A fictional work based on the tv series 'Without a Trace'
Rating: PG-17 (Language, violence)
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the show or characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only, without profit or gain of any kind.
Jack was just leaving his morning briefing with Tim Simmons when his phone rang. He had just exited the Hartford Federal Building and was heading for his car. He pulled out the cellphone and flipped it open.
"Malone." He shifted the phone and used his other hand to unlock the door. As he climbed inside a young man's Hispanic voice sounded in the earpiece.
"Agent Malone, this is Juan Sanchez from Holy Cross. I was wondering if you had any news on Danny."
"Danny?" Jack shut the door and put the key in the ignition. "You mean Martin?"
"Si... yes... I'm sorry."
"We got a few leads but nothing solid. Danny is hoping to find out more working the streets."
"I might be able to help."
"You already have, Juan," Jack conceded, pulling out onto the street. "Father Joe told me how much of your free time is being used to canvas the streets. I really appreciate that."
"Thanks, I owe him that much, I gave him my word..."
"It's not your fault Juan," Jack trimmed the edge of guilt on the words.
"Anyway," Juan deflected, "We have a blown up photo of Martin on the wall by the dining room. We got a guy who showed up for breakfast today that thinks he saw Martin yesterday."
"Where?" Jack inquired, pulling over to take out his notebook. He cradled the phone with his shoulder and wrote down the address that Juan gave. "That's great! I'll keep you posted."
Jack paused a few yards away from the vendor's cart. The description couldn't have been clearer. The woman behind the cart selling hot sandwiches, donuts and coffee while cheerfully dispensing advice with a kind smile had to be 'Old Annie'. Rosy cheeks sat under bright blue eyes and there was that smile. He approached the cart and pulled out Martin's photo, just as she looked up.
"What'll ye have, luv?" Annie asked.
"A moment of your time," Jack replied, offering the photo. "My name is Jack Malone, I'm an F.B.I. agent from New York. One of my men went missing last week, his name is Martin Fitzgerald. He might have been in this area and I was wondering if you'd seen him. He was mugged, suffered a head injury and has amnesia.'
She eyed him curiously, noting the dark trench coat and serious face. "Malone, is it?"
"Yes, Ma'am," Jack answered.
"Would ye be kin to the Malones of Kitimagh?"
"No, I don't think so," Malone replied with an amused smile. Then he moved in when she leaned closer as if to bestow wisdom or impart with a secret.
"It's just as well, they're a nasty lot, Fergus and Mickey and that awful Ned. Blew up their Daddy's barn they did, making poteen. A heartache they were for their sainted mother." She shook her head sadly and blessed herself.
"I have enjoyed more than a wee bit of Tullymore in my day," Jack chuckled, totally charmed by the tiny woman.
"Ah, I knew it, ye have that look. Jack is it? Rakish I'll bet, goes with the name." She was delighted to have found a 'kinsman' of sorts.
"Rakish," Jack laughed, "yeah, that's me. Have you seen him?" He held out the photo again and this time she took it. He knew before she replied by the sadness that crossed her face like dark shadows.
She put one hand to her heart and shook her head. "Me poor bonnie Danny, I knew he was lost. Poor lamb was so full of fear and hurt. Aye, lad, he was here yesterday. He stumbled in early in the morning just as I was settin' up me cart. He kept me company all day. He walked with me down the alley where I locked up me cart." She paused then and sighed hard, her eyes filling with tears.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," Jack apologized, seeing how distressed she was.
"No, I don't usually wash me eyes this early in the day," she noted, swiping her eyes. She looked at the picture again. "Poor lamb, he was so sick, slept on and off and the awful dreams. He'd wake up startled; his eyes wide and full of fear. He couldn't seem to get his bearings at all. I waited for him this morning, by the lockup where me cart is. I waited for almost an hour, but he never came back. I've been watchin' for him to come around the corner again but..."
"Can you show me where you last saw Martin?"
"Aye, lad." She left the cart and walked to the corner, then pointed down the street. "Do ye see that red overhang with the black lettering?"
"Yeah." Jack squinted and saw the awning which appeared near the corner a few blocks down. It was large and the only red in the otherwise conservative buildings."
"That's Ming's, an Oriental store; I turn there and get the bus. He went the other way. Oh, I hope he's not..." she broke off the thought and changed her mind. "Now there ye go again Annie, paintin' a black picture. He's fine, jest sleepin' in today, that cough... oh that cough..."
"Annie?" Jack followed her back to the cart. "Did he mention where he came from? Is there anything that you remember about yesterday and Martin that might help?"
"He's not well, he's totin' a fever and an awful cough. He seemed to get bad headaches. He didn't talk but his face would screw up in pain and he'd hold his head. He was starving; I got some food and hot brew in him. I sent him off with some food. He seemed fearful, of himself even, kept lookin' at the silver reflection on me cart and touching his face. Then he'd get this pain in his eyes and they'd dart back and forth. I'm sorry, I wish I could have been more help to ye, Mister Malone."
"Mister Malone is my father," Jack corrected with a gentle smile. He took her small hand in both of his and held it for a moment. "My friends call me Jack, okay. And you did more for Martin than most have since he's been lost. I want to thank you for that and for that smile that you kept for him."
She nodded and kept hold of his hand, staring at the picture. "It's going to sound silly, I mean he didn't talk, but he's special. There's something about him... Can I hang this up on me cart? Perhaps someone else will recognize him."
