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After a long and grueling day of chasing the criminals, Danny was thankful to finally have a moment to unwind and enjoy some great food. He sat at a table overlooking the picturesque seaside at Hilton Hawaiian Village. The sun had dipped below the horizon about half an hour ago, but the place was still crowded. They had been lucky to get one last table at the very edge of the restaurant without any reservation.
He cradled his beer with a full and happy stomach, lifting his gaze up to his colleagues, who were lost in a conversation. He pretended not to notice the occasional smiles and looks between the two newest additions. Instead, he tried to focus on Jerry's most recent conspiracy theory about the new technologies and Adam's and Lou's reactions to that.
"I'm serious, guys," Jerry stood his ground. "You believe whatever you want."
"Come on, Jer," Adam chuckled. "I thought we already had this conversation."
Danny took a sip of his drink, not really compelled to join in the usual banter.
Lou chimed in, a mischievous grin on his face. "Yeah, Jerry, what is it this time? Aliens controlling our smartphones?"
"Not aliens," Jerry said. "You really believe that all these new features are there to help the consumers? I'm telling you, they're just a getaway to a surveillance state."
Danny listened to a familiar discussion with a distracted mind, his thoughts preoccupied. The weight of Steve's absence hung heavily on him, and he couldn't help but worry about his friend's well-being.
Tani chuckled, shaking her head at Jerry's suspicions. "Come on, can we just enjoy the evening and forget about the surveillance state for tonight?"
Lou, detecting Danny's lack of engagement, turned his attention to him. His mischievous grin softened into a concerned expression. "Hey, Danny, you've been quiet tonight. Everything okay?"
Danny sighed, his gaze shifting from his colleagues to a lively restaurant. "I wish I could say everything's fine, but it's not."
Jerry's playful demeanor faded, replaced by genuine concern. "Is it because of McGarrett?" he said. "He's not handling it well, is he?"
Danny shook his head. "He's been dealing with a lot lately. Joe was like a second father to him, you know? And you know Steve. He's been blaming himself for everything, including Joe's death."
"I think he just needs some space," Junior chimed in. "He's one of the strongest people I've ever known. He'll be fine."
"You don't know him as well as I do," Danny countered.
"Maybe not. But I know what he's going through. It's never easy to see a friend catching a bullet."
Danny nodded. He understood, after all. "I just wish I could help. But he doesn't let me."
"Junior's right," Lou said. "Give him time. You're here for him, Danny. We all are. Can't do much more than that."
Offering a half-hearted smile, Danny returned to his thoughts. The conversation gradually lightened up again, and after another round of drinks, he decided to call it a night. He left cash for his portion of the bill at the table, said his goodbyes, and headed toward the exit.
Just as the team's table vanished from his sight, a deafening blast tore through the restaurant, shattering the tranquility like a wrecking ball.
Danny barely had time to comprehend what had happened before he found himself sprawled face down on the floor, pain coursing through his entire body. He blinked, dazed and confused. His ears rang, yet amidst the chaos, fragments of panicked screams pierced through
Struggling to lift his head, the world spun out of focus. He blinked once more, and all the noise began to fade into oblivion. The light dimmed, and he succumbed to the encroaching darkness.
The knot in Steve's stomach twisted and turned, a sickening sensation heightened by the distant sound of an explosion.
He fought the urge to panic. To look in the direction of the explosion and confirm where it came from. To think about the implications.
Stay focused.
That's what Joe would have said.
Unlike Steve, for a split second–Makoni was momentarily distracted. His eyes involuntarily flicked to the source of the noise, and Steve seized the opportunity.
He spun. Opened his hips and lashed out. The motion was charged with rabid intensity, helped by the knowledge that if he was a millisecond too slow, he would catch a bullet in the chest for his troubles.
He threw the kick to the midsection with blinding speed. It thundered into Makoni's side with impressive force. There was an audible crunch as Steve's shin made contact with the jacket pocket containing the gun.
Makoni's face contorted in agony. He stumbled once, thrown off-balance by the blow. Steve noted the man's speed as he came back with a punch of his own, but he threw it half-heartedly, still reeling from having the breath knocked out of his lungs.
Steve batted it away and darted into range, letting fly with an uppercut. Even as he swung, he knew it would connect. His knuckles hit the underside of Makoni's chin with impeccable accuracy, snapping his jaw back, smashing his teeth together, dazing and disorientating him all at once.
The man lost his footing and fell back, landing hard on his rear, dropped by two devastating shots. It took less than two seconds.
