When the Ocean Meets the Shore (2/3)

[kristen999]

---

Hot water cascaded over Steve's skin and soaked into sore muscles. He stood under the spray for half an hour, allowed it to burn away the layer of grit and dirt and blood. Rinse away the particles of bone out of his hair. He stood until the steam fogged every inch of shower surface.

He finally stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist. Pulling off the tape and plastic covering his incisions, he stared passively at the dozens of black stitches that marred his skin. His arm and shoulder were one collective ache.

He slid on a pair of boxers, skipping the t-shirt since he didn't want to battle with the sleeves. He shuffled toward his sofa, his mind a jumble of memories and images. He searched for the box from Marcus' apartment and mentally kicked himself. Danny had it.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

----------

February 3rd, 2003
Unknown Location



The ocean was liquid night.

The helo hovered above the water while Steve tensely waited. They were ten miles out from the target, and his heart pounded in anticipation. This dive was based on his plans.

He searched the eyes of his team. They were all focused on the mission, all emotion in check. Steve's CO, Commander “Blackjack” Evans, pulled out a stopwatch, his facemask dangling around his neck. Any second now. Steve's gazed landed on Jackson's steely expression, and the platoon chief shook his head in frustration at him.

Steve didn't react. He wouldn't allow doubt to niggle away at him. Jackson hadn't agreed with the extraction scenario, but this had been Steve's call and he always lived by his gut.

“Go,” Blackjack ordered.

They fast-roped down the line into the icy waves below.

----------

The cold seeped through the wetsuit and sank into his bones.

Repetitive motion combated the temperature. He was on mile one of three of a grueling surface turtleback swim to the dive point. Muscles rippled with every sidestroke, his profile flat with the surface.

The platoon swam together and together they would conquer all obstacles.

He kept an eye out for enemy ships and disturbances in the water, but the only sound he heard was the blood pumping in his veins. They were covered head to toe in neoprene, the sea swallowing them whole. Black wet suits blending into black waters.

In the midst of darkness, he recognized the outlines of the harbor.

“Two minutes to target,” his earpiece crackled.

Steve clicked the radio twice beneath his hood.

With thirty pounds of gear on their backs, they dove, and after ninety minutes of swimming, the second leg of the mission had begun: a four-hour dive to place mines on five targets.

---------

Man learned how to battle the water and fight against its natural stealth. Steve's recon of the mission had identified a Cerberus anti-swimmer system in place, capable of distinguishing human from animal using shape and movement and unable to be tricked.

Or so the manufacturer thought. Nifty thing about being a SEAL was they had secret toys.

Flask deployed the jammer and gave a thumb's up.

Coming across the chain-link netted barrier wasn't a surprise. Steve had done his job right. He scissor kicked while inspecting it with his flashlight. The metal netting was covered in polyethylene electrical insulation and a polyurethane abrasion protector outside that. The electrified strands needed to be cut, but would trip the open circuit and alert the enemy of their presence.

So far, Steve's intel was bang-on. Bulldog signaled Lone Ranger, and Jackson pulled out a length of wire and looped it to complete the circuit while Hammerhead cut each strand.

They treaded in place and swam through the hole in the netting.

Checking the masses above the water, Steve discovered the targets were in different positions from the intel.

What now?

Think under pressure; don't cave under stress. Steve had to adapt and react. Blackjack was the CO, but Steve had planned the mission.

He activated his radio. “Sir, give me twenty minutes to scout out ahead and find their new positions.”

“Take Hawk and Flask. You have ten.”

----------

The ships were farther apart but still close enough for success. They divided into pairs and swam toward their targets.

Steve was vigilant for signs of the enemy, and for netting and detection equipment. They’d been in the sea for nearly three hours, but their air breathers prevented bubbles from streaming forth, keeping them invisible.

For ninety minutes, it was all about placing magnetic mines onto the hulls of ships in precise locations to exact the most damage, ever alert at being detected.

In the last several minutes, it felt like his intestines were being ripped out. It was hard to decide up from down, and his vision fuzzed at the edges. Then he realized what was going on. They were being assaulted by sound waves─ an evil anti-swimmer deterrent. The underwater speakers could be anywhere and impossible to dismantle.

Lone Ranger signaled for his next command. Complete the task or retreat with only seven of eight mines in place? Steve gestured to keep going. There'd been no abort order.

He fought twenty more minutes of nausea and dizziness while placing the final mine, but he kept his wits about him. He and Jackson completed their task and made their way to the rendezvous. Timing was a precision skill and the whole team regrouped within ninety seconds of each other. Blackjack counted heads, and each SEAL signaled their success.

Time for extraction.

They had a three-mile swim and then had to be picked up by a sub that would emerge at the surface. Blackjack signaled for them to go out the way they'd swum in through the hole in the net.

They had been non-stop in the water for five and a half hours. Steve’s muscles burned despite the frigid water. It was amazing he still had dexterity in all of his limbs. They made it outside the harbor and surface swam for half a mile until they spotted the small patrol boats. Then the frigates.

Fuck.

--------

Steve unloaded his gear, anger and doubt gnawing away at him.