"I'd appreciate that, Annie, very much," Jack complimented. He gave her his card as he turned to leave. "My cell is on the back, if you see him again, try to keep him here and call me, alright?"
Jack spent the next hour canvassing the block, stopping in various stores and offices to see if anybody had seen his missing agent. He was just exiting Ming's when his cellphone rang.
"Malone."
"Jack? I can't talk long."
"Danny?" Jack hissed, squinting through his sunglasses into the bright autumn sun overhead. "Where the hell where you this morning? You should have checked in. I got three of Simmons men out looking for you."
"Call them off, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I overslept. Listen, I got a lead."
Jack listened to every word that Danny spoke and didn't miss the vinegar sprinkled liberally throughout the speech. He had to squelch his own anger when Benny's disgusting act was revealed. He pulled out the small handwritten map he'd made and eyed the area where Danny was. Then he moved his gaze to where he stood now, where Martin had been last night. The cross radius was broad and his agent could have gone in a dozen directions.
"So where's this Catfish now?" Jack asked of the old man Danny was pinning his hopes to.
"He hasn't left yet." Danny craned his neck from the window he was seated behind keeping a hawk like position. "He said he was going to try to find Martin today. I can't leave just yet, Jack, I gotta stay put. He's my first real lead."
"Okay, I'm heading by to New York for the afternoon. I'll update Simmons and have him send some local cops to roust Benny. You sure you're okay?"
"I'm good," Danny sent back, and then thought on Jack's words. "New York? Did Van Doren pull you back? What the hell is her problem? We can't leave without Martin!"
"Hold it!" Jack practically shouted. When Taylor got his craw up, his feathers ruffled good. "I'm going back because Dave Palmer called. They're bringing in those three goons who beat up Martin and he's invited me to sit in."
"Sit huh?" Danny spat back. "You got more self control than I do. Don't think they're not on my list. I intend to have my own 'conversation' with them..."
"You keep that hot head cool, understand!" Jack issued, "You concentrate on your job. You call me later, if you can't get me, you call Tim Simmons, understood!"
"Yeah," Danny replied, his keen eyes spotting Catfish on the move. "I gotta go, Jack."
Martin's eyes shot open and he woke up gasping for air. He rolled over and sat up, immediately coughing without abandon. He coughed so hard he threw up and got dizzy. Something thick was stuck to the inside of his throat and he couldn't breathe. He gagged and coughed until he dislodged it and sat back, wheezing and sweating. His head was killing him and his back hurt. He peeled an eye open and stared at four unfamiliar concrete walls. The worktable he slept on was near several rows of large crates stacked to the ceiling. A warehouse? He shook his head to clear the cobwebs out. Again he eyed the room and spotted a single open window at the top of the wall. He had no recollection of entering last night or yesterday or whenever he'd stumbled inside.
The loud noise that woke him up sounded again. Martin jumped up and climbed onto the tallest crate to peer out of the window. There was a construction crew across the street. That's where the loud sound came from. He saw an orange and black sign and realized that whatever they were doing had shut the building down. Relief coursed through him. He was safe for awhile longer. He went back down and staggered badly, falling to his knees. The floor seemed to tilt up at a ridiculous angle, like the Titanic. He couldn't fall off but it sure felt like he might. He closed his eyes and took several loud breaths, then felt the room leveling out.
Food; his growling stomach caused his eyes to open. He spotted a bag on the floor next to the workbench. As he stood up to head to the table, he saw a silver stand with a large glass container of water. It was a dispenser for hot and cold spring water. He nearly cried in relief. He took the red plastic cup that was in a stack next to it and filled it. He gulped the cold water so fast it hurt his throat. Then he filled it again and drank, the third cup he took with him and ate some lunch. He saved a sandwich, a bag of chips and cookies for dinner.
There was a pane of glass nearby with a dark plastic cover on the outside. It gave a reflective appearance and he stared at the filthy face; matted, dirty hair over wide eyes and a bearded face. Nothing came to him. Not a name, a home, an identity, a purpose. He concentrated on the eyes again, hoping to see something there. The stranger's eyes held no secrets for him and he turned away, taking a seat. He thought about the F.B.I. man again who'd screamed at him. He revisited the cafe in his mind and that face.
A flash in his head caused him to cry out and clutch his head with both hands. The same man appeared but in a different place. They were in a crowded train station and the man was yelling at him, his eyes full of rage and anger, with a rippling of hatred even. The badge the man wore seemed to glow and grow in intensity until it blinded him. He went limp and fell sideways onto the floor, slipping back into an unconscious state.
Jack was in his office, talking to his wife when the other phone rang. He hung up and took the new call.
"Malone."
"It's Simmons, Jack. Just wanted to let you know Danny called in. He's fine and still trailing that old guy. He seems to think the guy is headed in the right direction, according to what he told him last night. I got two men ready to go if he needs us."
"Okay, Tim, thanks, keep me posted." He looked up when Vivian and Sam appeared in the doorway.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself," Sam returned. "Dave Palmer called; they're ready if you want to meet them, thirteenth floor, the conference room near his office."
"Thanks." Jack stood up. He'd gone home long enough to shower, pack more clothes, leave the dirty ones and eat. He'd arrived here a short while ago, gone through his messages and left a voicemail for Van Doren. "You two have something to keep you busy?"
