Chapter 2

Day 2

Peter Kaa Junior has lived most of his life inside the city. He was a tall boy, big for his age and his mom always explained to him what a great rugby player he'd make. He had never been interested in rugby and couldn't understand the fascination his islander mom had with the sport. He'd tried his hand at it once but didn't like the sport. It was too aggressive to his liking. And just because he's big doesn't mean he wants to pummel his friends into the ground. He could still hear his mum "tut-tut" when he came home and told her he'd much rather want to be a carver like his dad.

"There's no money in it, boy," she'd say with a sad, faraway look in her eyes and he knew that she'd be thinking of her home in the big pacific where the sun showered bright rays through the palm trees. Where the voices of the woman would rise in song in the morning and the men all go out to sea to fish.

He had once asked her why she had left and a great sadness had overcome her. She had turned away from him and told him not to ask again.

Not until he's a man.

He was 16 years old and he felt old.

He looked at the dead face of his father, his mother wailing and wondered what he was supposed to do next.

Adam felt that he had failed. Failed Mac. Failed his teammates. Most of all, he had failed himself. The hacked program wasn't working anymore. He had gone past the point of no return, the code so mashed and rewritten that it was unworkable. He blinked at the screen, trying to look busy even as his mind was berating him for not doing enough.

"You okay, Adam?"

He jumped a little, felt the chair move and he grabbed the desk even as the wheels slid out from under him. His right hand in the process of grappling for something secure to hold onto, instead smashed his keyboard. A moment later he was looking up at Lindsey's concerned features from his position on the floor, the keyboard clutched uselessly in his hands.

"Come on, let me help you."

He nodded and let her help him, his face burning with shame.

"I'm okay," he mumbled, eyeing her reaction from underneath his eye lashes as he reattached the keyboard.

"Stella asked if you could help out with the tire threads we had found."

He nodded, turning back to his computer, trying not to look at the big list of error messages that still showed on his screen. He closed the page, took a deep breath and clicked on the image file that Stella had sent him. A chair creaked and the welcome presence of Lindsey settled next to his side.

A new determination settled on him.

They'll find Mac.

They have too.

Stella knew why she hated the bureaucracy of dealing with the brass. There was a reason why Mac was usually the one to deal with them. Now it seemed that the resources that were usually so easily attained, were a little harder to come by.

"It was Mac Taylor that allowed the bank robber to walk out that door. If it wasn't for his incompetence…"

She felt her anger simmer, and knew it was close to exploding. She needed to contain the situation, contain her fear and anger, as both of those emotions were not going to help her in dealing with the commissioner she was currently facing.

"This is all about your choice, Commissioner. You alone. But I can assure you that my team and I will use whatever resources and skills we have to find Mac Taylor. He's an integral part of the team that brings in a high rate of convictions that make you look good."

"We can't be seen to favour our own people above the general public, Bonasera. You have a dead body in the park and two break-ins at the mayor's office. There is also the aftermath of the bank heist..."

He turned away, turned his back on her. She was being dismissed like a junior clerk and she didn't like that at all.

And this wasn't just about Mac. This was about each cop and csi in the city. It was about trust.

"You sure you want to do this, Commissioner," she growled, her anger palatable in the room. "Because if you go this route, every cop will take an extended break and you will have no police force in the city. Mac means that much to everyone."

"Are you threatening me? In my office?"

"No. Just stating facts."

Silence reigned and she could see the impact her words were having in the way he tightened his lips and stared her down. She knew without a doubt that she had made any enemy that she would never be able to turn her back on.

But for Mac she'd do that.

For Mac she'd go to hell, and back. Because she knew he'd do the same for each one of the team.

"Fine. You have one week. After that it's back to business as usual and you only assign whatever resources you have available. And I'll keep an eye on your budget, Detective. If there is one cent spent that shouldn't have been, I'll have your badge."

"Are you finished?"

"Yes, detective. You may go," the last was said with a measured smile, perfect white teeth.

Stella stalked past him, out the door, slamming it closed behind her. She ignored the surprised look from the secretary as she made her way to the lifts, jabbing at the button until the doors opened.

She slid inside and as the door closed, she phoned Flack.

"What happened?"

"Things have changed."

Peter sat with his mom in the family room at the hospital, awkwardly patting her hand. Her grief was silent now, the wailing having turned into disbelief. Now and again her shoulders would tremble and she'd press the soaked hanky to her face.

He didn't know what to feel yet. It was too unreal. Too far removed from his uneventful, happy family life until now. They had never had much in terms of material stuff but that had never bothered him.

If he closed his eyes, he saw his dad's face.

Saw his mom's grief.

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

Boys don't cry.

And so, he sat and tried his best to listen as the doctors explained about myocardial infarction and recovery rates and oxygen saturation and all he could really understand was that his dad was really really sick and might still die despite it all.

It felt too much.

But he was a man now.

And so, he did his best to comfort his mom and tried not to think too much about what would happen if his dad died.

He knew he had a concussion from the nausea that didn't seem to want to go away, coupled with disorientation and a blinding headache. He breathed a little slower, trying not to throw up.

"You should've killed him back at the shore."

Mac listened as Joe and his partner fought over him. He was on the floor next to a radiator. His hands were uncomfortably twisted behind him and cuffed to the steel pipe that slipped into the wall. He thought about opening his eyes again but light seemed to increase his headache exponentially and he didn't want to risk another session with the mercenary's boot if he threw up again.

"Bide your time." His instructor's words at boot camp seem to echo in his head. "Wait until they make a mistake." But his marine training seemed too far removed.

"Look at him. He's no threat."

"Yeah, you'd think if we let him live that he'd pinkie promise not to talk about us?"

"Come on Derrick, if we killed him the police would be all over us. Just leave him here. This apartment's all paid up until the end of the month. It'd take a while before someone comes looking."

Mac heard rustling of clothes and footsteps. A moment later he nearly threw up on Derrick as the other man roughly pulled him up, pushing the Glock against his forehead. He stared through slit eyes, the hazy view of the other man barely registering. He could feel blood dripping down his hands from where the cuffs had slit into his wrists. Joe stepped up and pushed his partner away and Mac dropped raggedly back down on the floor.

"Are you insane? That gun goes off and the cops will be here in no time."

"Look at where we are, Joe. You think the neighbours are gonna care about a gun going off?"

Mac heard the front door open and slam shut. He focused on his breathing while he tried to get as comfortable as he could.

Breath in.

Wait.

He could do that.