Steve shot a brief glance at the crowd.
Chaos struck, and people started to disperse. Some of them still had their eyes fixed on the lit cityscape, dread etched across their faces. Others fled in a frenzied scramble towards the car park or the street.
With Makoni on the ground, Steve couldn't help it. He needed to see what everybody else was seeing. He looked up and–
His jaw dropped.
Above the cluster of towering buildings, a sinister silhouette of smoke loomed over Waikiki, one of the busiest places on the island. He sucked in a shaky breath, trying his absolute best to contain the turmoil bubbling inside him.
Compartmentalize, McGarrett.
He couldn't afford his emotions to affect him in a situation like this. One problem at a time.
He knew it wouldn't take long for Makoni to get his bearings. He moved in to finish him, now fueled by anger more than anything else.
Anticipating Steve's hasty move, Makoni rolled to the side, kicking out as hard as he could.
The kick connected with Steve's left knee. Pain flared through the joint as he stumbled. The loss of balance took his mind off combat for the fraction of a second that Makoni needed. Next thing he knew, a fist crashed across his jaw with enough force to rattle his senses.
He staggered back and felt his foot press down on some kind of metal object. He looked down and saw a Beretta M9 resting on the concrete. It must've slipped off Makoni's grip during the fall.
He started to reach down, but Makoni made a dive for the weapon. Noticing this, Steve kicked the gun behind him, putting enough distance between them for Makoni to fall short.
In mid-air, the man changed his trajectory, seizing hold of Steve's ankle.
He yanked him down to the ground.
Makoni was on him in an instant, slicing a leg over Steve's stomach and trapping him on the floor.
He raised his massive forearms to ward off the incoming punches, but three sliced straight through. Knuckles smashed his nose, sending blood streaking across his face. He bucked and weaved, but Makoni held his position expertly. The man dropped his entire bodyweight behind an elbow that cracked off the top of Steve's head, slamming the back of his skull into the ground.
Steve used the shift in momentum to roll Makoni off. With the nerve endings in his face screaming for mercy, he erected a mental barrier against the pain and leaped to his feet.
As he did so, a black SUV pulled up mere steps away and men with guns started flooding out. Makoni's reinforcement, no doubt.
Steve didn't waste time and energy contemplating what that meant for him. He needed to focus.
Makoni was too good. He was more skilled than Steve wanted to admit. After all, the warlord had spent most of his life in a country where survival had been his prime goal, at any cost. Whether he wanted it or not, he had been trained the hard way. His men, too, probably.
But then, so had Steve.
He turned, ready to put over a decade of rigorous training to full use. He let the nerves flow out of his veins and an icy calmness washed over him.
He could do this.
Then he ran directly into a sprinting body.
Someone had bull-rushed his position. The skirmish quickly became a close-quarters brawl. In the resulting collision, Steve's heart leaped.
A fist rammed into the side of his ribcage so hard that he felt the air escape his lips. He moved to retaliate — then something strange happened. He went to raise his arm but a crippling wave of agony seared through his side, so intense that he felt his legs buckle from the pain. He groaned and fell to his knees, knowing why his body had reacted so violently.
The man, whoever he was, had sunk the punch into the sweet spot — his liver. Whether by a stroke of luck or pinpoint accuracy, it had occurred.
Steve felt his body paralyzing itself to ride out the pain. He swore as he collapsed to the pavement.
A cluster of men surrounded him in an instant, seizing the upper hand in seconds. A bag of some kind was whisked over his head and someone hit him again in the exact same location, sending a fresh blast of searing hot fire through his midsection. Sharp needles stabbed into the side of his temples, constricting his vision like a rapidly-shrinking tunnel. He had reached his pain threshold — and pushed beyond it.
The sensation was incomprehensible. With his vision limited by the sack, he was helpless to stop sharp cable ties locking tight around his hands and feet. Helpless to move, helpless to fight back.
He was hauled to his feet by rough hands and shoved in one direction.
They wrenched the cable ties tighter until Steve felt the circulation in his hands and feet cut off. Someone shoved him into the back seat of one of the SUVs and he felt a gun barrel press into the side of his neck. This time, there was no possibility of making a break for it. His arms and legs were useless. His vision was restricted by the bag. There were four men in the car with him — he could tell from the sounds of their breathing.
He winced as his liver spasmed in his side, almost causing him to vomit against the rough material of the sack. He forced himself not to. The smell would be awful if he let it out.
The SUV left the car park, whisking him away toward an unknown destination.
Steve knew he was royally screwed.
*to be continued*
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