"We're ready to head to Atlantic City," Vivian answered. "We got a lead in the Waterman case. How's Danny?"
"Simmons checked in just now, Danny's good. He met some old guy last night who claims to have knowledge of an old store or something that Martin was sleeping in. Danny's trailing him, hoping to find the place. It fits the pattern, I've been mapping his moves and it's in the right general area."
"So we're close maybe?" Sam's voice was fu ll of hope.
"Yeah, maybe," Jack answered, gathering up his things, he paused to look at the wistful expression she wore. "But a prayer wouldn't hurt. He's pretty sick, if we don't find him soon..."
"Don't." Sam held her hand up.
"I'll check in later," Jack vowed, leaving them to head for the Office of Professional Responsibility. Dave Palmer worked for the OPR, which was responsible for the investigation and supervision of investigations into allegations of criminal conduct and serious misconduct by FBI employees.
As Jack approached the door in question, a tall man with graying hair stepped out into the hall. He knew Palmer from previous investigations and some Bureau Division meetings. He was a fair man and Jack felt the three men in question would be punished if found in violation.
"Jack," Dave stated, extending his hand. "Sorry about this."
"Thanks for the invite, Dave, I appreciate it." Malone walked with Palmer to the short hallway where he viewed the suspects.
"Left to right," Palmer stated, nodding through the one way glass, "Steve Haines, Tyrone Washington and Gary Mitchell. They were called down this morning, they weren't told why. I didn't want them to cook up a story. We're gonna talk to Haines first. He seems the one most likely to talk. He's never been in trouble before. Mitchell's done, he's got prior violations and write-ups. Washington's got an attitude problem and the board won't look kindly on that."
"Okay," Jack agreed, eyeing the defiant posture of the African American agent through the glass. "But Washington is mine," he snarled, still seeing him throwing the board away.
"Let's do it," Palmer answered.
Steve Haines looked surprised when he entered a small interview room. He knew what the room was for and what Dave Palmer's job was. He wasn't sure why Jack Malone was there. His mind tried to recall if they'd worked any cases together. There weren't any questionable incidents that he could recall.
"Take a seat," Palmer indicated and waited until the ruddy-faced, stocky agent sat down. "Do you know why you're here?"
"No, sir, I don't. I can't think of anything that would cause this interview."
"Really?" Jack leaned forward, nodding to the technician seated in the corner. "Let me refresh your memory. This video is from last Thursday night." He saw the hazel eyes grow wide in a startled response. "New cameras, just installed, Thank God or we wouldn't have been able to identify the three slime balls who assaulted a federal agent."
"I never hit him," Haines spouted, wincing when the image of Martin Fitzgerald staggering badly appeared. He turned his face to Malone and the anger in his dark eyes was telling. "Honest to God, Malone, I didn't know they were going to hit him."
"Whose idea was it?" Palmer asked.
"Tyrone's," Haines replied. "When Danny left we were headed for the cars and we saw Fitzgerald walking on the other side of the garage. Tyrone said something like 'look what the wind blew in' and Mitch grinned. Then Tyrone said, 'it would be rude if we didn't introduce ourselves to the rookie, wouldn't it'."
"So you had no idea they intended to beat him unconscious?" Palmer pressed.
"No... not until they grabbed his arms and forced him behind the wall. I sort of looked at Gary but they started hitting him."
"And you didn't stop them?" Malone grilled. "You didn't even call for help, you left him there?"
"They didn't hit anything important, they said they were teaching him a lesson, so he wouldn't piss off Danny anymore."
"You're aware that Agent Fitzgerald went missing last weekend?" Palmer stated.
"Yeah, I saw it on the news," Haines managed. "That's not tied to this."
"Oh, I beg to differ." Jack stood up and leaned over the table. "His state of mind on Friday thanks to the beating he took from you three bore a direct impact on his disappearance. That film is all we need to suspend you, pending a full investigation when Martin is found. You might even be charged with assault."
The other two were split up into separate rooms. Jack entered the first room and the dark eyes of Tyrone Washington regarded him with distaste. Palmer was talking to the technician and joined them afterwards.
"Agent Washington, do you know why you were asked here today?" Palmer asked, putting a yellow tablet and a pen down on the table.
"No," Tyrone spit back, his face impassive. Then a board was slammed onto the table by Malone nearly hitting his hand. He jumped out of the chair. "Hey, man you damn near broke my hand with that thing."
"You're lucky I don't break your thick skull with it you shithead," Jack growled. "Doesn't it look familiar? We got one just like it in the evidence room with your fingerprints all over it."
"Fingerprints?" Tyrone's brows drew together in confusion.
"Sit down, Washington," Palmer ordered. "Maybe this will bring back your memory."
"Fuck," Washington muttered when the grainy black and white tape began to play.
"You should read your departmental emails, Washington," Palmer said, "You'd have known about the new security cameras."
"Look, we didn't hit him too hard, just showed him what was up. Hell, Taylor's the one you ought to be grilling; he's the one who started it."
"Daniel Taylor?" Palmer asked, "How's that?"
"He told us the real reason the kid was hired, cause of his old man. Pissed him off good... he said Fitzgerald was a real fuckup and that you only hired him because his old man made you do it."
"Have you ever met Agent Fitzgerald?" Jack asked, his eyes glowing like coals. He'd have to talk to Danny again about shooting his mouth off.