No one had said a word about the unsuccessful exercise. There was no need to. His exit strategy had been a failure, which meant they'd all failed.

He’d gone for extraction by sub instead of by helo again, not wanting to risk something so visible twice in a short amount of time. He slammed his locker closed and stared blankly at it. The frigates had “dropped depth charges,” endangering the boat.

Most missions would not have as many obstacles as they'd encountered, but that didn't matter. A SEAL should always expect the unexpected. Steve exhaled slowly. They still had to clean all their gear and debrief.

“Well, what did you learn today, Jay-Gee?”

Steve met Marcus Jackson's eyes. “I should have taken into account the sea defenses after exiting the harbor.”

“Wrong.”

“Wrong?” Steve growled.

“You need to know what defeat tastes like so you'll never repeat it.” Jackson sighed and walked away. He made it a few steps before calling out over his shoulder. “Let's see if you can keep us alive tomorrow, sir.”

---------

At seven, Chin picked him up without apology for being late. Steve would have called a cab, but he'd kept himself busy reading HPD's reports on the shooting sent to his e-mail. Chin was comforting silence to Danny's loudness and right here. He needed that space, that breaker. Chin left him to drift and think.

He tapped a staccato beat on his thigh, restless energy pulsing through his veins, his left arm throbbing to the rhythm. They skipped HQ and went straight to Singer Industries to interview Marcus' co-workers. In life, you spent more time with those you worked with than those you came home to.

“Hey, McGarrett?”

“Hmm?”

“We're here.”

The car had stopped moving, the blurring world forming trees and outlines of buildings. “Sorry,” Steve said absently, wiping a hand over his burning eyes.

“I know better than trying to talk you out of working this case, but you need to be sharp.”

“I'm fine.”

“Are you?”

Steve caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. Haunted eyes stared back. “I have a high tolerance for stress, Chin. I'm good.” He stepped out of the car and surveyed the parking lot for anything suspicious. “What are Danny and Kono working on?”

“Kono and I discovered that Jackson owned a storage unit under another name,” Chin answered, slipping his sunglasses off. “He hid it well, paid cash. We found the key among his effects and they went to check it out.”

“What alias?”

“Nelson Story.”

Steve laughed and Chin looked at him in curiosity. “He was Montana's Cattle King. Inspired Lonesome Dove. I learned more about cattle ranching than I ever wanted to,” Steve shook his head ruefully. Too many hours spent on transports and marathon training sessions. “Let's go inside.”


--------


Flashing their badges earned them an interview with the head of Singer Industries. They were another company with defense contracts with the US military, the lowest bidder for naval parts. It was little more than a warehouse with a small set of offices, walls of gray paint, and harsh lighting. The air conditioner was on full blast for all those running around in ties and jackets.

A secretary buzzed them into the executive office where a man of Hawaiian descent, in his early forties with thinning hair, stood enthusiastically in greeting. His charcoal suit was tailor-made and worth more than a week's pay. “Paulo Walaka, gentlemen, I'm the CEO of Singer Industries. I take it 5-0 is here regarding Marcus Jackson?”

He gestured at the chairs in front of his mahogany desk, but both men declined. Steve preferred standing when he observed a target.

Walaka was sleazy charm and fake smiles─ a used car salesman sitting in the big chair and needing to flaunt his success with expensive clothes and office furniture.

“We were hoping you could tell us a little about Mr. Jackson,” Chin asked, taking point.

Walaka's smile faded. His eyes went to his desk before looking up at Chin. “He was a good employee. Came highly recommended.”

“And what exactly did he do?”

“Oversaw the security of our cargo transportation and shipping and ran background checks on all employees. He also consulted with our IT department in developing a system to detect hackers and prevent cyber crime.”

“Sounds like he had a lot of responsibility.”

“We started out as twenty employees three years ago with gross profits of $9 million.” Walaka's leather chair creaked when it moved. “Now we have over a hundred on staff and we should reach $40 million. We hired him in the middle of our boom, and he was doing a great job.”

“Was?” Chin pressed.

“Yeah,” Walaka sighed and shook his head like a disappointed parent. “About six weeks ago, Mr. Jackson slipped on the stairs. Stupid really. He's always had a limp because of a military accident, but his fall really messed up his knee.”

Accident.

Steve had to look away. He felt Chin's eyes on him, but Steve forced the anger down. He balled his fists to prevent anything from boiling over.

Chin didn't miss a beat in questioning. “And this had an impact on his job performance?”

“Sadly, it did. After four weeks off, he returned to work and was never the same. Jackson was constantly tardy for work. His reports were late and the paperwork sloppy.” Walaka shook his head. “This week, his overall appearance was disheveled. He was written up thee times over the course of two months. I was well aware of his past medical history, but because of his service to his country, we still took him on board.”

“Not to mention the state tax breaks for hiring a vet,” Steve grit out.

“That was secondary,” Walaka defended. “Jackson was recommended to us through the Wounded Warriors Hiring Program. I jumped at the chance to take him on board. Hell, that's the reason I didn't fire him.”

