fell flat at a cold glare from Doris.

"Were you able to successfully suggest the additional images?" Doris said, ignoring his sudden sophomoric behavior. She tapped a folder in her hand, which contained still photos of Joe White, Frank Bama, and multiple photos of Steve.

"Yes; in fact, the combination of the oxytocin and the ketamine created what is arguably the most effective suggestive state yet. Well, that and the increasing actual pain chemicals flooding her system. Not to mention the fact that she's in shock . . . in short, the manipulation should prove to be a huge success," Garrison said, obviously pleased with himself.

"Excellent," Doris nodded, turning to watch Riley again. Soon. Soon she would reap the rewards of two decades of careful, meticulous work.

As Riley shifted and whimpered in pain, the technician turned her face away from the window and tried to compose herself. She didn't know much of what was going on, but her instincts told her that if Director Shelburne saw tears of sympathy in her eyes, that it would not go well with her. She schooled her features and steeled herself to walk out of the room.

"Nicely done," Doris nodded at the technician. "It's important that the subject wake up alone. You're dismissed; we will call you back if you're needed."

#*#*#*#*#

"What if he's lost all of this time?" Danny said, pacing in the waiting room. "Hunh? How are we gonna explain to him - oh, yeah, Steve, buddy: your dad is dead, your mom is alive but she's evil, and probably trying to kill you and the sister you never knew you had. Hunh? How are we gonna explain that to him?"

"Danny, please try to calm down," Catherine said, trying to coax Danny into a chair. "He was freshly concussed and in agonizing pain . . . it's not unusual for someone to be incredibly disoriented in that situation. Think about it; think about how disoriented he can get just waking up from a nightmare. Right?"

Danny stopped and took a deep breath. "Okay, yeah, that's true," he said, grabbing hold of the hope that Catherine extended and hanging on for dear life.

Chin and Kono jumped up at the sound of the door, and the entire team anxiously faced an exhausted looking Malia.

"Okay, here's what we know," Malia said. "Everyone is concussed and injured, obviously, lots of lacerations and massive bruising, for starters, but everyone is going to recover" She stopped and let the team wrap their brains around the first piece of good news.

"Steve has severe bruising to his left kidney," she went on to explain. "We're going to watch it closely to be sure he doesn't have a tear or rupture, which could be life-threatening. As it is, the bruising has allowed for a slow but steady blood loss, which was why, in addition to the excruciating pain, he had trouble maintaining consciousness on the scene, and went into shock. We're doing everything we can to get that under control, including drugs and good old fashioned ice packs. We're also carefully monitoring intake and output of fluids, trying to put the least amount of stress on his kidneys as we can."

"Has he regained consciousness?" Danny asked anxiously. "Malia, he thought he was still bringing in Hesse. He was back in North Korea, on the mission that . . . when his dad was murdered. He didn't know me, he didn't ask about Riley . . . "

"He has been in and out," Malia said, "but heavily sedated, and hasn't tried yet to communicate. We should know more, now that he's settled in a regular room and his medications and fluids are being regulated."

"What about Joe, and Jerry?" Chin asked.

"Joe suffered a dislocated shoulder, which has been reset, and we're watching his liver and spleen closely to rule out possible bleeds. There's a lot of swelling, and we'll be doing repeat scans. Jerry . . . " Malia hesitated. "Jerry suffered massive, extensive lacerations and contusions, mostly on his back. Thankfully, Jerry is a big guy, so even though some of the lacerations were quite deep, it doesn't appear that anything vital was severed. I called in plastics and they are going to be working for quite a while to clean and suture everything. He's . . . frankly, guys, it's bad. Not life-threatening, but bad. He also has a hairline fracture of his hip . . . it's a bit of a mystery, but the only thing we can figure is that he was turned, angled, with his back toward the driver door, at the point of impact. The angle was such that his body couldn't absorb the impact. Again, he's lucky he's such a big guy. It could have been much, much worse."

"Oh, my God," Kono said, her hand going over her mouth. "He tried . . . he tried to cover Riley with his body? Shield her?"

Chin shook his head. "Wow, who knew . . ."

"When can we talk to them?" Catherine asked.

"Soon," Malia said, but hesitated. "Look, I know you're anxious to find out what happened, but I'm not sure -"

"Malia," Catherine interrupted gently. "We're fairly certain we know what happened."

"Oh," Malia said, nodding. "I suppose some of the details are . . . "

"Classified," Catherine said. "As to the specifics of those involved. We believe there were two units; one to retrieve Riley and one to . . . handle the others. An unlikely asset managed to . . . neutralize the second team, unfortunately losing his own life in the process. What we need to know now, is whether or not the guys have any clues whatsoever as to where Riley would have been taken." Catherine paused and took a calming breath. "Because at the moment, we have absolutely no leads whatsoever. Not even so much as a tire track."

#*#*#*#*#

Riley was less certain now that she was floating . . . instead, she felt as though she was being held underwater by a huge weight, pressing down on her. She fought against a rising sense of panic, as a growing awareness of pain crept into her consciousness.

She tried to remember . . . bits and pieces of murmured phrases flashed through her mind.

I'm so sorry, she thought she'd just heard a soft voice say, and she turned her head, struggling to open her eyes, to find the voice, but it was gone. Turning her head proved problematic, as pain exploded and nausea swept over her. She swallowed convulsively and stayed very still.

The pain in her head seemed to be more localized, near her right temple, and she started to lift her hand to touch it, to explore and try to determine the damage.

Her hand wouldn't move.

She tried the other hand, also to no avail. For a moment, she was gripped with the sheer terror that she had been paralyzed, but then she felt the chafing of the leather and realized that she was simply restrained. Why she had been restrained was a puzzle, but . . .

And now her nose itched.

As she shifted uncomfortably on the narrow bed, waves of pain radiated from her collarbone and hip, and she gasped in pain. She felt darkness . . . grayness . . . and she was tempted to give in and slip back into unconsciousness.

You're stronger, and smarter . . . no matter what . . . trust me, a voice reminded her.

If the voice was a memory, then someone thought she was strong, and smart. Riley decided that was enough of a reason to pull herself toward consciousness and test that theory. She clenched her teeth against the pain, and forced her eyes open, wincing at the bright overhead lights. Keeping her breathing even, she tried to force herself to be calm.

Doris didn't realize she was smiling softly until Garrison looked at her sharply.

"What, are you proud of her?" Garrison asked, incredulous.

"The subject is utilizing the skills she was taught," Doris said, "it's not all about your nanotechnology. Yes, I'm pleased with the results of the training."

Doris waited patiently until she saw Riley's composure waver; until she saw the first tears slide from her eyes onto the pillow.

"Now?" Garrison asked, nodding his head toward the room.

"Now," Doris nodded. She opened the door to Riley's room and slipped in quietly.

"Riley," she called out softly, approaching the bed.

Riley moved her head minutely, fighting the pain and dizziness from her concussion.

"Olivia?" she gasped.

"Darling, do you know who I am?" Doris asked gently.

Riley fought the tears, but they fell despite her resistance.

"Mom?"