"No."
"And since I was on the panel that interviewed several dozen potential candidates for that job, I don't recall seeing you there. So you have no idea about his qualifications, all the records he holds at Quantico..." He chuffed in annoyance when Tyrone shifted in the chair and rolled his eyes. "I guess he got the last laugh. He'll be wearing his badge for a long time while you're asking 'would you like fries with that' at the drive thru window."
"Let's have it, Washington, start talking." Palmer listened as Tyrone gave the details of the session that Haines had also stated occurred with Taylor earlier.
"So you took it upon yourselves to show Fitzgerald the light?" Malone asked, then leaned over the table again. "You used a weapon of assault against a Federal Agent. You can kiss that badge goodbye and you better get used to zipping up an orange jumpsuit. You better pray that we find him alive, or the charges will change."
"Hey, that ain't my fault..." Washington's voice died off when Malone stood and leaned over the table with both fists pressed down hard.
"Actually, it does have a direct bearing," Palmer replied, "Agent Fitzgerald's state of mind at the time of his disappearance was as a result of the beating." He shoved the pad over. "Start writing."
The interview with Mitchell went in a similar fashion and afterwards Jack stopped in Boone's office to update him. Vivian and Sam would be reporting to him and he could at least give them that news. By the time he got back on the road headed to Hartford it was after six p.m and he got stuck in rush hour traffic. He spoke briefly with Danny who was closing in and putting his faith in his gut feeling that something would break very soon.
Martin woke again and it was dark. Confusion rained down and his eyes darted frantically. Where was he? What happened? Why did he feel so sick? It took him a few moments to adjust to the inky blackness. He felt a chill and shivered, noticing the open window. His stomach growled and he climbed up and out of the window. He eyed the terrain from the height before climbing down. From this high up he scanned the nearby streets. His eyes zoned in on a kid in a colorful shirt that was throwing boxes of donuts into a bin behind the donut shop a couple blocks down. He wasted no time climbing down and getting over there.
He gained two full bags of stale bagels, some outdated cream cheese and a dozen donuts. He wandered along, munching a donut and eyeing the unfamiliar buildings. He stopped by an office that was closed that had a bench outside. He watched some of the people leaving the city scurrying past. One threw a nearly full soda into the trash as she was running for the train. He took the large soda and sat back down, eating again and draining the liquid. He was so hot and thirsty and his head hurt. He rested awhile, then the sky drew dark and he shivered. He began walking again; he needed to find a place to sleep. He saw a department store whose rose colored slate front looked familiar. He turned at the corner and the alley seemed familiar as well. As he walked along a few blocks down, he saw a boarded up store. The closer he got, the more relief filled him. He knew this place, he would be safe here.
Danny kept to the shadows and watched as Catfish entered an old deserted store. Most of the windows had been boarded up but there was a broken door in the back. He moved to the front of the building squinting through a small piece of glass into the interior. He couldn't see much but boxes and old furniture. He heard noise from the alley and saw Catfish walking in the other direction, disappearing into the night. Danny didn't waste any time, he quickly entered the old store.
He allowed a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. There were silvery beams playing on the floor, courtesy of a street light outside. He walked around cautiously, squatting to examine some tin foil and a paper bag. The writing on the bag looked familiar and he got a good feeling when he realized it was from the hamburger place that Martin had cleaned up for. He moved into the next room and saw a bench attached to the wall. Something was lying on the floor and he bent to pick it up. He took it over to the window and the light hit it, his fingers toyed with the gathering of white hairs on the fabric.
"Sassy's blanket," he murmured, recalling the manager's story. His eyes went to the bench and he envisioned Martin curling up on it with the blanket wrapped around him that first night. Eyes dull with pain and wide with fear; his feverish body trying to force a name for the unknown face he wore. Sick and alone with his head caved in, he fearfully peered around in the dark, lost in a land of strangers. The image of the blanket wrapped around the aching soul caused Danny to shudder.
Martin's ghost faded and he moved back to the bench and looked around some more. He found a gray knapsack and inside was some toiletries and a candy bar. "Martin's lair," he whispered. But would his injured partner return here? It was worth staking out and he reached for his cellphone.
Martin entered quietly, his throbbing head and congested chest causing him to become dizzy. All he wanted was to sleep. He was halfway into the room when he spotted a stranger near the window. His heart began to pound and his throat went dry. He blinked and tried to see the man clearly. He shuffled a bit closer and watched as the bearded stranger caught a beam of light from outside. The silver glint made the dark eyes even more menacing. Once the man began to talk the voice became like a drill in his head. He knew that voice, but an angrier shade. Images of heated words and an irate snarl appeared. He shook his head in disbelief as the realization hit him. It couldn't be; it just couldn't be.
"Hello?" Danny said when the ringing stopped. "Who is this?" The voice identified herself as a policewoman. "This is Agent Taylor, F.B.I. I need Jack Malone. Where is he? I need him, it's urgent."
"Hold on, he's across the room. He left his phone in his jacket, he just arrived."
F.B.I.
F.B.I.
F.B.I.