“Fire him?” Steve moved forward until his knees hit the desk. “A man whose whole life revolved around timetables and precision? Who ironed his pants every day and polished his shoes before going out?”

“McGarrett.”

Chin's warning didn't register on Steve's radar. “Do you think a tumble down the stairs is anything compared to metal pins and reconstructive surgery?”

“No, I don’t.” Walaka leaned back in his overpriced squeaky chair and adjusted a cufflink. “But Jackson had had a problem with painkillers before. I gave him time off so he could seek help again.”

Chin moved beside Steve and nudged him away. “Could we have copies of the accident report and reprimands?”

“Sure. I'll have my HR manager arrange it.”

“And can we check out his office?”

“No problem.”

Steve just stood there, tearing through the layers of bullshit and lies in front of him. Paulo Walaka was hiding something, the concerned boss facade as fake as plaster.

Chin still hadn't budged. He stood beside him, patient and calm like the waves until Steve relented.

“Come on, don't show your hand,” he whispered in Steve's ear as soon as they were out of Walaka’s office. He waited for Steve to wrestle his emotions back under control and follow him to HR.

---------


Steve paced outside the building, allowing the sun to warm his skin. The rare window of blue skies was a break from the tropical pressure moving in.

Jackson's office had been pristine and barren as his home. They’d downloaded his hard drive and collected an unidentified substance dusting the corner of his desk in plain sight, like a damn neon sign.

Chin waited until they were outside and by the car before leaning against the open door. “You blew your cool in there.”

“I...”

Steve shut his mouth. Chin was right. Steve could disarm a nuclear bomb with ice in his veins, but he'd allowed emotions to breach his defenses during the interview. It was more than knowing the victim─ more than he was willing to admit to himself.

He paced, his body channeling and redirecting excess energy. “Walaka was lying his ass off.”

“Agreed, but if we're going to find out the what and why...”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve spun around. It took three steady breaths to settle his nerves. “I'll keep myself in check.”

Loose cannons torpedoed missions.

Steve wiped at the droplets of sweat on his brow. “What did you guys learn from your interviews at the hotel?”

“That Jackson had rented a room there for two weeks. According to the guy who had the room next to him. Jackson only came in at night and ordered takeout on a regular basis. The walls were paper thin, and the delivery guys knocked really loud.”

Steve rubbed at his injured arm, traced his fingers down his sling. “What the hell was Marcus doing there? I mean...”

“Maybe Danny and Kono will have something.”

“In the meantime, I want to know everything we've got on our dead suspect from Precision Work.”

“We should have answers when we get back to headquarters,” Chin said, getting into the car.

---

Danny squatted in front of the storage unit and grimaced at the key control. “An alarm? Really?”

“Kind of obsessive,” Kono agreed and pointed at the camera hidden in the corner of the door. “That's a pinhole surveillance system. Unless you were looking for it, you'd never know it was there.”

“Paranoia-R-Us.”

Danny reached down for the lock as Kono whispered, “Ya think it's booby trapped?”

He snatched his hand away with a curse while she laughed.

“I was kidding.”

“Keep it up, rookie.” Using the key, he opened the padlock and lifted up the door. Danny shielded his eyes when a floodlight blinded him and the alarm went off. “Seriously?” he growled over the noise.

Kono brushed past him in awe. “Wow...um, Danny?”

He walked under the floodlight and froze. “No wonder this place's set up like Fort Knox.” He whistled and scoped out the wall of automatic weapons, counting six different models. A table by the east wall was covered in surveillance equipment that included listening devices, high-powered binoculars, scopes, and top-of-the-line cameras. “Oh, look. Night and thermal imaging. I bet Jackson and McGarrett bought from the same catalog.”

“You think the boss has a bat cave like this?”

“Probably bigger.”

It was a joke, but sadly, Danny wouldn't have freaking a clue. And if Steve did...would he ever show it to him?

Checking out the storage unit, he wondered if even Marcus Jackson had ever known the real Steve McGarrett?

If anyone really did.

“Look at all these.” Kono pulled a sheet off dozens of containers stacked to the ceiling. Popping off a plastic lid, she dug through files and books. “I don't get it. You said his apartment was empty?”

“Bare bones.”

Marcus Jackson's life was stored inside an aluminum tin can and locked behind a security alarm.

Shaking his head, Danny checked his cell. No calls.

“You're worried about McGarrett.”

“You mean that he might get caught in the middle of a drive-by where half a punk's skull is blown all over him?” Kono frowned and Danny relented. “I'm worried that he's got his sights set so far off his target that he won't see the cliff right in front of him.”

But if he was honest with himself, Danny prayed that the similarities between Jackson and McGarrett had ended in the service. That Steve's life would never resemble the contents in front of him.


---------

Members of HPD brought everything out of the unit by hand and unloaded the stacks in the back of HQ. It would take hours to catalog them all, but Steve declared them a priority above all other aspects of the case.

Danny penciled the catalog number from the sixth container. “You know, there's a shooting that needs investigating... Just sayin’.”

“We're running the shotgun casings found at the scene with the ATF database,” Steve answered, wandering over. “See if we can match them from any other crimes. I've got Kono digging into the background of Precision Detail and Martin Sabo. Either he got one of his boys to commit the hit or---”

“We were being tailed that morning. Which doesn't make sense.”

