Thanks for reading this far.
The threat felt excruciatingly real and Danny didn't like it one bit. As it wasn't already bad enough. The recent attack on Waikiki, Steve's unexplained disappearance–it was all too much to handle, and it had plunged his world into a nightmarish chaos.
"We can't let that happen," Danny declared, grappling to keep his composure despite the storm of emotions inside him. "Makoni can't get his hands on those barrels."
Denise nodded. "Now you understand the urgency?" he said. "You were at that restaurant last night. You've seen the damage. The casualties. Now imagine it a thousand times worse. He needs to be stopped and Five-0 is our best bet at the moment."
"Detective, we need to be clear about one thing," Brooks said, boring her eyes into Danny. "Even if you are right and McGarrett is still alive and in Makoni's hands, it's a secondary issue."
Danny's blood boiled, but he reluctantly acknowledged the unsettling truth in Brooks's words. If Makoni did have Steve, he would get rid of him as soon as the trade was done and his evil plans accomplished.
"We have to find Makoni as soon as possible, either way. It doesn't change anything," Danny said.
Brooks and Denise exchanged a knowing glance, a silent conversation that didn't escape the team's attention.
"What was that?" Lou asked. "What are you not telling us?"
Brooks hesitated for a moment before answering. "Locating Makoni won't be an issue. We believe we have the time and place of the trade."
Danny's heart raced. "When?" he demanded.
"Kapolei harbor," Brooks said. "On Monday night. At eleven."
Monday night. The words echoed in Danny's mind like a death sentence. Sixty-two hours. It was an eternity.
"Monday night?" Tani said, surprise evident in her voice. "We can't wait that long. We have to find him before that."
"Negative," Denise said, his voice grave. "You need to understand. If you move too soon, if Makoni even suspects that anyone is on his trail, he'll change the time and location and we'll lose our only shot to catch him before it's too late."
"Not just that," Brooks chimed in. "Let's say you do get lucky and get Makoni before the trade. We'll still have the radioactive material in the wrong hands. I doubt they'll have many issues to sell it to the highest bidder. There are plenty of people who wouldn't mind using it in the worst ways possible. Do you want to be responsible for that?"
Danny's anger flared. "Do you really expect us to wait almost three days while Makoni might have Steve?" he snapped. Just the thought made him sick.
"You don't know that for sure," Brooks retorted. "Based on what you've told us, there is no solid evid–"
"I don't care!" he interrupted. "As long as there is the slightest chance Steve is alive we will not sit around doing nothing."
Brooks fixed him with a deadly stare. "I understand your concern, Detective. I truly do. But we need to play this smart. If we lose the missing material or Makoni now because of your impatience, it could have dire consequences for everyone. Can you live with that?"
Danny paced a few steps, clenching and unclenching his fists, wrestling with emotions. Sixty-two hours. That was an awfully long time before getting his hands on Makoni. And then what? He couldn't help but let Brooks's doubts creep into his own.
Did Makoni really have Steve? Would they be able to make the warlord reveal their friend's whereabouts? Was Steve even still alive? And if so, did he have sixty-two hours?
Steve didn't have much time, he knew that much.
The stifling heat of the cargo container seemed to intensify with each breath, suffocating him like an invisible weight. His body was drenched in sweat, the salty rivulets tracing paths down his flushed skin. The steel walls of his prison had transformed into an oven hours ago, radiating the waves of scorching air that tortured him with each labored inhalation.
He'd long ago stopped trying to waste energy calling out for help. Nobody heard him. Nobody was coming. He was on his own. It was a feeling he wasn't a stranger to. Yet, the older he got and the longer he was away from the Navy, the more he appreciated his ohana always having his back. But they could be as well all dead, as far as he knew. He tried to push the thought out of his mind, well aware that he couldn't focus on that possibility right now.
Shifting his position on the ground, he winced with the movement. His body throbbed with pain from the beatings he'd endured earlier. A pounding headache threatened to split his skull, and his vision swam with spots of darkness. His arms cramped, but he'd given up on trying to break free from his bonds. The sharp plastic dug into the skin on his wrists, and every attempt to free himself only resulted in a painful struggle as they dug deeper and drew more blood.
Desperation clawed at him as he lay on the floor, away from the hot walls, trying to regulate his breathing. Slow and steady. But the hot air burned his lungs with each inhalation. He'd give anything for a few drops of water. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth.
Time became a blur as he battled the merciless rise of temperature. Minutes felt like an eternity, and the world around him seemed to blur and warp. His thoughts soon became fragmented, his focus slipping in and out like a flickering light bulb.
Steve tethered on the verge of consciousness, desperately clinging to the remains of his energy. He couldn't afford to lose himself in the haze of heat and exhaustion. Every ounce of his training screamed at him to stay alert, to be ready when the opportunity arose. But he was slowly losing the battle with his own mind and body.
Just when he thought he might succumb to the unforgiving conditions, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the container, followed by the ominous creaking of the container's door.
His foggy mind struggled to process the incoming threat as bright sunlight flooded in. His body felt heavy and unresponsive, drained of all strength. Before he had time to fully realize what was going on, a shadow fell across him, and the sound of footsteps stopped.
Steve's heart pounded in his hurt ribcage as he strained to open his eyes, to pierce through the haze of exhaustion and pain.
Makoni's face materialized before him. His battered body barely registered the hard boot against his side rolling him over to his back, and he could only summon a feeble grunt in response, pain lancing through him like a lightning bolt.
Makoni, his eyes gleaming with malice, reached down to grab a handful of Steve's hair and yanked him up roughly, forcing him to sit up. Despite the agony surging through his body with a sudden movement, Steve's voice remained trapped in his parched throat, unable to voice the defiance that burned within him.
"You're not looking so well, Commander," Makoni taunted, his voice dripping with sadistic amusement.
Steve's lips moved, but nothing came out.
Makoni leaned forward, straining his ear. "What was that?"
Steve tried again. This time, a hoarse whisper escaped. "Fuck you."
"Aaah, right," Makoni said. "I thought you'd be more grateful to a person who keeps you alive."
A small bottle of water appeared before Steve, so close yet agonizingly out of reach. Makoni offered a sinister smile and let go of Steve's hair to open it up.
"Drink," Makoni commanded. "You don't get to die just yet. I want you to see your home burn before you do."
Makoni pressed the bottle against Steve's cracked lips and allowed him a few sips before removing it way too soon, and pouring the rest over Steve's head. The cold water offered a fleeting moment of relief from the scorching heat, but it was short-lived, evaporating into the sweltering air.
Makoni threw an empty bottle on the floor and it landed just next to one of the dead bodies in the back of the container. Steve's eyes followed it, his thoughts all hazy. When he looked back, he was staring into the barrel of Makoni's gun.
"Stand up," Makoni said. "And don't get any ideas. I will shoot you if you don't give me a choice."
Steve ran through the possibilities. But what choice did he have other than to comply? In his current condition, his hands tied up, and a skilled armed combatant there was no room to fight back.
Not yet. But his chance would come, he reminded himself, and scrambled up to his feet slowly. It was more difficult than he'd like to admit.
"We going somewhere?" he croaked.
Makoni didn't answer. Instead, he draped a dark sack over Steve's head, turning his world dark again, then tugging at his arm and propelling him forward.
"Move," Makoni ordered.
Steve stepped forward, his unsteady legs barely able to support his weight. He heard other men around them speaking in a foreign language as he was dragged away from that metal hell and pushed inside what he assumed was the trunk of a car.
*to be continued*
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