The words crashed into his overloaded brain and his fevered mind brought up every disturbing image it could find. This man was the same one who'd yelled at him in anger and loathing and his words were full of hatred. He saw the crowded station again and that badge held up, the man screaming at him. F.B.I... Agent Malone... Agent Taylor... Most Wanted... guns... badges... danger... danger. He was the enemy they sought! The twisted pictures brought him pain, an agony coursed through him that made a red curtain fall over his eyes. His brain was screaming at him for relief. The 'danger' light was flashing in colors that were blinding him. He pulled out his knife and staggered forward, just as the man turned.
"Martin!" Danny screamed, his whole body jerking in shock. He jumped back just as a blade missed his neck by inches. "Shit... shit..." He dropped the phone and grabbed the amnesiac's wrist just in time. "Martin... it's me... Danny. I'm not... going to hurt... you..."
Jack took the phone from the policewoman and eyed the clock. "Yeah, Danny, whaddya got?" He paused and cupped his hand over his ear. All he could hear was shuffling sounds and grunts, then a small crashing sound and Taylor's distressed cry.
"Martin! No! No, don't!"
Danny cried out when the frantic attacker's blade arced and sliced through the narrow area of exposed flesh from the bottom of his shirt to the top of his pants. He was under attack and the blue eyes were nearly rabid in their intent. He shoved Martin hard enough to turn him to try to find the phone. He couldn't see it but he hoped Jack was there and could hear him.
"Jack, Jack, I found him, he's...."
"Danny? Danny!" Jack hollered, pressing the phone closer to his ear. He snapped his fingers and ordered a trace, while the sounds of the scuffle got more intense. "DANNY!" Then there was a loud crash and the line went dead.
"Dammit!"
Jack slammed the phone down and turned towards the office across the room. His frantic eyes went to the technician at a desk. Tim Simmons looked up from over the tech's back and shook his head. Jack sank down into a chair and dropped his head down, resting his elbows on his thighs.
"Sorry, Jack, he wasn't on long enough. Taylor?"
"Yeah... he found Martin but it sounded like a struggle. There were crashing sounds and Danny cried out in pain. The damn line went dead." He redialed and a recording came on to say the number was not in service at the moment.
"Well, we know the general area where he was at his last check-in. We'll search every building. We'll find him."
"If we're not too late," Jack mumbled, taking the coffee he'd poured a moment before and eyeing the map on the computer screen before him. The black and white grid seemed endless, full of hundreds of buildings. There were so many places in a large city to hide. What if Taylor had been wrong? What if he wasn't where they thought he was? What if he'd stumbled into Martin by accident? "Jack?"
"Yeah, Tim..." Malone left the screen, took a long sip of the warm coffee and followed the sandy haired agent out the door.
Lying amidst the broken, decayed wood of the table he'd fallen through, Danny Taylor was fighting for his life. The fevered eyes above him were full of bloodlust driven by terror. He realized by the fear reflected in the wide blue eyes that Martin thought he was fighting for his life as well. But the blood dripping from the knife was real enough. Martin was convinced he was the enemy and unless he did something quickly to disarm the amnesiac, he could end up dead. He couldn't take his hand off Martin's wrist to grab anything or the knife that was inches from his neck would pin him to the floor in a pool of blood.
"Martin... Martin... look at me. It's Danny Taylor. We work together... you got hurt, you have amnesia..."
Martin curled his lips up in a snarl and sent his fury through his eyes. The dark-haired man was lying to save his life. Danny? Is that what he said? Taylor? Danny Taylor? Putting the words together in his mind brought a stabbing pain near his eyes. His shoulders jerked and he lost his grip. Vibrant flashing images appeared so fast and furious it was impossible to get a clear look. But each fragmented frame was of the man beneath him. But, he was clean shaven and wearing a suit and tie, driving a car, drinking coffee or sitting at a desk.
The minute he felt Martin's grip slipping, his eyes shifted from the knife to Fitzgerald's face, which was screwed up in pain. Danny took his cue and acted quickly. Grunting, he brought his legs up and twisted them, flipping Martin's legs from beneath. The startled predator jerked suddenly as if snapping back to attention. As Martin began to fall sideways, Danny snapped Martin's wrist hard on the edge of the chair next to them.
Martin winced as what felt like an electrical shock jazzed through his wrist and arm. The knife fell to the floor and before he could grab for it, he ended up on his back with the knife skittering sideways. He was nearly out of air and began to wheeze badly, coughing and sputtering. His opponent was also breathing heavily and struggling to rise. Martin saw the blood soaking through the dirty gray sweatshirt. His quick eyes flicked to the doorway and he seized his chance.
"Ahhhhh...."
Danny cried out and saw stars and crumpled to the floor when the heel of Martin's left hand hit his injured side, while the right fist clipped his jaw. For several moments, stars danced before his eyes and the whole room was flying around. Panting heavily, he closed his eyes to allow the waves of nausea to pass. Finally, despite his dizziness he was able to sit up and get his bearings. Then his stomach dropped and his heart lurched.
The room was empty.
"Martin! Martin!" he screamed and sent his fist to the floor. "Fuck!"
Scrambling to his feet, he lurched to the doorway, the floor beneath felt like a sinking ship. He had not a second to spare. He had to find the confused attacker before someone hurt him worse. Danny's rubbery legs finally found themselves and got him to the door. He left a bloodly trail of handprints as he took his hand from his side in order to keep his balance. Finally, he was out in the alley. He eyed the traffic sounds from one end, leading to the street. He swiped the sweat pouring from his face and turned the other way. Martin would have retreated into the darkness. Staggering and stumbling, he managed to get to the end of the alley without falling. He looked left and right and then saw the fleeing Fitzgerald a block ahead. He caught the figure just in time as Martin turned left. Had he not exited the store when he did, he'd have lost him. He half jogged that block, gasping for air as he turned. Martin was ahead, picking himself off the ground. By his uneven steps, Dan ny realized his injured partner was having difficulty staying on his feet. So he kept Martin in his sights and quietly picked up his pace.