“As much sense as using heroin to kill someone?”

“Jackson was a person with a history of substance abuse,” Danny reminded him. It was flimsy as hell, but he didn't have any other answers. “Maybe they were hoping someone like Chou would be investigating.”

“Where he'd be conveniently handed BS reports containing disciplinary issues and strange behavior,” Steve snorted.

“And when the substance on Jackson’s desk comes back positive for heroin…” Chin waved the report. “It's a slam dunk.”

Danny scrubbed a hand over his face. “Then why not plant drugs at his home?”

Steve didn't have an answer - he dealt with his frustration by snagging the nearest container. He grabbed it with both hands, sling and all, but his left arm gave out and the container fell out of his grasp.

“For crying out loud.” Danny was there, standing but not touching. “How about letting those who don't have a clipped wing move all the heavy stuff, huh?” But Steve's pallor went gray. “Hey? Are you all right?”

Danny's worried voice caught the attention of the others and said attention drove Steve away in a cloud of, “We've got work to do.”

“The interview at Singer left him a little rough around the edges. Let him blow off some steam,” Chin warned.

Danny gave his partner exactly twenty seconds of alone time before he marched right after him.

Steve paced. Probably because there wasn't an ocean nearby to jump in. He looked pale and worn, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

“Would you sit before you fall down?”

“I don't have time. We have two cases, two bodies, two corporations to dig through--”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it, but seriously, man. You look like crap. Have you taken your pain pills? They can't work if they're stuck in bottles.”

“I left them at home.”

“Of course you did.”

“I took some Advil a little while ago.”

Steve was like a wounded dog in search of a bone. Danny remembered the storage unit and patted down his shirt pocket. “Hey, I found this memory stick. Looked like Jackson had recently used it. Why don't you see if there's anything useful on it?”

From the set of his jaw, Steve wanted to argue but Danny's logic was sound. He didn’t even gloat about it.

He wouldn't admit Danny was right, though. He just took the flash drive with a grateful nod and went into his office.

Good. Maybe he'd fall asleep in his chair.

----------

The suspect from Precision Detail now had a full name. Heath Lanny Crawford. He was a young punk with deep ties to everyone on the street. He had lots of juice and pull but no big connections with major outfits. He'd been new to Sabo's operation. Maybe killing Jackson had been a test?

The douchebag had run when he’d fallen for Steve's ruse. Took off because he'd been the one handling pure grade shit. And then he'd been gunned down immediately.

In what? Two minutes?

Gnawing at the end of his pencil, Danny re-read Lanny's record then tried sorting through the reports from the DEA on Martin Sabo's drug operation. No major busts or arrests. Even the two-bit players did time rather than give the guy up.

“I know what Marcus was up to at that hotel.” Steve bulldozed his way over, slapping stacks of pictures in front of Danny. “He was doing surveillance.”

Obviously, his partner hadn't fallen asleep like Danny had hoped. “Surveillance? Of what?” he asked, scanning the pictures. “Where'd you get these?”

“I printed them off the flash drive. Marcus was doing a stakeout of the warehouse across the street. There's got to be hundreds of pictures.” Steve barely took a breath between each statement. “And I ran a check on the warehouse. It's owned by an MPP Limited. The sole proprietor happens to be Martin Sabo.”

One piece of a large puzzle fell into place.

“What did Jackson find?”

“I'm not sure.”

Okay, not helpful. Danny studied the pictures. They were all taken at night. Most were of blurry images of trucks and a few blobs that were supposed to be people.

“How the hell did Jackson even get involved in this?”

“I have no idea.”

“And if he did have something on Sabo, why didn't he go to the police?”

“Marcus was anal about details. He wouldn’t go to the authorities without some proof backing up whatever he thought he was on to.”

“But he had your number in his cell? Why didn't he dial it?”

Oh.

Danny would do anything to take his question back and prevent the pain written on Steve’s face. He really needed to know more, though, because if Jackson had called Steve and Steve hadn’t returned his call, then it was more than loyalty driving his partner. It was guilt.

And guilt was the most painful companion of death, preying on the survivors.

---------

Danny hated this idea. He wasn't against taking up where Jackson had left off and conducting their own surveillance, but using the exact room where he died?

Steve already lived in the same house where his father had been murdered.

“Why couldn't we use the room next door?” Danny asked, setting his bag of equipment on the bed.

“Marcus chose this room for a reason. It probably has the best line of sight on his objective.”

“We're not on a mission; we're on a stakeout.”

“Same principles, Danny.”

“If you start breaking out the camo paint, we're done.”

Steve ignored him and pulled out some James Bond sensor device. He set up a tripod and adjusted what looked like a telescope from Star Trek. “This will sharpen the images.”

“And where, pray tell, did you buy that?”

Apparently, Danny was talking to himself. Fine. He pulled out his standard issue binoculars and planted his ass against the table by the chair to observe.

----------

Cars came and went across the street. People argued in the hotel parking lot.
Hookers dropped by all night. In the six hours of listening, staring, and counting the number of stains in the carpet, there'd been no chitchat or arguing over stupid shit.

He wasn't sure, but Danny didn't think Steve had moved a muscle. He'd been a slab of rock, unyielding to distraction. It was like he'd blended into the plaster and wooden window frame.

Danny had kidded about this not being a mission, but Steve hadn't been joking. He was out there. In a jungle, or the desert, or wherever he'd served, inches away from warlords or terrorists, unable and unwilling to breathe.

It would be awe worthy if the two of them weren't in Hawaii in a crappy motel. It was near morning, a heavy drizzle obscuring the sunrise, and Danny was worn to the bone.

Steve finally packed away his uber gear and sat on the bed, looking weary and drained, almost a shell of his normal vibrant and annoyingly active self.

“We both need to hit the sack,” Danny said around a yawn.

God. He had Grace this Saturday. His whole sleep cycle was screwed.

“I'm starving. Except for those tasteless protein bars you carry, I didn't eat. As much as my bed is calling me, you want to grab breakfast before I drop you off at HQ to pick up your truck?

“I'll take a rain check. I want to go over--”

“Excuse me?” Danny asked, exasperated. “We just pulled an all-nighter on top of our normal shift because you wanted Kono and Chin working on the thousand other aspects of this case. No, we need to eat pancakes and scrambled eggs and get some solid sleep.”

“Case's not going to solve itself.”

“No, and it sure as hell won't get solved if you run yourself into the ground. You were shot recently and had to wash brain matter out of your hair. Or did you forget?”

“I've gone longer without sleep.”

“Congratulations.”

“We'll meet back here at sixteen hundred.”

“Hello,” Danny waved his hand in front of Steve's stubbled face. “You mean at 4 p.m. You know, how normal humans keep track of time.”

“Yeah.”

Danny was too damn tired for this right now.

“I know you don't like living in the real world because McGarrett Land doesn't have any pesky rules to follow, but tomorrow, we're doing the stakeout like normal. With talking and ordering dinner and acting like partners should.”

Steve mumbled an appropriate response and an apology for acting like petrified wood the whole night. It was well intentioned, but Danny didn't buy it. Whether he knew it or not, Steve's defenses were broken and Danny could see right through them.

----------

Sleep was that brass ring barely out of reach. Danny's fingers grasped the smooth surface only for them to slip away. He tossed and turned and got thirty minutes of rest before bolting awake to images of blood and bone exploding in his face.

He blamed Steve as he drove by himself.

Blamed him for how slow his reflexes responded to red lights and how every radio station irritated him like nails on a chalkboard.

He didn’t pick up Steve. They both arrived at the flea trap motel in their own cars. It was going to be a very long day as they got an early head start. Danny checked in with Kono and Chin and got caught up on all the reasons why the DEA had hit so many brick walls on their investigations.

There were no paper trails of illegal activity, and it'd been impossible to get anyone undercover. The DEA had no idea how Sabo moved drugs all over the island. There was still no telling if their surveillance would prove substantive to the investigation. The priorities of the case had shifted from Jackson's storage unit to the mysterious warehouse across from where he died.

Drug dealers and shifty defense contractors. There was a connection somewhere.

Chin warned him that Steve had been at work hours before Chin and Kono had arrived. Tread carefully was all the advice he'd been given.

Danny walked into the motel room and froze. “Are those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday?”

“No.”

Steve kept packages of t-shirts in his office, so his upper half might have been fresh, but those cargo pants were the ones from yesterday. They had the same worn spot above the right knee.

“Has your face seen a razor in the last couple of days?”

“I brought lunch,” Steve said, dodging the question.

Mao Ling's was an actual four-star Chinese restaurant. Danny grabbed a pint of moo shu pork. “This doesn't buy you a pass from yesterday,” he warned between mouthfuls.

Steve's smile was forced.

There were slanted efforts at small talk only because Steve was edgier. The complete opposite of last night. From still to twitchy. He adjusted the air conditioner three times.

“Would you please chill out?” Danny complained.

“We're not making enough progress.”

“Hello? It's been three days.”

“The trail's going cold.”

“The case is more complicated than the state budget.”

“I say we should wait until it's dark and go in there.”

“Into the warehouse?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you nuts?” The vein in Danny's temple spasmed. “There are these things called laws. You know, that we're sworn to serve and protect?”

Steve rubbed at his forehead. “We can't just--”

“Just what? Act like cops? That's what we are. We follow the rules even when they suck.”

“Goddammit!” Steve snarled, smashing the wall with his good hand and leaving a fist-sized dent.

“Okay, that's it. You're going home and you're going to sleep for eight whole hours, or I'm--”

“You're going to what?”

“I'll punch your lights out if I have to. You're frayed to the bone, and I can't afford a partner who's stretched tighter than a rubber band. If you don't get yourself killed, then you'll get me killed.”

He got right into Steve's face. “You need to stand down. I'll call Kono or Chin. And if you open your mouth to argue, then we're going to tussle and I don't how to break it to you, but I'll win.”

For a second, Danny thought Steve would call his bluff, but thankfully all that endless stamina had a limit. Steve slumped onto the bed, cupping his face with his free hand.