For several blocks they remained about a block apart, but Danny had to walk faster to catch up. That meant more pressure on the wound he was holding. He stopped briefly, peeling his sticky fingers away. The bleeding was slowing down and he applied more pressure in order to stop it. He saw an upturned trash can lid full of melting snow and dipped both hands it, cleaning them off. Now his fingers were limber again and he'd need that to hold onto Martin. He picked up his pace and continued the trek. His brows furrowed when Martin slipped through the open fence near a construction site. Danny's eyes turned to the three story warehouse next door which appeared to be closed down. Then he saw his partner climbing precariously up the side of some boxes to a group of metal rungs in the bricks.
"Jesus, Martin, you're gonna fall and break your stupid head," he muttered, reluctantly leaving the bricks to follow. He kept his eyes on the climbing body as he too crept through the fence opening. Martin's upper body disappeared into an open window
Touching down lightly, Martin sank to his knees and took several minutes to catch his breath. His headaches were getting worse and coming closer together. His chest hurt and his back ached. His rumbling stomach and the awful burning pain told him he needed to get to a bathroom quickly. His eyes roamed the warehouse and something told him there was a bathroom on the other side, directly across. So, he got to his feet and padded over the catwalk and crept carefully over the open expanse below. He walked very slowly, holding onto the iron rail for dear life. Just to his left was a wooden door that he recalled. He frowned, not able to understand his odd memory patterns. He had to have been inside here before, yet his memory of how and when were muddled. The burning intensified in his gut and he had to hurry.
Danny crept through the window just in time to see Martin ending his prowl on a very narrow catwalk.
"You couldn't make it easy, could you," he grunted. "Same old Fitzgerald, you're still a pain in the ass."
Danny watched Martin disappear into a room and eyed the dimly lit cavernous area. It was a large warehouse and the window led into a loft of sorts on the top story. A walkway of about three to four feet went all the way around. Two catwalks crossed over to the other side. Beneath them, two floors down, were lots of crates of varying sizes. Danny took a good breath and followed the same path. He didn't realize just how narrow the catwalk was until he was halfway across and got dizzy. Sucking in his breath, he tried to ignore the sweat pouring down his face. The moisture drenching his body was causing an army of stingers to prick his wounded side. He sucked in his air and kept going, one foot in front of the other until he touched down. He heard the toilet flush and water running. The bathroom was several yards ahead at the corner of the large floor.
Martin washed his hands good, then splashed water on his face. The painful, watery diarrhea was getting worse. He felt so weak it was hard to stand upright. He cupped his hands under the water and drank greedily. Turning the faucet off, he exited the room. His journey was short lived; he'd only gone a few feet outside the door when a rough hand grabbed his collar.
"Well, well, looks like company dropped in unannounced, I just hate that."
Danny cursed silently and ducked behind a large crate. He took a few seconds to use his filthy shirt to swipe his sweaty face. Peeking around the edge, he spotted a sandy haired man with a beard holding a gun to Martin's temple. His partner was forced to his knees, his blue eyes wide and darting.
"Hilliard," Danny whispered, his anxiety rising.
"I can't believe you're still following me." Getting no reply, he yanked back his hostage's head and ran the gun along the bruised throat. He grinned when blue eyes flashed with recognition.
Danny's eyes narrowed when he watched Martin's face morphing. The startled expression had given way to confusion with the eyes a muddled shade. The last words caused that to melt into pure terror.
As the gun scored his neck, Martin looked into the face of the brute who'd attacked him. The pain in his head expanded and the room disappeared. He was in a train station, crowded with people and the heat was stifling. He was chasing someone and hollering at the man. The crowds scattered and the man turned, just as a group of young girls came in front of him. A name appeared in his mind's eye and another body, that of a young boy, naked and murdered.
Then the fear on his partner's face dissolved into an eerie, blank stare. The unblinking eyes were fixed on a point far beyond time. The matted head cocked and he realized that Martin was painfully reclaiming a part of his lost memory. Danny's eyes glared at Hilliard. No wonder they'd not found him, he'd blended into the homeless congregation. Danny turned behind and eyed the long way around, skirting the wall. He'd have to hurry, but he had no choice. If he didn't act now, sneaking up behind Hilliard, Martin was going to be executed before his very eyes. So he pressed his back to the wall and unseen, began the long way around.
It was then that something else flashed into Martin's mind. This man who was holding a gun to his head was no stranger. Letters formed in his head spelling a name. Hilliard. Other words followed of child molester, rapist and murderer. Then he saw himself and the other dark-haired man both wearing badges. They were chasing this man through a crowded train station. Together. They were working together! Taylor, the man was Taylor and he'd been telling the truth. How could that be?
"I thought I'd lost you last week," Hilliard recalled. "You should have gone back to New York when you had the chance. Now you'll be going back in a body bag, pig."