“Look,” Danny sighed. “You're tired. Beyond tired. Training or not, it adds up. You need fresh eyes and a rested body, okay? I have this. 5-0 has this. I promise.”

Please. You idiot.

Steve stood, bruised and hurting, but he stood.

“Alright. But you promise. If you discover something--”

“I've got you on speed dial. I know how much this means to you.”

Steve nodded, and Danny felt the enormous weight on his shoulders grow heavier.

---

The clouds rolled in from shore, gathering energy. Rising air expanded until it was torn apart by thermal energy.

Steve drove. It didn't matter where. He had no direction. Foot on the pedal, hands sweaty on the wheel, his left arm a dog's leftover chew toy.

Even with the windows rolled down, perspiration beaded in the creases of his forehead. For two hours, he dissected the case, pried apart emotion and memory. It was a fight, battling those images away. He needed to go home and figure out the shit in his head.

Pulling into his driveway, he snagged the box he’d found at Marcus's apartment and went inside. He collapsed on the sofa, wiped the grit out of his eyes, and dug his fingers into his throbbing temple, but he was too tired to sleep and too washed out to think.

----------


April 21st, 2003



Steve was wired with adrenaline and skirting exhaustion. The mission debriefing had been yesterday at 0500, followed by a gear check and arrival on the carrier. He hadn't slept during the ride to their destination, and once he’d boarded the helo, it was game-on.

The vessel below was a type 056 corvette-- a small maneuverable warship. It was made of one thousand tons of metal with a single gun deck with a max speed of thirty-six knots and able to outrun a sub.

The rescue op was coordinated with SEAL Team Five and the Marine Maritime Special Purpose Force. This wasn't an exercise. Steve gripped his rifle tighter.
Most of his team would act as backup and go in after SEAL Team Five. Both platoons were aboard the two insertion H53 assault helos hovering above the target. Steve was on the MH-60 Blackhawk three hundred yards away, watching. Waiting.

Varying degrees of green shimmered from his night vision. The vessel was cloaked in blobs of dark shadow and emerald. The enemy had no idea what was about to hit the fan. Thirty seconds. That’s all it would take. Sixteen SEALs repelled down to the corvette and landed on the aft side, systematically converging.

Steve lay flat on his belly on the floor of the helo, finger on the trigger. He tried zeroing his weapon, but his line of sight was in constant flux. Waves kept the target vessel in motion even as the wind bombarded the helo. He compensated and adjusted his trajectory.

The target was three hundred and twenty meters away at a sixty-degree angle.
He multiplied the range by the cosine, then aimed where he projected the target to be.

“First bogie is at twenty degrees north, fifty-one east,” Lone Ranger's voice echoed in his earpiece.

“Copy that,” Steve breathed, locating the green human outline.

He waited...waited...

He squeezed the trigger.

“Got two more at twenty and forty-five.”

He adjusted the side rule, calculated gravity, movement, and wind, then fired again. Then at the third target.

The platoons were on their way to the bridge. Sixteen neon green outlines as Steve took out the enemy on the upper deck.

“Smooth Dog. Bogies at fifty and thirty-six degrees.”

Three more targets were on the move. Steve adjusted his slant, anticipated the lead time, and took each one out.

Both SEAL teams converged onto the bridge, and thirty seconds later the vessel was at a full stop.

Steve readied himself for new targets.

The radio crackled for the follow-up force to board. His finger rested on the trigger while the Marines roped down.

Ninety seconds later, his CO's call came.

“Ship is secure. They've taken out the targets.”

Steve took a breath but didn't dare wipe away the sweat at his brow.

Only after the bag guys were rounded up and the teams had started extraction procedures did Steve lay off the scope.

Ninety-two minutes later, he was back on the carrier, disassembling his rifle.

“That was some fine shooting, Jay Gee,” came a familiar voice.

“Thanks for calling the shots,” Steve answered, knowing he was nothing without a good spotter.

“That's my job, sir.” Jackson sat next to him. He rested his head against the wall, fingers fishing out a wad of tobacco. “When we get to port, drinks are on me.”

“Sounds good.”

Jackson clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Hey, it's been ten months and we ain't dead yet.”

Steve hid his smile.

---------

God. Had he fallen asleep? Steve blinked at the display of his watch. It was after seven.

His skin felt like paper, tight over his bones, and a migraine pulsed behind his skull.

He needed to run, clear the cobwebs so he could focus. He removed his sling, igniting shock waves through his bicep and sending a shot of energy into his brain.

Sometimes pushing harder broke through the haze.

He went outside without changing into his running shorts and took off down the beach. Feet hit the sand. Ocean breezes brushed his cheeks.

One mile. Two.

His eyes burned.

His arm throbbed.

A Nene squawked above his head as the storm rumbled.

Sometimes it was hard to believe he was in Hawaii, back home after being sent away by his dad for protection.

He ran harder. They’d spent so many years apart. Too many squandered moments and regrets.

If only he had known what his dad had been up against and his motivations for building a wall between them. He might have done things differently, like come home on the holidays and seen Mary more, really gotten to know his sister.

But his father was dead and his mother long buried. The mystery of their deaths was out of reach, and the lack of vengeance or closure like an open wound.

Sweat poured down his face.

Three miles.

He turned back toward the house, breaths rapid and harsh. He was soaked in sweat; his body was one giant thrum alive and beating.

He slowed to a jog, panting heavily. When he reached the house, he leaned against the back door before going inside, welcoming the blast of air conditioning on his skin rushing through the open door.

He stumbled in after a moment, found his sofa, and fell into the cushions.
His ears buzzed and the house was basked in a fuzzy white. He rubbed at his eyes to clear his vision, and stared at the cardboard box next to him.

Marcus's stuff. He fumbled through pictures and documents and found a birth certificate and an address book. Steve flipped through the blank pages of a battered notebook and stared at it quizzically.

“It couldn't be.”

The room swayed when he stood up. He needed to eat soon. He searched through his refrigerator, pushed aside yogurt and eggs, and grabbed the grape juice with a shaky hand.

He wiped at his sweaty face with the container, enjoying the coolness seeping into his flesh. Stumbling back to the sofa, he grabbed a plate off his coffee table and poured the juice into it. Then he tore a sheet out of the notebook and soaked the sheet.

Several familiar symbols appeared.

“I'll be damned.”

It was early evening and Steve squinted at the swirling letters. He fumbled with the lamp next to him, taking three times to switch it on.

He wiped at his brow as he tried deciphering the secrets Marcus had left behind.

---

Danny hated-- no, loathed-- stakeouts. They were boring and monotonous. Having someone to share the misery made them more tolerable. He checked the time. It was almost midnight.

His cell rang, but when he picked it up, the call ended. He recognized the familiar number.

Movement outside the window caught his eye. Chin and Jenna crossed the parking lot and he opened the door before either could knock. “Thank God. This is worse than watching water boil. And um, hi.” He waved at Jenna, his eyes drifting at Chin in question.

“Kaye just got back from DC. I brought her up to speed on the case and sent Kono home so at least one of us won't be sleep deprived.”

Doing surveillance in pairs was a safety thing besides a sanity check, booting Steve out notwithstanding.

“Good call.” Danny stretched his arms above his head until his back popped. “I've got nothing to report.”

“We do,” Chin said, peering through the scope of the camera. “Max called. The Thai takeout collected from the scene was laced with heroin. Jackson probably couldn't taste it.”

“Enough to kill him?” Danny asked.

“Maybe. Hard to tell, but it was enough to incapacitate,” Chin answered.

“It would explain how Jackson was taken out without a struggle,” Jenna added, wrinkling her nose at the foul smelling room. She paused at the dent in the wall. “Um, was this from McGarrett?”

“Hence why he's home,” Danny said grabbing his stuff. “Supposedly resting,” he mumbled when his cell buzzed again. “Do you know the definition of sleeping? It's been only five hours,” he growled into the phone.

“What?... Who's this?”

Danny froze. “Steven?”

“Yeah...Danny, that you?”

Okay, this was scaring him. “Steve, what's wrong?”

“I...I think I've been compromised.”

“Compromised? Steve, what the hell's going on?”

“Got to keep moving... Wait for an extraction.”

The call went dead and Danny hit speed dial. It went to Steve's voicemail.

“Is something wrong?” Chin asked in concern.

“I don't know.” Danny blew out a breath. “Steve...he sounded really out of it.”

Jenna looked between both men. “Did he use the duress word?”

“No, nothing like that. It was like he was confused or something.” Danny moved toward the door. “I'll drop by his place.”

“Want us to come with?”

“No,” Danny told Chin. “Whatever's going on, Steve would want us to continue the surveillance. I'll keep you updated.”

Danny hustled to his car and nearly dropped his keys before turning the ignition. He flipped on the blue and red lights because he was about to break a ton of traffic laws.

---------


Steve's truck was in the driveway and there were no other vehicles around. Danny pulled out his gun anyway and used his free hand to dial Steve's cell for the millionth time.

Voicemail again.

Rain pelted lightly on the roof, a steady rap over Danny's car. He curled his fingers around the butt of his Sig.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Should he call out Steve's name?

Or maybe just go through the front door, you idiot.

Danny's gut twisted with a sense of danger, and he swept the lawn, searching the porch. The front door was closed. No lights were on.

He inched toward the steps.

“Move and you’re dead.”

Danny froze.

“Drop the gun and put your hands above your head.”

Danny's heart skipped a beat. That was Steve's voice. Lower and scratchier, but he'd recognize it anywhere.

He carefully let his weapon fall to the grass and raised his hands into the air.

“Steve? It's me. I'm turning around.”

Danny kept his cool while his partner trained a gun at his chest. Steve's t-shirt and pants were soaked through from the rain, his hair plastered to his face.

“Danny?” Steve lowered his weapon and stepped closer. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.

Danny dropped his hands, eyes skirting across Steve's flushed face. “You called me, babe.”

Steve stared at him with bright eyes, a frown creasing his drawn features. “Called you?” He shook his head, spraying droplets everywhere. “No, I got Marcus's message. The stupid baking soda trick.”