Martin snarled then as the memory returned of a gruesome photo of a naked, dead teenager made an unwelcomed appearance. More disturbing flashes of a computer and digsuting child pornographic material and chasing this man through a crowded New York street.
" I gotta give you credit, you go all out for an undercover assignment." Hilliard noted the bearded face and stench ridden clothing. "I almost didn't recognize you." He paused to move the tip of the gun inside the pink ear of the victim. He heard a gasp, yanked the hair back and enjoyed the fear reflected in the wide blue eyes. "Course maybe a bullet would be too quick. This place is closed for the weekend. Maybe instead I'll use the knife and make it slow. I'll cut the tendons in your ankles first, so you can't move. Then I'm gonna hurt you..."
Danny was infuriated by the scene unfolding. Martin's amnesia still held him prisoner. How much did he recall about the murderer that now threatened his life? Hilliard on the other hand probably thought that Martin was after him; still chasing him from the train station. So he decided to kill him and keep his fate unknown. He still didn't understand why Martin couldn't speak and why he was so terrified of the police. What else happened to the lost soul during that dark night in the storm?
"You must be the stupidest, fuckin cop in the F.B.I.. You should have quit hounding me last week when you had the chance," Hilliard chuckled then became mad when the blue eyes fluttered shut and the body sagged. "Oh no you don't, you can't pass out now, that's no fun. Wake the hell up!" He roared and hit the side of the agent's face with the gun. Blood gushed from the split lip and nose and the eyes jarred open.
"You sick, fuckin', bastard," Danny hissed, creeping closer. He knew Martin was struggling hard not to pass out. Now blood ran freely down his chin but he saw the lean body wiggling again. "That a boy, fight back."
"I don't know what kind of undercover shit you're doing," Hilliard stated, eyeing the matted hair, beard and filthy clothes. "But I'm not going back to face a murder rap, no way. That kid should have kept his mouth shut. He wouldn't stop fighting and biting, I had to kill him. Just like I'm gonna have to kill you. I'll be doing the world a favor, one less stupid cop to worry about." He shoved the gun back into the open ear and enjoyed the panic that flashed. But just as quickly it was replaced by a defiant stare. "Yeah, you got balls, I give you that. But your luck just ran out."
Hilliard's words were just buzzing sounds in Martin's ear. He couldn't stay awake, he hurt too much and he felt his eyes drooping. But he also saw the boxes below that were open with straw in them. He'd rather take his chances falling then having his brains blown out. He was deciding how to make his move, when a loud call split the air.
"FREEZE! F.B.I.!" Danny hollered, hoping that Hilliard would think he was armed. If he could get him to drop the gun, he could overpower him. "Drop the weapon, NOW!"
Hilliard froze, stiffening as the words descended on him. His eyes shifted left and right as he tried to figure where behind him the agent was hiding. He should have known there would be two of them, they usually work in pairs. He hauled up the hostage's head by his greasy hair and shifted the gun in his hand. He had to think fast, before the others arrived. He yanked the matted hair of his hostage hard and swung around, holding the gun against the underside of his chin. He eyed the dark area from where the voice came but it revealed nothing.
As soon as Hilliard moved, Danny ducked down. He slid on his belly over to the end of the crate and peeked out. He knew by the way Hilliard's eyes were roaming around, he couldn't see him. He winced at the blood streaming from Martin's face and the mottled colored bruises still on his throat.
Martin slumped in relief and let his eyes close for a minute. He listened to the echo of those words and felt his waning strength resurging. Somebody was trying to save his life. Somebody named Taylor. Danny Taylor. The dark-haired man with the badge who'd haunted his nights now rose up like a savior. He felt Hilliard tense up and shift his weight, as if deciding what to do.
"Back off or I'll blow him away!" Hilliard threatened, wondering where the FBI agent was and how many more there were.
"Listen up you cockroach," Danny vented, gripping the wooden club he'd been carrying.
"I'm not a patient man to begin with and you fried my last nerve. You let my partner go now and I might let you live."
"Forget it!" Hilliard growled. "Neither one of you are comin' out of here alive." Martin felt a clinch in his aching gut when Taylor's strong cry of 'my partner' hit him. He kept repeating the words inside until they became a mantra. The strong emphasis on the word 'my' gave him strength. It gave him confidence and the echo resounded strongly. Partners watch each other's back, they protect each other. They work together; support each other like a team. It dawned on him then that he belonged somewhere. He wasn't homeless! Whatever happened to him put him here temporarily. But his partner had found him! He felt a surge of resilience grip him and determination replaced hopelessness.
Danny was lying on a box and was several feet behind Hilliard but above his head. Despite the hard words issued, he knew by the body movement that Hilliard was hesitating. He had to make him think that there was backup coming.
"This is Taylor, I'm with the dirtball, move in and send a wagon."
"A wagon?" Hilliard snarled.
"Meat wagon," Danny replied, inching closer and getting ready to spring, "to haul away your bullet-ridden corpse."
"Say goodbye, you stinkin' fed," Hilliard vented into the darkness. "I'm gonna blow his brains out."
Before Danny could react, Martin did. He felt Hilliard move the gun and rammed his elbow into the felon's crotch. Hilliard cursed, hunched forward and struggled with supporting the squirming agent while pain rushed through his groin. The feisty victim then shot his head up hard, catching the goon under the chin. As soon as Hilliard cried out and the gun was no longer pointed at Martin, Danny made his move.