A tree branch cracked and Steve grabbed Danny by the shoulder and pushed him behind him. He aimed his gun at the noise.

Danny winced at the heat emanating from Steve's fingers. “Hey, it's just the rain.”

But Steve was too busy chasing shadows, eyes darting at the tree line. “Might be snipers,” he mumbled.

This was a nightmare. Christ. Danny ran through his options. Play along or try getting through to his obviously ill, very dangerous partner.

“Come on. I've got a car, we can--”

“Shhhh,” Steve hushed him, still searching for invisible bad guys. “We hold our position.”

“Steve, look at me,” Danny ordered, mustering all the authority in his voice that he could.

Steve obeyed, his complexion ghastly in the rain, cheeks and the tips of his ears pink even in the darkness. Steve's breathing was rapid and rough, and his arms shook with fine tremors.

“I'm your partner. We're outside your house. In Hawaii. Getting wet. Do you understand?”

Something clicked. Or possibly shorted out. Steve stared at his surroundings like it was an alien spaceship. “This is...my father's house.” He rubbed at his eyes with his left hand, and his right arm fell loosely by his side, gun still firmly secured. “My father's dead.”

Danny's heart clenched at the shockingly fresh grief in Steve's voice. He hated himself for making Steve relive such emotion. “Yeah, he died almost a year ago.”

“He was murdered, like my mother.”

Steve swayed. It had to be stubborn sheer force of will keeping him on his feet. “I...I couldn't stop it.” His voice cracked with sheer rawness of emotion.

Danny almost laid a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder when his cell phone rang.

Damn it!

Steve went from shaky to fully alert, eyeing the phone like it was a bomb. He started stepping away into the darkness. “I've got to find Marcus.”

“Marcus is dead.”

“No, I've got to find him.”

The sky cracked with thunder and Steve took off.

“No!” Danny shouted.

Steve disappeared down the beach.

Fuck. The cell went off again and Danny answered. “We're in trouble.”

“What's wrong?” Chin asked, sounding like he was ready to jump through the speaker to help.

“Steve's in a bad way. He's got a nasty fever and isn't right in the head.” Danny was ready to pull his hair out. “He just disappeared like Casper the Paranoid Ghost.”

“Is he armed?”

“Yeah. Shit.”

“And he's disoriented?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

Chin breathed heavily into the phone. Jenna was talking in the background. “You have to find him, brah. If we have to call HPD--”

“They might have to use force.”

“Sick or not, Steve's dangerous.”

“He wouldn't hurt anyone.”

“We know that...hold on...I'll track his cell.”

Danny prayed Steve still had it on him.

“Got it. I'm tracking him. He's not far. Less than a quarter of a mile from your position.”

He was already inside his car, peeling out of the driveway. “Can you give me live updates on the GPS?”

“No problem.”

It didn’t take long to navigate the roads. Danny planned on cutting Steve off. He watched the dot dart across his screen. Even sick and injured, the guy was a force of nature. Danny would be in awe if he weren’t scared shitless.

Then it suddenly stopped.

Danny pulled off the side of the road and jumped out. Panting for breath, he checked the GPS. Still not moving.

He didn't have a weapon, not that he’d use it. Danny ran from grass to wet sand, the rain a steady stream of hot stickiness. Everything was shadow and murky outlines.

The dot hadn't budged.

He slowed down, not wanting to agitate or spook Steve given his state of mind. Damn, it was hard to see. His ears were attuned to the noise of the ocean, of the rain masking all other sound.

Walking on the beach in normal shoes was difficult, so he tried for a steady gait, searched for signs of Steve in the drizzly mist and the surrounding darkness.

There. His breath caught in his throat. Steve was sprawled face down on the beach.

“Steve,” he breathed. Falling to his knees, he located Steve's gun and slipped it in the waistband of his pants. He reached for a pulse and found it fast and thready.

Yanking out his cell, he dialed Chin, who answered on the first ring. “Hey man, I've got him. Could you call a bus and send them to the coordinates off the GPS?”

“On it.”

He carefully rolled Steve onto his back. Danny pulled him into his lap and rested Steve's head against his shoulder. Brushed the sand off Steve's sweat slicked face. “Jesus, you're burning up.”

Fevered eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused.

“Easy, partner.”

Steve sucked in several rapid breaths. He struggled weakly, but failed to get his muscles to work, causing him to panic even more.

“Hey Steve... Steven, listen to me.” Danny snapped his fingers. “You listening?” He saw a glimmer of recognition. “You, my friend, are sick, but I've got your back. Help's on the way.”

“But...but the grape juice.”

“We'll get you grape juice, carrot juice, pineapple juice, whatever you want. Just lay back and wait for your ride to arrive.”

“No,” Steve shook his head. “You don't...don't understand. I need to...”

His partner went boneless against him and Danny fought down a bubble of terror. “Come on, hurry up,” he growled at the sirens off in the distance.

Danny squeezed Steve's shoulder, whispering a litany of reassurances.

The sirens grew louder and Danny became Steve's anchor as the waves gently lapped closer to their feet.


”Conclusion”