Hilliard grunted when the full weight of the Fed hit him He dropped his grip on the hostage who was partially pinned under him. He turned the gun on the dark-haired agent who was swinging a club at his head. He cried out in pain when his former hostage bit him hard on the wrist. The impact sent his gun flying and the club then nearly whacked him on the head, but he ducked and it caught his upper neck.
As soon as Danny saw his partner's move and the gun fall, he scrambled for it. It slid several feet away. He tried to stand and run to retrieve it but his heroic jump to save Martin had taken a toll on his injured body. Blood seeped from the wound that had been clotting and his legs were like spaghetti. He went down on all fours and shook his head to clear out the dizziness that was overwhelming. The room was tipping at an uneven angle and he felt himself on the verge of passing out. He reached out to steady himself and felt uneven iron under his hand. Slowly he pulled himself upright.
"Looks like you get to watch your buddy die first," Hilliard leered at the wheezing, bloodied, blue eyed victim who was sprawled next to him. He crawled over and got the gun, then aimed it at the wise-mouthed FBI agent now standing precariously by the edge of the loft.
Martin's fevered eyes went to Taylor and the word 'partner' thundered inside his head. The mantra of 'protect him' began and became the fuel that propelled him into action. With his features locked in a fierce mask scored with warrior's blood, he sprang into action.
It happened simultaneously and Danny had no time to react when the gun went off. Martin's body hit him hard, knocking his head from the path of the bullet. He felt a burning sensation in his arm and then nothing but air. He spiraled backward over the railing and downward until something broke his fall and sent him into a black void.
Hilliard cursed and tried to walk over to the edge of the loft to see if the other man was still alive. The dark-haired agent was lying in a narrow crate directly below him. Fittingly, it appeared to resemble a large coffin. He saw blood covering the area over one hip and then the chest rising and falling. He attempted to aim again to inflict the fatal shot when his wrist was hit hard with the wooden club. Pain screamed in his arm and sent the gun to the floor.
Martin was kneeling on the floor and grabbed the gun and fired, hitting Hilliard in the leg. But the other man was much larger and stronger and kicked him hard in the chest. The force of the blow sent him backwards, through the same broken railing that his partner went through. He felt a thud as he hit the straw inside a crate and it drove all the air from his chest.
Hilliard limped to the railing and looked down, neither agent was moving. He was too far up to see where the gun was. Also, he was bleeding heavily from the thigh and knew that he needed to get to a hospital or he could bleed to death. So he tied a tourniquet around his leg and limped to the elevator several yards away. It led to street where he could get a cab to a hospital. He stopped on the main floor by the power box. He cut the power to the building preventing them from calling for help. He doubted either of them would live to Monday without medical attention.
Martin tried for several minutes to rise but just couldn't get his breath. He drifted in and out of consciousness for awhile, unable to move. It was like floating in a dark sea, not sinking under the waves but not able to leave them. His tongue clicked over his dry mouth as the metallic taste of blood caused his face to wrinkle in distaste. He turned his head sideways and spit out a wad of blood. His jaw and face throbbed and he ran a hand over it, leaving his fingers sticky with blood. Finally, he rolled sideways in the large crate which was filled with something soft. They were covered in packing material which also broke his fall. His fingers first felt soft material, like thick cotton under heavy plastic. But then they hit something warm and hard; the hot metal near his hand was a gun. He managed to tuck it into his pocket. He squinted in the near darkness, letting his eyes adjust. There was large overhead lights outside that were shining in the window bathing the room in a silvery light. Pain screamed from every inch of his body. His face remained contorted when he sat up. By the time he got over the side of the box, he was vomiting blood and mucus.
For a few seconds he was terribly confused. His legs kept failing and he felt like a puppet with broken strings. Then he saw the smaller crate a few feet away. The entire side was broken out; it was shaped like an oversized coffin and he saw blood dripping over the broken edges. Curious, he staggered over, having a hard time keeping his footing. His eyes widened in shock when he saw the man lying inside. He blinked as the memories rushed back and he moved his upper body over the fallen one, his frantic eyes going to the top of the warehouse where the brutal attack had taken place. He didn't see the gunman and theorized that he'd have killed them if he was still in the building.
He looked down at the pale bearded face and his heart sank. He thought he'd only knocked Taylor out of harm's way. Now the gravity of his harried action hit him hard. What if his decision had cost his 'partner' his life? Trembling badly, he moved his hand to the throat and waited. The life-force that coursed beneath his fingers sent a surge of euphoria through him. His head dropped and he sighed hard. He stared at the face hopefully, tapping the stilled cheek repeatedly. He cupped the bearded chin and shook it firmly.
"Please don't die... please don't die... wake up... wake up, Taylor... Taylor..."
His silent pleas felt on deaf ears and the silence in the room was deafening. Martin's anxious eyes beseeched the others to open. His temper flashed and he banged his palm hard against the side of the box, but the other man remained alarmingly still.
He moved his hand to the grimy sweatshirt, thumping on the chest hard. Taylor's face remained pale and placid. He shifted his body up and moved closer, resting his left arm over Taylor's chest. He shivered in the dark, sitting on the cold floor next to the box and began a vigil. He heard the mantra again slowly building in his throbbing head. It got louder and louder and he rocked slightly with the waves it was creating in his mind.
"Protect him... protect him... protect your partner... your partner... protect him..."'
And he did.
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